And yes, ladies—he is actually six foot four. Not Hollywood’s version of six foot four, which is closer to five foot ten, but actually a towering, tall hunk of a man. I know this for a fact because I’m Hollywood’s version of six foot four.
We get a table in the back where there’s a patio for the dog. It takes us fifteen minutes to get there, but it’s mostly because Gabe himself keeps stopping and talking to the waitstaff.
You see, they all know him. He’s a regular.
“Madison, honey, you look gorgeous,” he says when our waitress comes to take our order.
She’s radiantly pregnant, and waves off the compliment.
“I mean it,” Gabe says. “Your husband should say that to you. Every. Single. Day. On his knees.”
I’m pretty sure that if I were pregnant, my water would have broken at that exact moment.
But Madison just laughs and takes our order, giving Gabe’s puppy a pat on the head before floating off to the kitchen with more grace then I could have ever managed, pregnant or not.
We each get a beer and a burger.
We talk about his childhood in Montana. How close he is with his family, especially his sister, Lauren. She’s older by a year and Gabe’s best friend.
“I know it’s cliché,” he says. “But she really is.”
We talk about the bookshop. The one he bought for Lauren and his mom when he got his first big break.
“It’s a bookshop/craft shop,” he makes a point to say. “Lauren gets mad if I don’t include that as well.”
It’s called the Cozy. They have a website. Gabe recommends books on it, even though he’s said in past interviews that he was never much of a reader as a kid.
“My mom was an English teacher, so having a kid that didn’t like books was so embarrassing,” he says. “But I was just a late bloomer—I’m a big reader now. The bookstore was her dream. And Lauren’s always been good at making things—baking, crafting, that kind of stuff. She still knits me a sweater every Christmas.”
I bite my tongue to keep from making the obvious joke: “What are they made of? Boyfriend material?”
In case you’re wondering, he is single.
“Rumors,” he tells me when I ask about Jacinda. “We’re co-stars and friends.”
Jacinda Lockwood—the newest Bond girl for the newest Bond. She and Gabe have been photographed numerous times coming out of restaurants, standing close to each other on dark sidewalks in Paris, even holding hands a few times.
“She’s a sweet girl,” Gabe says. “But there’s nothing there.”
He orders a second beer. I’m a lightweight so I decline.
Remember this detail later, friends. Two roads diverge and all that.
I ask how he feels about taking on such an iconic part—about being the first American to step into the role.
“Nervous,” he tells me. “Anxious. I almost said no.”
That’s the narrative his people and the film’s producers have been pushing, and I was skeptical when I heard it. But Gabe’s entire demeanor changes when I ask. He’s been open and cheerful, answering questions eagerly.
Bond puts a somber hush on the conversation. He’s not looking at me, staring down at his napkin, which he’s twisted into a tight knot. He’s silent for a long time.
I ask if the backlash bothered him.
“I’m beyond lucky,” he says. “All I care about is doing the part justice.”
He shrugs.
“But do I worry that they’re right? Yeah, sure. Who wouldn’t?”
“They” are the fans writing angry articles and blog posts detailing all the reasons why Gabe is the worst possible choice for Bond. Because he’s American. Because he’s not Oliver Matthias. Because audiences are used to him playing hunky, dim-witted himbos.
And then there’s the whole Angels in America thing.
He orders a third beer.
“My publicist would have my head if she saw this,” he tells me. “I’m supposed to stop at two, but it’s Friday! Hey, what are you doing after this?”
Twenty minutes later, with puppy in tow, we’re on our way to look at a house in the Hollywood Hills.
I want to ask him more about Bond, specifically if he had anything to do with leaking the audition footage online, but it’s around this point, dear readers, where I embarrassingly lose control of the interview.
It’s the moment when Gabe starts interviewing me.
“You’re from here, right? Wow, that must have been wild. I can’t even imagine what it’s like to grow up in Los Angeles. It was Los Angeles, right? I know a lot of people say L.A. but they really mean Orange County or Valencia or Anaheim and I know that real natives don’t consider that to be L.A. at all. Right?”