Waiter to the Rich and Shameless: Confessions of a Five-Star Beverly Hills Server (17 page)

She
and I exchanged phone numbers but she didn’t ask for Jens’.  I think she had
caught on that he was taken, since he kept getting texts and stepping away to
make calls.

In
the end, it was all good.  We never made it back to the convention center but I
think we achieved more than we ever hoped to, with everlasting memories (and
some football level injuries) that we won’t be able to talk much about but will
always remember.  Jens planned to tell his girlfriend, Christie, we'd been in a
taxicab accident. Would she buy it? Who the hell knew.

Christie
picked us up at the airport and asked where our bags were.

“Right
here,” said Jens, pointing to our luggage. She looked pissed beyond belief. It
didn’t click right away but I figured it out later.  Usually when I come home
from that event, I’ve got several swag bags loaded up with free booze and
paraphernalia – she was probably expecting that.  But if she really knew Jens
as she should have after living with him for two years, she would have known
that he was up to no good.  Although if you asked him, he’d have said it was
all
very
good.  I think I agree with that. 

I
was ready to head home, nurse my sore, tired body, and jump back into the
Cricket Room chaos. Maybe I could figure some things out after a massive Vegas
blowout and release of tension, like what to do about my limp career prospects. 
It was time to face the music.

A
year later, my life was changing dramatically.  I had locked my music into
several CBS and MTV shows, which was great, but the financial payoff was
nowhere near enough for me to quit my job at the Cricket Room.  I took it as a
positive sign that my music career had just been hibernating and was now ready
to come out of its cave, ravenous and growling.

Linda
had visited me a few times in LA on her own dime. I guess Jens and I had been
unforgettable.  We pretty much repeated the Vegas performance until it was
obviously getting old and we finally just stopped calling each other. What
happens in Vegas just isn’t the same somewhere else.  The thrill of forbidden
fruit becomes bland and tasteless when it’s readily available in your backyard.
I felt sure she’d be back at Sodom and Gomorrah in the dessert, desperately
seeking strange stuff but I no longer cared.

Jens
was still always up to no good, full of mischief, and I knew I could count on
him for keeping things interesting and exciting.  Every now and then I’d get a
call from a hysterically crying Christie asking if I’d seen Jens.

Sniff,
sniff, “He hasn’t been home for two nights,” she’d complain.

“No,
sorry, Christie, if he calls I’ll tell him to phone home right away.” 

The
truth was, I knew exactly where he was:  holed up on the top floor of the
Viceroy with a couple of hot sex maniacs. For me, it was an occasional phase;
for him it was his lifestyle.

I
was actually beginning to feel like it was time to meet a real woman, someone
of substance who was worth settling down with.  Someone I could love and show
who I really was. After so many quickie, shallow, meaningless encounters, which
were incredibly hot and physically satisfying but not complex, I wanted someone
to laugh with me, sing with me, travel with me, grow old with me.  Turns out
that everyone has the same body parts and when you smash them together it’s
great, but not everyone is compatible on a deeper level.

I
knew I just hadn’t met the right woman yet but if I were going to, I’d better
stop spending too much time with Jens because every time we saw each other we’d
get so roiled up, it’s automatic trouble. It’s as though I’m dry kindling wood
and he’s a match. We get together and a fire starts, like Stephen King’s
Carrie.
I knew enough to realize that my dream girl wasn’t slumming amongst the
kind of company we kept.  So I needed to grow up and start attracting what I
wanted in my life.  It’s that simple. But could I do it? That remained to be
seen. Maybe I’d just burn up and burn out before I could find the future Mrs.
Hartford. I might need a muzzle for Mini Me.

It
was a typical Wednesday night in the Cricket Room and I grabbed Jens in the
service hallway as I motioned toward the dining room and whispered, “She’s
kissing me right now!” 

“What
the hell are you talking about?” Jens asked. 

I
told him to peek through the peephole at Pamela Anderson – every man’s dream -
who was vigorously sucking on her cocktail straw. 

“So?”
I think he thought I’d lost my fucking mind. But stick with me.

“So,
I kissed the straw before I gave her the drink. She’s kissing me!” 

Jens
laughed, “Dat’s funny, Pauli!  Maybe next time I stir her drink with my dick!”

Ariella
had been listening.  “Oh, you’re both sick!”  She shook her head and giggled as
she walked away, bouncing and jiggling like an anime sex toy.

Goddamn
she’s hot, but I know she’s just trouble too. Remember you’re looking for a
good woman. Hey, maybe Pam Anderson is my soul mate! Wouldn’t that be awesome?

I’d
just been informed by Mr. P that Johnny Depp would be dining in my section
again. He either requested me or simply a certain table in my section, but it
was nice to hear anyway. Although I have to focus on my ridiculously long list
of duties, this news lifted my mood and the atmosphere crackled with excitement
and expectation.  Every guest at the Cricket Room is to be treated with the utmost
respect and gentility, and while I’ve done it all before I really pulled out
all the stops when it came to guests I admired.  Mr. Depp adds a welcome
earthiness to the elegance and refinement of the Cricket Room, and he’s a
bright spot on the long horizon of another busy evening ahead.

My
immediate concern, however, is Gore Vidal, the illustrious and mighty author of
some of the most important literature of the twentieth century.  He was there
as usual, cocked half off his ass on Grey Goose martinis and singing along with
the piano player who knew all of his favorite oldies.  I’d served him his usual
meal of warm, buttery croissants followed by an order of our luxurious
Washington State Kumamoto raw oysters. Gore liked them served old-school style,
with our homemade cocktail sauce and a side of horseradish. His male nurse looked
on, eating a NY steak with our made-to-order red wine sauce, and a side of
fresh, steamed broccoli and glazed baby carrots.  I loved Gore – he was one of
the few who just said it as he saw it.  Plus, he carried a certain refinement,
reminiscent of old Hollywood, which is so fitting here.  He was wearing a white
collared shirt, ascot, navy blue blazer with gold buttons, khaki slacks, and
chocolate brown loafers.  He was like a throwback to the heyday of the Cricket
Room when people of substance and class gathered there, clinking glasses, laughing
elegantly, and holding brilliant conversations.  There was no one like him.  We
didn’t see his type much anymore, not because they were dining elsewhere, but
because they didn’t exist.

Since
his partner Howard Austen had died quite some time previously, Gore had been
rather melancholy and sometimes he’d just burst out crying in the middle of
dinner for no apparent reason. That just broke my heart.  I’m not sure why he
got so sad.  It could have been because the piano player was tapping out an
oldie that reminded him of Howard.  I’d also overheard him expressing his deep
lament for the current state of the U.S. as he perceived it.  He felt that the
news and entertainment media, controlled by the “elite one percent,” were
spreading their brainwashing campaigns to a mostly illiterate and uneducated
public.  A lot of his anger seemed to stem from his belief that the U.S.
government was spending its tax dollars on wars instead of educating its own
people.  He seemed to have quite a beef with most governmental policies and I
also didn’t think he’d ever get over his hatred for George W. Bush.  Serving
Mr. Vidal was always a treat – I never knew if I would get a world history
lesson on the Persian or Roman Empire, or another fascinating sound bite from
his spectacular life.

Mr.
Depp sauntered in with his family, exuding his usual casual, friendly air. He
carried little Jack in his arms, and Vanessa Paradis, the beautiful mother of
his children, held their daughter’s hand.  They were followed by their regular
contingent of bodyguards and assistants.  Since it was still early in the
evening, they walked in fairly unnoticed.  I greeted Johnny as he entered the
room dressed in a T-shirt, leather vest, navy scarf, jeans, and a Basque-type
cap on top of his Depply-cool hairdo.  He looked like he’d just stepped out of
an upscale vintage clothing store in Berlin; like Stephen Tyler, Depp could
pull off the quirky look.  He approached his table with a confident yet down-to-earth
smile on his face and said to me, “Hey, man, how you doin’?” 

“Welcome,
Mr. Depp, it’s a pleasure to see you again.”  I greeted his daughter who will
without a doubt grow up to be a looker for sure, and she smiled and said “Hi.”  Their
kids, who look like cherubs in a Michelangelo painting, are extremely allergic
to certain foods and must be protected against a careless kitchen staff at all
costs. This I knew from prior visits, which was something not fully appreciated
by management, cheap fuckers that they were. A new waiter from the never-ending
conveyor belt would not have known that and might not only have put the
children in danger, but put the restaurant in legal jeopardy. Did people
sitting in cubicles in another country ever consider such a thing? I doubt it.

I
pulled out the table so they could all be seated in their half-moon booth
comfortably.  Johnny could sometimes seem a bit uneasy with the formalities we
use in the Cricket Room but it can’t be helped. No matter what kind of weird
get-up you’re wearing, you will be treated with gracious formality.  Even
before his good friend, the writer Hunter S. Thompson, used to frequent the Cricket
Room, we had a long, proud history of proper service.  I liked to think of my
role as something close to Alfred the Butler from
Batman
, always at the
ready with a towel hanging off my left arm, although without the British
accent.  Johnny’s assistants and bodyguards sat in the booth next to him,
keeping to themselves, but vigilant for knife-wielding whackos and overly
exuberant fans.  I can’t remember their names but they were definitely
European.

Vanessa,
his then long-time girlfriend, was very adamant about describing the children’s
allergies.  I nodded politely as if it were my first time hearing it all,
listening with genuine interest.  Something might have changed since last time.
Although she was a French model, singer, and actress, she was hardly wearing
any makeup and looked only like the concerned mother I knew her to be.  I could
tell that she was a sincere and grounded person just by listening to her talk
and looking into her eyes.

“Jack,”
she said, “will end up in the ‘ospital if any of this slips into his food.”  I
assured Ms. Paradis that I had written down all her requests and would relay
them to our chef. 

Even
though we had openly discussed the Depps’ allergy issues at the pre-shift meeting,
the busboy, Juan, mindlessly set down our regular bread basket on their table.  I
quickly pulled it away and gave him a look that said, “I’m gonna kill you, you
fucking loser. What part of the briefing didn’t you understand?” 

Under
Ms. Paradis’ watchful eye, I told him not to bring any bread ‘til we could be
sure that it was safe for the kids.  Two bottles of Fiji water rested in silver
sleeves on the table, and I poured the water to one-third full in our signature
stemmed water glasses.  In an instant, Vino appeared at the table bowing and
greeting Mr. Depp and his family.  Vino, who was not about to make the same
mistake as he had in the past by selling Depp wine he didn’t really care for,
mentioned that we had his favorite, Chateau Haut-Brion.  Mr. Depp perked up with
that news and asked us to open
the
‘82 and ‘89, and “let’s decant them both,” he said with the devilish smile for
which he’s famous.

Chateau
Haut-Brion produces one of the finest French wines that money can buy, and at
about two grand a bottle it takes a lot of it. The man knows his wines and it
was impressive that he was familiar with such an exclusive winery. It was
obvious that Depp was not being a wine snob at all; had he been he could have
ordered other more widely known labels often purchased not for their taste but
for their snob appeal. Some celebs order ridiculously expensive wines just to
show off; I know because I’ve served them when they were alone and they ordered
Diet Coke. Depp simply knew good wine, could afford to indulge his palate, and
seriously appreciated it.

Château
Haut-Brion is rated a Premier Cru Classé (first growth), a title held by only
three other Bordeaux wineries, and is produced in Talence just outside the city
of Bordeaux. It is thought that the vineyard first took root in Roman times, and
that cultivation of the land dates from 1423; the estate itself dates back to
1525.  What sets this winery apart and makes it unusual is the fact that it is
located outside of Haut-Medoc, which is the region that holds the appellation
for Bordeaux, but its wines are still considered Bordeaux.  Leave it to Johnny
to choose the most unique and distinctive Bordeaux wines. 

I
left the Depps to read their menus and Vino ran off to fetch those exquisite
wines.  A-list celebrities have the effect of a magic wand on the entire staff,
sparking everyone to life.

I
decided to take care of the breadbasket issue myself by talking to the chef.  On
my way toward the kitchen, I caught sight of Roderick and Penny Stewart being
seated at my other corner booth.  “Okay, think quick,” I muttered, trying to
stay calm in the face of a celebrity shit storm. I hoped I was up to a Depp-Rod
Stewart clash of the demanding titans. 
Breathe.

I
flew into the kitchen just as the sous-chef was entering her office. 
Oh
shit
,
it’s Lola
–
she’s a total fucking idiot.
My shit storm had just gotten
cloudier.  Everything was a problem with her and even though it was the guests’
allergies, she usually tried to act as if it were my allergies that were
inconveniencing her.  At the same time, I
had
to get my ass over to
Rod’s table, as the rules of service say we only have forty seconds to greet
the guest and those forty seconds had passed.  I really didn’t want to keep
them waiting any longer. 

So
I asked Lola with my sweetest voice possible, trying to pour on the Pauli
charm, to put together a nice safe breadbasket for Johnny and his family.  As I
made her aware of the allergies at the Depp table, instead of just saying “of
course,” she answered with, “Why can’t your busser do that?  Doesn’t he know
what’s in the bread?”  Always looking for a way to shuffle things onto someone
else's shoulders. No concern for the guest or for service. Or the most
important thing: my job.