Concierge Confidential (24 page)

One of the places Alan asked me to get him a table at was Fred's, a really hot lunch spot. Fred's is on the top floor of Barneys, where it's sort of camouflaged. It's the kind of place where you see the corporate who's who of New York—and where they don't normally take reservations from anyone.

Unless, of course, you're a concierge who has the hostess's number.

Alan wanted to eat lunch there at 1:15, so I called her to 12:15 to let her know that he “was on his way.” By the time he got there, his name would be at the top of the list. I specifically told him to approach her away from the hostess stand, because he was effectively cutting the line and needed to be subtle. He didn't
need
to be happy that it all worked out and that he had a table waiting while the other shmoes were standing around—but it
would
have been nice.

At 1:20, the phone rang. “Hi, Michael,” he said. “It's Alan. I'm here at Fred's, and I'm really not happy.”

“What's the matter?”

“They have me at the crappiest table. I can't sit here. You've got to move me.”

“Okay … Where do you want to be moved to? Where are you sitting now?”

I tried to visualize Fred's layout in my mind. He must not have been at what he considered a “power table.” I tried to figure out where this elusive location was supposed to be. For normal people,
there's no such thing
. But people like Alan
imagine
that there's a table, so I had to start thinking the way he did.
What would Alan Chiles do?
I asked myself.

Annoyed that I was oblivious to table-politicking, he explained the situation himself. “If you walk into the restaurant, the bar is to the left and there are a couple of tables up against it. One of those tables is empty. I want to be at
that
table.”

What could I say?
Just ask the manager, Alan?
I called Fred's back on my little secret number; from all the background noise I could tell that they were as busy as usual. “I'm so sorry,” I told them. “Alan Chiles is really not comfortable where he's sitting, and he would feel much better at the empty table by the bar. Would that be okay? Are you holding that for someone? Because if not, he really wants to be there.” I couldn't denigrate Alan, because then Fred's would be wondering why I was sending them this pain-in-the-ass guest in the first place.

“Yeah,” the hostess said, “let me see what I can do.”

To make sure the best possible service was provided, I called Alan back. “She's going to come over to your table and she's going to move you,” I let him know.

The consequence of this was so obvious that I am amazed I didn't see it coming: I created a monster that put Frankenstein to shame. “Where should I sit?” Alan always asked me when I got him a reservation.

Even if they sat him exactly at what I told him was the “correct” table, he would still call me and have them move him. It was a power thing, I guess. Finally, one of my contacts simply refused and I had to call Alan back and let him know that he would be staying put.

“Well,” he huffed, “don't they know who I am?”

No, Alan, they don't—which is how I got you the reservation in the first place.

BEING SEEN

For restaurant seating, the generally accepted rule of thumb is this: In trendy places you want to sit in the back, and in old establishment places you want to sit in the front. The whole psychology boils down to the fact that with trendy places, it's all about hype. What makes them explode is word that Fergie was seen there making out with her boyfriend. But if they ever really were there, or if they really frequent it, or if it was just a one-time appearance (possibly compensated), is a whole other question.

What many of the trendy places have now is a sequestered dining room. It kind of replicates the VIP sections of nightclubs. But with restaurants, when you get seated in there it doesn't really make a difference. You might feel as though you're in the right place, but it's not as if there's some secret menu.

My personal take, as far as entertainment value goes, is that you don't want to sit back there. That back room is a place where you can cut the tension with a knife. If there
are
famous people in attendance, everyone else is just nervous. They feel like they've scored because they're sitting next to Jessica Simpson and you can feel that awkward energy. There's such an effort put into acting nonchalant that it's like a group of hunters terrified of spooking the deer.

If you're in the front, on the other hand, you see the whole parade. You see whatever controversies there are in the front, with all the customers complaining that their names are not on the list. You can legitimately ogle at people when they're coming in or when they're hanging out at the hostess station or at the bar. The only thing the back room does is allow you to tell people that you went in the back room. Is Jessica Simpson's conversation really going to be that entertaining? Are you even going to be able to hear her? I'd rather be in a room where it's a little bit louder, where the celebrities have to speak up.

With the brown-derby, established places, you want to sit in the front, as well. The vibe in those types of restaurants is very communal. If you walk into Nobu or BLT on any given night, you'll see a Barry Diller or a Ron Perelman. These places might deny you a table, but it's not because they're hoping Britney Spears is coming so they're holding them all until she calls. Instead, it's a virtual who's who. If you go to the Regency for breakfast, for example, every media mogul is in there. Everyone in publishing goes to Michael's for lunch; there's even a website dedicated to who was sitting at which table on any given day. Their average-at-best cuisine is a running joke in the industry, but it's still where they end up going. If you sit at a front table, you can see everyone go by and you can greet them—even if you don't know them personally. It's the same strategy politicians have when they stand outside stadiums or subway stations. Everybody has to walk past you, and that makes for infinite opportunities to break the ice.

There's also the matter of knowing where to go to begin with. When a client calls me for recommendations in a city I am unfamiliar with, I do my homework. I look through
Vanity Fair
and
Town & Country,
or any of the niche media publications like
Gotham, Capitol File,
or
Ocean Drive
. If there's a fancy charity event pictured, wherever it's being held is guaranteed to be a cool place to be seen in.

This approach is way better than scene blogs or sites like Yelp. Once the bloggers show up, you know the party's over. Despite its origins, blogging has become completely mainstream—to the point where big conglomerates can afford to pay people to blog all day about how great their places are. I'd rather look for an article that shows Nicole Kidman having Stumptown coffee after dining at the Breslin. That tells me that it's the place to go to be seen, if that's your thing. It might not be
good,
but it is getting the right traction.

Celebrities themselves don't need to know the right places because they
make
the right places. Nine times out of ten, a hotspot will have some sort of celebrity involvement. Dolores's son, for example, was a record executive. He also loves to DJ, so he DJs at the Rose Bar. Because he's who he is, all the cool people show up. Then, when those people show up, the paparazzi cover it. Then it's in
InStyle
magazine and it's on
Entertainment Tonight
. Suddenly, the place is on its way to being made.

The scene formula is much more predictable because there are certain people whose recipes are almost certain to be a success, like Rande Gerber, Keith McNally, or Graydon Carter. Any club launched by Noah Tepperberg or Ivan Kane is going to be A-list because of the people they know. It's only natural. They know many celebrities, so it's only fitting that the celebrities tend to fraternize their places.

14.

Feet of Clefs

Ferro Capital technically had one other employee, and Jerry Chu was
technically
the financial manager for Alan and his family. But Jerry came across as so browbeaten and humiliated that she was really reduced to the status of a receptionist. She had been the one taking care of Alan until now, and she had been the one who reverently insisted that Alan “don't like to just sit anywhere.” She had also been the one, I was sure, who Alan used to call with “feedback” about the places he had eaten the night before.

Because Abbie and I were the ones who dealt with Alan now, Jerry began to appreciate us more and more. “You guys should do this for my friend's new apartment building,” she told us. “I'm going to introduce you.”

I got the call and gave the man my spiel.

“Hold on,” he quickly said. “How do you operate? You still work at the hotel?”

“We have a whole system in place,” I explained. “It's not just the two of us, and if it ever got too busy we would pull in one of our friends from another hotel. That would never be a problem. We have resources. There's an entire concierge community that we can tap into.”

“There is?”

“Of course. Let me explain.”

THE CONCIERGE COMMUNITY

There's an array of concierge associations, especially in the big concierge cities like New York, San Francisco, and Chicago. It's a lot like in high school, where you have the cool kids and the not-so-cool kids. Except, in this case, none of them are the cool kids. They're the smart kids, and smart is
very
cool as a concierge.

But the smart kids have organized and inflated their coolness so they think that they run the world. Like so much else with concierges, a lot of it is smoke and mirrors—and it's often a blurry line between delusion and reality. It's just like with Christmas: No one claims that a present comes from a workshop run by elves. But no one says that they picked it up at JCPenney's warehouse sale, either. The mystique itself is part of the gift, and that air of mystery is what the concierge community thrives on.

Concierge events bolster this sense of a magical community. They're held at establishments like Cipriani, the Rainbow Room, and the Astor Ballroom the day after the place hosted visiting heads of state. There aren't many professions that those venues open their doors to for free. It goes with the whole idea that concierges have the keys and, therefore, no doors can be locked to us.

The funny thing is that most of the concierges act disinterested or even disdainful of how cool that is. They claim—or actually even believe—that they're going to send
hundreds
of people to book the room in return for the favor. Please!

The events are sponsored by distilleries or distributors; by Bloomingdale's and art galleries; by theater companies and Madison Square Garden. The mix of businesses runs the gamut, because everybody wants our referrals. It's like a trade show, and the swag bags are amazing. I've been to very fancy society events and the concierge giveaways are usually way better. They'll also try tricks to get us into their places. You won't just get a Loro Piana sweater at the event—but you will if you take the enclosed card, make an appointment, and go to the store. Bergdorf's or Bendel's will have a raffle for a $5,000 shopping spree—but in order to register you have to go there, and you have to be a concierge.

The sponsors think we're going to open the door and flood them with business. Sometimes we do—but it's rarely equivalent to the extent that they've solicited to us. Yet there's a whole group of concierges who get lost in the grandeur and don't keep it in check. They really do believe that they are an absolutely vital channel to which these places should market. Many concierges fancy themselves curators, critics, and arbiters of the finer things. Me, I feel a bit guilty about the whole thing. I try to reciprocate to the vendors as best I can. Exposure to the concierge community can't hurt, and it's probably a lot more cost-effective than other forms of advertising. The trick is to get the concierges to understand that their referrals are more valuable than their critiques. Even if something doesn't suit my taste, one of my clients will like it. I definitely keep that in mind every time I'm comped.

The biggest and most prestigious concierge organization is the Clefs d'Or (pronounced
clay door
), which started at the turn of the century in France. At the very upper echelon of society, people needed connections. One concierge would call another concierge to call another, and so a loose circle was created. It very much became a secret handshake kind of society. It reached its peak during the '80s and '90s, when concierge culture came into the forefront and it was hip to be grand and international.

You had to speak three languages to join—they
would
test your fluency—and they put you through a rigorous exam of knowing your city. It would be trivia like, “If you're in Geneva, when is the opera season in Vienna?” You would have to get all sorts of different letters of recommendations. You'd have to go before a board, write an essay, and plead your case. It attracted a pretty amazing bunch of people.

These days, the members of the Clefs d'Or are mostly in their fifties. They almost look like they're from another time, which in a way they are. They wear their tiny little glasses at the tips of their noses. The women—the few of them that there are—are dripping in jewelry, with their hair all sprayed and done. Everything is formal and just so, which can be read as stuffy but is also really taking pride in one's work.

What's impressive about them is that being a concierge is truly their vocation, and something that they take pride in. In Europe especially, concierging is still very much a mark of elegance, and you
really
have to know your stuff.