Waiter to the Rich and Shameless: Confessions of a Five-Star Beverly Hills Server (15 page)

The
pay was so inadequate that we also couldn’t find competent hostesses to manage
the arrivals. In that room, you need someone smart enough to actually recognize
the celebrity they are greeting and to know how to deal with the rich and
shameless.  They needed to be a combination of Vanna White, Attila the Hun, and
a U.N. ambassador. They also needed to be able to cull the wannabes from the
herd who pretend they are someone then scope out the room for victims to con. 
That level of experienced, discerning professional hostess didn’t work cheap.
The girls we hired for twelve bucks an hour were never older than twenty-five
and so clueless that you could tell them anything and they’d believe it.  Most
of them wouldn’t even have known Michael Jackson if he had walked in the room
accompanied by an eight year-old boy and moon- walking backwards.  You get what
you pay for, and what they paid for were usually idiots who looked good in a
tight dress with boobs twice the size of their brains.

When
Dennis Quaid walked in one night without a reservation, they made him wait at
the hostess stand for fifteen minutes until he walked out and returned with a
house account holder who got him a table.  The hostess didn’t even recognize
his name, let alone his famous face.  Or how about the time another hostess put
a menu in front of Stevie Wonder?  Was that our one and only secret Braille
menu that only she knew about?  But she did smile nicely at him. I’m sure he
appreciated that.  Ariella was our only competent hostess but unfortunately she
only worked three dinner shifts and two lunch shifts a week.

The
solution was elementary yet it was beyond our corporate bosses’ comprehension: 
hire and schedule two more waiters on the floor and a fourth busser for each
shift.  But they never did because coming in under budget was always more
important than securing truly fine service.

Another
way to
raise revenue
would have been, for example, that since our refined guests enjoyed learning
about wines, we should have hired a second wine steward to meet that demand. 
As it was, there was no one to help the guests choose wine on Vino’s days off,
and on the nights he was working, he couldn’t possibly meet every demand. 
Another talented expert like Vino, passionate and knowledgeable about wine,
would ensure that no interested guest ever missed an opportunity to inform his
palate.  It’s obvious to me that the Cricket Room’s extensive list of 1,500
wines is another treasure chest that management forgot to open.

The
story of the latter day Cricket Room would make a good case study for the
Harvard Business Review.  Or a classic study of what not to do to increase
profits.  Our management left a lot of low hanging fruit to rot on the tree. As
brilliant as they may have been at business theory, they never bothered to come
in and see the results of their decisions first hand. It was paint by numbers,
and they were painting with our blood, sweat, and tears. 

And
to add another level of detail from the Genghis Khan School of Management, the
higher ups would try to make up for missed sales opportunities that they lost
to under-staffing by
pushing
us to increase sales in ineffective ways.  They forced us to up-sell
indiscriminately, even when it wasn’t appropriate. Of course, enticing
customers to order more expensive food or drink is an important part of any
restaurant’s operations, but when it comes to the matter of up-selling in the
Cricket Room, genuine discretion was, or should have been, of great
importance. 

Our
very sophisticated guests usually knew exactly what they wanted.  They are used
to choosing the best of everything, so up-selling often creates awkward moments
and thoroughly annoyed customers.  It looks as though we don’t trust the
guest’s taste or judgment, let alone his or her ability to read a menu. It’s
embarrassing. And it’s even worse when it comes to liquor.  For example, people
who drink Lagavulin, a “peaty” Scotch whiskey with an almost burnt tar-like
flavor do not want to be asked if they’d like a (more expensive) Macallan 18
instead, which is smooth and silky. Although they are both single malt
Scotches, people who like Lagavulin do not like smooth and silky, understand?  
What’s more, all of our peaty Scotches were in the same price range, so to
direct a customer to a higher-priced alternative, we had to suggest a smooth
and silky choice which forced us to look like idiots who had no idea about
anything they were serving.

Those
of us with any experience knew that you have to understand your guests, quickly
get a real read on them, and sell appropriately.  You don’t serve Gore Vidal
the same way you would Paris Hilton. They’re from different planets. That’s
something much more delicate to teach than simple up-selling.  But no, rather
than teach new staff the art of tailored, suggestive selling, we were punished
if we were caught missing any opportunity to do the hard up-sell.  We were not
allowed to use our own discretion in order to avoid insulting the guests.  It’s
another example of how the company thugs thought their stupid rules of service were
appropriate for every situation. 

I
couldn’t understand why they would run the most beautiful and prestigious room
in all of Los Angeles with a laughable budget that put so much strain on the
staff and affected our ability to sell and serve our guests properly.  It was
not only unreasonable, it really didn’t make good business sense.  I always got
the impression that our “owners” – and I did feel owned – had never been in the
Cricket Room and had no appreciation for its history and reputation.

The
restaurant was being run like the proverbial nervous duck – seemingly calm on
the surface of the water but paddling frantically underneath.  And for no good
reason!  I’m sure they’re not all that way, but it seems many corporations look
at staff as the easiest thing to cut to increase profits.  Food cost was never
an issue, nor superficial things like fresh flowers and linens. Just people got
cut or run into the ground. But we, the wait staff, were the face of the
business and we could make it or break it. They never seemed to realize that.
Or they just decided not to respect it.

The
stress was taking a huge toll on many of us and I still remember the day that
Steven, a fellow waiter, walked out after his break and never came back. Here
was a guy who had been sober for ten years, who had suddenly cracked up big
time, left the Cricket Room, lost his apartment and was found drunk in a back
alley behind Pavilions grocery store in Beverly Hills. He spent a few months
like that then picked himself up again and got a job at the Peninsula in
Beverly Hills. I spoke to him six months later and he told me the whole sad
story.  He had started drinking again because of the stress at the Cricket
Room.  He said that he was much happier at his new job and was back to
attending AA meetings.  It may sound trivial, but when you really care and want
to do a great job, it’s frustrating as hell to be blocked at every turn by
budget cuts. Especially when there’s no need for it. We were raking in the
dough.

Another
waiter who cracked was
Ernesto
.  He was by far my favorite
waiter to work with besides Jens. He was always joking and laughing, but like Steven,
he was developing a serious drinking problem.  Much to my surprise, I also
found out that he had taken a mistress.  This was
Ernesto
, who would show me pictures of
his kids and tell me funny stories about their baseball games, and who always
talked about the wife he loved so much.  But the job was taking its toll and he
always got sloshed right at the end of work. One night after work, he went to
see his mistress and upon leaving her house somehow ended up on the I-5 freeway
headed in the wrong direction. He was hit head on by a Volvo.  Ernesto was
found dead in the back seat with a broken neck. The woman who’d hit him lived
but suffered major injuries.  It was a terrible shock to all of us when Mr. P
told us right before our shift.  Several people burst into tears. Why couldn’t
he have told us after work?  We all attended Ernesto’s wake, paid our respects,
and pooled three grand to give his wife and kids.  It was strange seeing him in
the casket.  No matter how much make up they’d put on him, he didn’t look like Ernesto;
he had too many broken facial bones.

That
night I wept long and silently on my drive back home. The stress was wearing on
me as well.  My girlfriend at the time often complained that I’d stay out too
late after work and come home smelling of alcohol. You’d think a bartender would
know better, but it’s quick and readily available numbing medicine. Orajel for
the brain.  Shit, I even fantasized about snorting the stuff, imagining it
might numb my thoughts.

I
constantly had this recurring terrifying dream: It started with me serving a
table full of friendly guests. I would be greeting the guests and getting to
know them, laughing and having a good time. Then I would go to the bar to pick
up their drinks and upon my return, I would discover two new tables full of
guests and no one around to help me.  I would approach the new tables and then
as I went to fetch their drink order from the bartender, he would be gone.  So
I would have to make the drinks myself.  When I’d return to the kitchen to
check on my food order from the first table there would be no cooks in the
kitchen. At this point, I would become short of breath, feeling panicky and totally
stressed-out. As I walked back out to the dining room, more and more people
streamed in with no other staff in sight to seat them. Very quickly things
would take a turn for the worse, because then I found myself seating people at
tables as well as serving them.

Soon
these faceless guests had their hands in the air signaling madly for service as
I ran around trying to figure out why there were no cooks and no bartenders to
be seen and no one but me left to cook, serve, bartend and seat the entire
restaurant.  I’d start choking and gasping for air because the anxiety was
overwhelming.  A steady stream of new guests arrived and I experienced a sense
of complete terror and was unable to move.  I couldn’t decide whether I should
make a drink order, seat the new guests or try to cook the dinner orders that
have been waiting in the kitchen for forty minutes. By now dinner guests are
standing up by their tables looking around for help, loud complaints are bombarding
me and I am completely helpless but still trying to do whatever I can to keep
up with the orders… and by now I’m suddenly naked and everyone is just staring
at me.  Talk about a nightmare!

I
always woke up sweaty and gasping for air every time I had that dream, usually
shouting myself awake and frightening my girlfriend du jour. Oh great!  I just
worked a busy night and had to dream of an even worse night after that.  I
wouldn’t want to go back to sleep in case the dream would continue so I usually
went out to the living room and watched TV until daybreak.  The only thing
worse than having a bad job is having a bad one you really care about.

After
this happened several times, my girlfriend walked out because she couldn’t
stand hearing me complain and act so erratically. I can’t say I blame her – I
would have left me too.

One
morning I woke up crying. Just repeating the words, “I can’t take it anymore. 
I just can’t take it!”  Me? Mr. Tough Guy?  Crying like a baby?  Finally, I
began seeing a shrink to try to lessen the stress, but it didn’t help.  He just
listened to me rant on for months, then cashed the checks. I finally got sick
of hearing my own voice.  It was surreal that a waiter was having anxiety
attacks because of his stressful job, but this just seemed to get lost on the
guy.  I tried jogging, too, but since my body was so tired from working it was
hard to keep it up. The last thing my knees and ankles needed was more
pounding. If only there were a way to send my mind out jogging and leave my
body home in the recliner.

After
a few years, I was asked to join the management staff. I was smart, a hard
worker and requested by guests so often that they obviously knew I was an asset
and didn’t want to lose me.  Perhaps even they could read the flashing
“Burnout” sign on my forehead. I reluctantly declined, though I felt I could
have made real improvements to the way the place was managed.  But why would I
want to work twice the hours with half the pay?  I’d be getting a salary but
losing the gratuities. Because the restaurant’s name would secure my future as
a manager? That’s probably true, but that’s not the future I wanted.

I
was disappointed with the reality versus the myth, but not unhappy enough to
join the enemy ranks, which is what I considered management. I knew they would
never really revert to the standards of days gone by, so why bleed myself any
further? It would be too heartbreaking to watch; like witnessing a beautiful
and gracious lady turn into a meth addict right before my eyes. No thanks.
Check please.

My
bottom line was this: I had been drawn to a very special place, one with an
instantly recognizable name worldwide, and synonymous with class and elite
service. But that dream was dying, giving way to fatter profit margins. New
corporate management didn’t care how the money came in, just so it did. I still
clung to the dream but it was getting harder and harder to stay asleep since
the dream had become a recurring nightmare.

I
even thought about arranging a séance during which I could get some advice from
Frank Sinatra and former luminaries who had built the Cricket Room and whose
legends were the foundation of the business. Maybe he could whack somebody and
we could get back to serving with style. We cash cows were sick of the
bullshit.