Waiter to the Rich and Shameless: Confessions of a Five-Star Beverly Hills Server
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Authors: Paul Hartford
Waiter to the
Rich and Shameless
Confessions of a
Five-Star Beverly Hills Server
By Paul Hartford
Copyright © 2014
Paul Hartford
All rights
reserved.
Dedication
To all hospitality workers,
whether you’re serving the Rich and Shameless or the poor and blameless, and to
all corporate grunts plugging away in a 9 to 5 world, dreaming about getting
out but not yet having the courage to actually do it.
And to my wonderful wife who
stood by my side and worked so hard with me on this book.
Chapter 8: The Lives of Others
Chapter 10: The
Man Who Would Be King
Chapter 11: How to Succeed in Business Without
Really Trying
Chapter 14: It’s a Wonderful Life
Chapter 16: Under the Tuscan Sun
Chapter 17: One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
The
events in this story are all true and celebrities’ names have not been
altered. According to my lawyer I didn’t need to do so.
However,
the names of my co-workers have been changed to protect the innocent and the
guilty. And, the name of the establishment has been altered – mostly to
protect myself from their powerful hand – at the request of my attorney whose
job it is to protect me from lawsuits. You’d better be right, Esquire junior.
But
then, you'll probably figure it out since it wouldn’t take the Riddler from
Batman
to decode this one.
It’s
amazing that we all come across bartenders, waiters or waitresses pretty
regularly in our lives, yet most people know nothing about them or their work.
More often than not, we don’t pay much attention to who they are or what
they’re thinking. Like Oz, they seem to go behind the curtain, do some magic,
and soon reappear with our most desired items. We don’t really care to know
more, as long as we get the dining experience we are expecting and everything
goes well.
This
is especially true of the rich and shameless who, rightly or wrongly, tend to
regard all other humans as some form of servant. And yet, these servers, as we
are now called, are thinking, feeling humans who are not only as individual as
our guests, but hold hidden powers over one of their most intimate experiences
– eating. Being hungry, having a need integral to one’s survival, and letting
down one’s guard in order to dine all naturally put a person at a disadvantage.
We waiters, waitresses and bartenders are also pretty much all-seeing and
all-hearing – additional under-the-radar powers that most kindly servers would
never abuse. In fact, if we do our jobs right, our customers will never even
realize that we hold so much power over them. Secret super-heroes, yes, that’s
us. Operating under cover amongst the glitterati and movers and shakers of the
world, yes, that’s me. Doesn’t it make sense to get to know us a little
better?
I’ve
worked in countless restaurants and nightclubs throughout my life ever since I
was a mere sixteen years of age. And because I chose to be a musician, waiting
tables and bartending suited me quite well with quick money, plenty of time to
write songs, and no need to take work home. I’ve even managed restaurants in
Boston and Los Angeles and what a disappointing crap job that was. But I never
imagined back then that I’d end up serving at the swankiest eatery of the rich
and famous right in the heart of Beverly Hills, California. Well, that’s
probably because I always thought I’d be a rich and famous rock star myself and
be waited on all my life.
Anyone
who’s waited tables knows that a typical day can include any or all of the
following: catastrophically losing an omelet down someone’s back or spilling
hot coffee in their lap; dropping a tray of glassware; arguing with the chef or
busboys; working like a dog for no tips and indignant looks. Or in a worst-case
scenario, all of the above occurring at the same time as:
Hey! Where’s my food?!
We don’t have all day, you know!
And another corpulent gourmand screaming,
Waitress!
I asked for my check ten minutes ago!
While yet another voice across the
room yells:
Excuse me! I said medium rare! This steak is cooked well done!
Working
in a restaurant is not for the faint of heart.
And
when you become a server at the top of the Hollywood food chain, the ordeals
described above might still occur, along with high-level challenges unique to
that habitat. For example,
how
many people can say they have saved Russell Crowe from certain embarrassment in
front of his friends? Who has to single-handedly ensure that Johnny Depp’s
kids aren’t poisoned by their food allergies? Who quietly serves a famous
designer a cup of vodka so he can soak his bleeding tongue which was bitten by
the starlet he just tried to French kiss? And who overhears detailed
descriptions of celebrities’ appalling sexual practices? Pauli, that genteel
waiter silently and attentively serving their food, that’s who.
While
perfecting my craft of serving in the country’s most storied and visible
Hollywood canteen, another, more personal story simmered in the background. I
found myself experiencing severe crises of conscience and identity. I lost
myself and almost didn’t come back. At first I found myself
seduced by my famous guests’
glamour and self-indulgence, then I grew accustomed to it and even started to
identify with it, and finally I grew disgusted by it. At the same time, I also
discovered that the Cricket Room is so mismanaged that waiters quit at a
regular rate and those who stay experience nightmares and opt for therapy.
And yet, the challenges I faced –
and created – in the Cricket Room during that time strengthened me in ways I
could not see until I literally found my voice.
Waiter
to the Rich and Shameless
is not just a peek into the secretive inner workings of a legendary five-star
restaurant; it is not just a celebrity tell-all or a scathing corporate
analysis. It is a top-tier waiter’s personal coming-of-age story, an intimate
look into the complicated challenges of serving in the country’s most elite and
Hollywood-centric dining establishment while fighting to maintain a sense of
self and purpose.
Welcome
inside the chaotic, rarely-seen world of a reluctant five-star Waiter to the
Rich and Shameless. My name is Pauli, and I’ll be serving you tonight…
Almost Famous
A
new start was what I needed – a do-over. I was only twenty-nine but desperately
in need of a full-on witness protection level makeover. The rock band I’d been
playing with for four years was breaking up, not due to lack of talent, but
because our lives were all going in different directions. It was the fifth
band in ten years to slip through my fingers. I had the gift, I had the look
and I had the burning desire to make it in the music world. But it wasn’t
coming together. How many years does it take before you can say you really
tried? I was getting sick of asking myself that question.
The
new me began with my hair. Out of all the possible things I could change about
myself, that seemed the easiest. The inside stuff is a helluva lot harder.
Long,
curly handfuls hit the floor, the bleeding remnants of a dead, or at least
dying, dream: rock ‘n roll superstar. The barber tasked with changing my
appearance from ragged rocker to upscale waiter must have seen what he thought
was a tear roll down my scruffy cheek, but that’s not possible. Rock ‘n roll
superstars, even dying ones, don’t cry, dammit.
“You
okay, mang?” he asked in his heavy Spanish accent, addressing me as “dju.”
“Yeah,
I’m fine. I think a hair got in my eye. Change like this is just hard though,
you know?”
“Si,
I know,” he said, the clippers buzzing against my pale neck. “I come here when
I was thirteen and it was muy difficult. But it was worth it. Now I am happy.
You will see. Clean cut more better for work, no?”
Now
I felt like a shithead. I was worrying about a haircut and this man had faced
real challenges, like probably crossing a desert with nothing but a backpack
and a dream. I hoped he was right and this shedding of long, sun-bleached hair
was going to be more than symbolic. Shit. Dreams die hard, but now I needed a
new one. I considered my employment options outside of music, and found there
was really only one: the restaurant business, where I’d often found work during
the in-between times that music couldn’t pay the bills. This time, I wanted to
work somewhere special. I had set my sights on a few of the classic spots
around town, like maybe the legendary Cricket Room. It was Hollywood’s premier
hot spot, and had been for decades, frequented by big spenders from all over
the world. I had to look the part, which is what brought me to Julio’s Style
Shop on Flower Street in downtown Los Angeles. He’s good, works cheap, and I
knew I wouldn’t run into anyone I knew from the music world there.
I
had to make it worth doing, losing my hair, changing my whole identity. It was
only hair, I had told myself, but it had been a big part of the way I’d thought
of myself for years. It was the image I presented to the world and it was
symbolic of my complete dedication to my music career. I had worked hard to
build a following, and those fans that had collected my posters, music videos,
or seen my stage performances might not identify with me anymore. By giving up
on a music career, was I letting them down? Did I really want to throw this all
away, visible only in a scrapbook or in a photo on a Facebook page? I couldn’t
help but comfort myself by singing The Who’s “Cut My Hair” over and over in my
mind:
Why
should I care
If
I have to cut my hair?
...I
have to work myself to death just to fit in.
…It's
all a game,
'Cos
inside I'm just the same…
Although my hair was just a
symbol, it was the outward representation of everything I had been aiming for
most of my life. And yet I didn’t feel I had built much of anything at all. The
numbers just weren’t there. Lightning had not struck. Yeah, I had made some
significant inroads in the music world, but I was no Steven Tyler even if I was
better looking. He had that “it” thing going on and it had finally dawned on me
that maybe I didn’t. Time to switch lanes.
As
Julio went about his buzzing, whisking, and powdering, I thought about the
convoluted path that had brought me to this epic fork in the road. I wasn’t
sure which of the diverging paths to take. I couldn’t yet see the one that
would eventually lead me to the Cricket Room, but I knew I had to leave the
path I had been following. By cutting my hair, I was making a commitment to
follow a new dream.
I
should probably introduce myself. My name is Paul but everyone calls me Pauli.
Last name Hartford. My Sicilian family settled in Chicago where my parents met.
Later they moved to Los Angeles for the California dream, making me a first
generation Angelino. Then, for some goddamn reason, we moved to Scandinavia
when I was about five. We stayed there even after my dad abandoned us during
his mid-life crisis and went back to the States. Scandinavia’s cold, and they
eat a lot of fish and weird shit there, not to mention all their peculiar
rituals and holiday traditions, which never resonated with me as a kid. Against
all odds, my single mom managed to make a good life for me and my siblings. I’m
third of four kids so that birth order puts me squarely at risk for ever
becoming mature enough to succeed. I got the rebelliousness and charm of a
middle child and the fun-loving, attention seeking self-centeredness of the
baby in the family. Recipe for disaster.
Growing
up in Denmark, I was exposed to European musical influences from the German
operatic punk band Nina Hagen to the inescapable ABBA whom I never really
liked. I grew up admiring bands and artists like The Police, Talking Heads,
Lou Reed, Blondie, The Ramones, Aerosmith, The Cars, and David Bowie. But
living in Scandinavia as not only an American, but one without a dad, I always
felt like an outsider. Music became my refuge and best friend early in my
life. In my teens, I took drum lessons and started teaching myself to sing and
play guitar. I even got my first recording contract in Stockholm when I was
seventeen. Who could give a crap if kids at school treated me like an outcast,
when I had the world of music to retreat into where I got praise and attention.
Musicians are all praise junkies and I was no exception.
One fine
day as we were in the studio with our music producer putting the final touches
on our first single, my brother Jimmy, who was the lead singer and will be
known as Judas from now on, informed us that he was quitting the band to
dedicate his life to Scientology. I could almost hear a needle being dragged
across a vinyl record as I imagined our contract disappearing as if it had been
written in invisible ink. Nothing could change his so-called mind; he was
hooked. Game over.
When
I turned twenty-two, I moved to Boston to be near my estranged father. I continued
to work hard to develop my musical talents: I took singing lessons and began
composing songs on my beat-up guitar.
Eventually
my brother was delivered from the Scientology cult thanks to a de-programmer my
father hired. A freed Judas begged to come join me in Boston. I was already
working with three different Berklee College of Music student producers who
specialized in audio engineering. In return for letting them sharpen their
skills on my original songs, I was getting free demos out of it. While Judas had
been sidelined by his quasi-religious crisis and getting “clear” or whatever
the fuck Scientologists do, I had continued to develop my talents. By the time
we got back on track, I had become the lead singer, with Judas singing only a
few songs from our repertoire. By default, he was forced to work on his guitar
playing skills just to keep up. He had lost a little bit of the spotlight and
was secretly harboring resentment about the shadow he was standing in. Apparently,
Scientology had not prepared him to play second fiddle.
We grew
our hair long, as Bon Jovi was just becoming wildly popular, but our sound was
more British, like the groups Gene Loves Jezebel or Tears for Fears. After an
airing of a homemade demo on the #1 radio station in Boston, KISS 108, we were
invited to an annual station party, where I managed to get our demo to one of
the owners of a new up and coming label out of Florida.
When
Miami-based Pantera Productions offered us an eighteen-month recording contract
we immediately left Boston and a foot of snow to move to sunny Miami Beach,
where we started yet another new band. This time, though, the producer wasn’t
getting us any deals and Judas and I couldn’t seem to get along. It’s not
uncommon for bandmates to get testy during long periods of inactivity, but our
stress level kept building like a gathering storm with nasty black clouds on
the horizon. Personal differences came between us that had little to do with
the music, or lack thereof, and the band dissolved after just a year.
I
had been pursued earlier back in Boston by a rich Asian investor who was dying
to break into the music business. I managed to get hold of him where he was
now living, in Los Angeles. He was thrilled to get re-connected and sent me a
decent contract, including a year’s living expenses and a paid ticket to Los
Angeles. I took it. Anything to get away from the bad vibes in Miami.
There
I was in my twenties, moving to the music and entertainment capital of the
world with the promise of rock ‘n roll glory waiting for me. It was the height
of the glitz era of rock ‘n roll – the Sunset Strip was loaded with longhaired
freaks all dressed up like Mötley Crüe and Poison. It’s funny, we all looked
like girls back then (or like young men daring to look like girls for the
fuck-you of rebellion). I have to admit that I even found myself checking out
some hot chicks now and then that turned out to be guys. Ouch! That can dent
your self-esteem quickly, not to mention making you rethink your sexuality.
Fortunately, in LA nobody gives shit like that a second thought.
The
venues along the Strip are packed with the histories of every great rock band
that ever existed – most of them started in LA or came here to make it. The
Doors met here, the Eagles, Frank Zappa, Guns ‘n Roses, Jane’s Addiction,
Metallica, Rage Against the Machine, Quiet Riot, Ratt, Van Halen, Red Hot Chili
Peppers, The Byrds, Concrete Blonde, The Beach Boys – they all got their start
in Los Angeles. LA is to rock what Nashville is to country music. I was stoked
- ready to try it all again, as if for the first time, although in reality this
was the third time I had been signed since my teens. Maybe the third time
would be the charm.
This
time around, I was working with a music producer who signed me to a recording
contract with a wealthy production company called FoYo Productions, which was
funded by a major Asian label, Rock Records. I settled into sunny LA quickly -
it was kinda like Miami with the warm weather and lots of Spanish, but yet a
totally different, exciting vibe.
We
began recording my songs with a group of talented professional musicians
handpicked by my producer. We used some of the best recording facilities in
the country, laying some basic tracks in a studio called One on One, which was
known for producing the legendary drum sound on Mötley Crüe’s
Dr. Feelgood
album. In true heavy metal fashion, the studio had a pool table and the
Playboy channel playing on monitors 24/7. Metallica had just recently
completed its album there so we used a lot of the same techniques that producer
Bob Rock had originated. The sound we got was powerful. My confidence was
soaring as the rock guitars roared, drums pounded, and my raspy voice reached
for the rafters. The music came alive, and my voice had never sounded better.
After
One on One, we moved to Fidelity in Studio City which was owned by Artie Ripp
whose claim to fame was his discovery of and partnership with Billy Joel in the
very early years. We spent about a month finishing up all the vocal, guitar
and keyboard overdubs and then started playing live at all the celebrated clubs
along the Sunset Strip. We called ourselves Jonathan Pauli. We were quite
popular, especially at a hot Hollywood joint called The China Club. The stage
and sound there were the best in town, and every Monday there were all-star
jams with members of Kiss, the Doobie Brothers, and artists like Rick James,
John Entwistle, Slash, Teena Marie, Michael Bolton, and Joe Walsh. We got a
very favorable write-up in one of the biggest local rock magazines and we started
to believe we were badass. My dream of being a rock ‘n roll superstar was
finally going to come true.
But
my manager at the time was an idiot, a real clown who thought all you had to do
was buy tons of cocaine and the record execs would come running. But just like
in a shitty ‘B’ movie, he got so addicted to the coke himself that he always
looked sick and weird; powerful and important record executives stayed as far
away from him (and therefore us) as they could. Instead, a herd of losers and
drug addicts started hanging around the band – people who couldn’t do a thing
for us and made us look sleazy. I was stuck with him because he had paid for
all the recordings. He basically owned my ass and at times I felt like he was
my music pimp.
Astonishingly,
we finally made a highly polished music video that we shot California-style, using
a beautiful sun-drenched beach and starring my girlfriend at the time. She was
the hottest girl I had ever seen and was a former Playboy model – the perfect
LA music video diva. And there I was lip-synching in my mesh tank top, brown
jeans, long girly hair (now lying like a dead rat in a pile at my feet) flying
in the wind, primitive necklace, and a little facial hair, looking like Fabio.
The video actually turned out great and just as we were getting meetings at
record labels to showcase the music, the Nirvana wave hit. That was less than
a year after we had finished mixing the album. Overnight my music was out of
style and “Grunge” was the buzzword on every record executive’s mind. Even the
execs began wearing flannel shirts to work. My timing sucked, like someone
running to catch a bus that’s just pulling out of the station.