Waiter to the Rich and Shameless: Confessions of a Five-Star Beverly Hills Server (18 page)

I
said, gritting my teeth, “Look at him, Lola.”  We both turned and looked at Juan,
who had followed me into the kitchen.  He was standing there listlessly,
staring blankly.  I tell her:  “Okay, you know what?  You’ll get your fifteen
minutes of fame tomorrow when the headlines scream, ‘Cricket Room sous-chef
kills Johnny Depp’s kids!’” 

She
yelled, “Fuck you, Pauli!  Fuck you!” 
Come on, Lola
, my eyes were
begging.  Finally, she hesitantly complied.  “Okay, fine.” 

Why
should I have had to beg for this kind of thing?  I turned to Juan, who was
looking on with his usual clueless stare.  “Lola will make you a special bread basket. 
Bring it to Mr. Depp's table with olive oil. Please.”
Dip shit.
 

I
dashed out but relaxed my pace before I hit the floor.  In my other corner
booth were Rod Stewart and his third wife, Penny, whom I had recently read was
pregnant. 
Good for Rod,
I thought.
He’s still as virile as ever.
 
They sat in peaceful oblivion, intent upon each other, unaware of the Depps and
engrossed in their own world of conversation.  As I approached their table, I
bid them a warm welcome.  Penny, a glamorous blonde English model, smiled and
Rod said jokingly, “Hello, old chap!”  I noticed how Rod always looks great --
it’s unbelievable.  No visible plastic surgery either.  He just looked tanned
and fit, wild hair, like the rocker he is, but nowhere nearly as flamboyant as
Steven Tyler. Rod usually wore a flashy outfit but this time it was just a nice
white collared shirt with a black and white polka-dot ascot and medium length black
cashmere coat.  I couldn’t really see the rest of his outfit but what I could
see was very Rod-like. Classy but with an edge. That night he seemed to be
focused on romance but he always gave off an impression of unpredictability;
you never knew what to expect from him. No wonder audiences love him. He made
the ascot look cool, which is something that even Gore Vidal couldn’t do. 

Penny
asked for a bottle of Fiji water and Rod ordered a glass of chardonnay, no
specific label, but then changed it to Pouilly Fuisse, probably figuring it
would be cheaper.  He does tend to be a bit penurious. But as they all do when
they come here, he’ll find out he’s in the wrong place to save a buck.  Actually,
he should have known. It had been only a few months before when I was serving
them and he almost choked on his tea when he saw the bill. 

He
had growled in his signature raspy voice, “A hundred and fifty dollars for a
steak?”  I explained that it was Wagyu from Japan, widely considered the
world’s finest beef.  (This was just before the ban.)  I told him that Wagyu
refers to specific breeds of Japanese cattle which are known for intense
marbling and may be raised with a regimen of massage and beer or sake added to
their feed.  He spat out, “Bloody hell, if I had known that I would have chewed
it slower!” At that point, Penny calmed him down and paid the check with his
card, leaving me a nice tip, then giving me a conspiratorial wink. They keep
coming back despite the cost because Rod fancies the place and enjoys our fine musicians
who entertain the guests.  I think he also enjoys the pampering.

I
hurried out with their drinks, pouring the wine from the bottle after
displaying the label for Rod’s approval.  I always handle my single-glass
orders to take the burden off Vino, who was busy up-selling great bottles of
wine elsewhere.  Rod tasted it and gave me the go-ahead.  When I described the
specials, I mischievously recommended the Wagyu beef, then told them I’d be
back in a few minutes to take their order.  I giggled to myself as I walked
away.  I loved pushing the envelope a bit in that stuffy place, but I always made
sure to do it with a straight face, like the professional I’m supposed to be. I
mean, we are supposed to recommend the ridiculously expensive beef, right?

Later,
as the darkness of the evening descended on the Cricket Room, the main dining
room glowed with a soothing golden ambiance.  The warm light from the silver
table lamps and the glittering lights from the trees on the patio added a
gentle radiance.  I
looked through the elegant glass partition that separated the main
dining room from the hustle and bustle of the front dining area near the bar, and
I felt as if I were watching an old silent movie.  The glass sparkled with the
reflections of faces and tiny lights, but it cut out the sound and framed the
scene like a tableau frozen in time.  You could imagine a tall lanky dame in a
shimmering white satin gown, elegant in a booth with a gentleman in a sharp
wide-lapelled suit, both smoking cigarettes in long ivory holders. In my mind’s
eye it looked very much like the surprise hit
The Artist.

As I looked a little deeper into the scene, I focused on the face
of the brilliant new movie producer and clothing designer, Tom Ford, seated
with his partner, Mr. Richard Buckley.  I noticed that no one had approached
his table yet, so I hurried onto the set of my silent movie and it burst to
life, snapping me unpleasantly back to the noisy present.  The reality was
jarring when the sound returned; I much preferred my silent version and could
sympathize with those film stars who hated the transition to talkies. Sound
really did spoil the show.

Mr. Ford, who often modeled his own creations, always wore his
crisp white shirt unbuttoned to the middle of his chest with a stylish dark
blazer.  Mr. Buckley dressed similarly, but more conservatively, often adding a
classic ascot to his get-up.  We probably saw more ascots in the Cricket Room
than almost anywhere else on earth.  In the “real world” you hardly ever see
anyone wearing an ascot. Can’t imagine one going over well at a football game,
the mall, or a PTA meeting.

I approached their table quickly, welcomed them back, and
introduced myself as we always did. Tom ordered a Belvedere and soda, and
Richard wanted the same but with tonic, both with some limes and lemons on a side
plate.  Since this was not my first time serving Mr. Ford, I told him how much
I had enjoyed his very stylish film,
A Single Man
.  He thanked me
humbly.  I thought,
wow, he wrote, directed, and produced his first film and
it’s absolutely great.  I’m impressed but not as impressed as all the gay men
who are staring at his hairy chest right now.
Daniel, at whose table they’d
been seated, was about to faint; he always got flushed cheeks and a sweaty
forehead when he was turned on, and he was sweating like a fry cook right then.

I told Daniel, “Sorry to get in there before you but I just saw them
sitting there, waiting for service.  I’ll transfer the check to you now.”

“Oh, thank you, how will I ever repay you?” he said in his mezzo-soprano
queen voice, with a bit of a suggestive look in his eye. 

I replied playfully with absolute faux conviction and a sly wink.
“I’ll think of something, Danny boy. Just take good care of our sexy,
hairy-chested genius.” 

“Oh, don’t worry, I will,” he assured me, licking his lips and
patting his sweaty forehead with a small cloth napkin. 
Oh boy, if Tom could
see this he’d probably beg me to stay on as his waiter,
I thought
.  Or
maybe not?

I briskly walked back over to Mr. Depp’s table, where the artful
staging of their dinner service was just beginning. Vino had been pouring the
wine, Juan has replaced the cheese and nut bread with French-style white and
wheat rolls, and a dish of olive oil for dipping had been placed in the center. 
I smiled at
Johnny
who always had a warm look in his brown doe-eyes, and he made perfect and
sincere eye contact as he always did. Yes, even with his waiter. 

Now
I really do have to comment here, since I’ve waited on almost every superstar
male actor in the world.  Johnny Depp is without a doubt my favorite, with George
Clooney and Brad Pitt sharing a close second place.  They’re all humble and
seem to know how lucky they are, and they consistently display genuine
compassion and respect for the help.  And for me, as the waiter to the rich and
shameless, that is all I need to go to the moon and back for you. 

I
whipped out my captain’s pad and got ready to write down their order, all while
hoping Rod Stewart and his pregnant wife were okay. Top-level service is a
constant juggling act.

Ms.
Paradis orders for the kids:  “For Rose, the linguine pomodoro, with no cheese
–
please don’t even bring it to the table.  And for
Jack, the linguine with olive oil, with an order of chicken fingers and fries
to share between them. Can you make sure they’re fried in fresh, unused canola
oil?” 

“Yes,
ma’am, I certainly will.” 
Fuck. Lola is going to scream like a stuck
Japanese cow.

“And
also for the three of us,” she pointed to the kids and herself, “a side of
steamed mixed vegetables, please.” Ms. Paradis also ordered tomato soup for
herself, which we – and by we, I mean someone else – would have to make from
scratch since it was not on the menu. Then, she instructed, she would have the
halibut, plain, grilled with spinach sautéed in virgin olive oil and garlic. 

Johnny
Cool took his turn after patiently waiting for his wife:  “I’ll have the
tortilla soup with avocado garnish and a six-ounce portion of the Wagyu beef,
please, sir.”

“Just
like that, sir?” 

“Just
like that,” he said, smiling easily. 

Wow,
he’s easygoing, and he actually ordered right off the fucking menu,
I think to myself, as I inform
him that the chef recommends the Wagyu beef be cooked to medium.

“Then
that’s how I’ll have it, thank you,” he replied.  No typical tantrum or request
to have it burnt to the point of resembling a lump of coal, or so bloody it
looked like road kill.

I
proceeded to repeat their orders back including every little detail.  Once I had
their nod of approval I poured water and more wine for Johnny.  They were halfway
through the ‘82 Chateau Haut-Brion and Depp was bemusedly eyeing the ‘89 like
he wanted to kiss the bottle.

Quickly
I skirted over to the computer to input my order.  I asked Jose, “Where’s Juan?
I haven’t seen him for a while.” 

“He’s
on break.” 

“Who’s
covering my station then?” 

“I
am,” Jose said.

“Did
he tell you about the allergies on table 43?” 

“No,
he didn’t say nothin’.”

“Not
even in Spanish, nothin’?”  I asked, getting madder by the minute.

“No.” 

Fuckin’
loser Juan. He was
muerta
to me. Dead as the silent movie stars I’d
dreamt of earlier.

I
took a deep breath, grit my teeth, and said, “Okay, table 43 is allergic to
idiots, nuts and dairy, so no bread with nuts or cheese, or the kids die,
comprende amigo?” 

“Fuck
you, asshole,” says Jose. 

“Okay,
sounds like you got it.  Hey, seriously though, pay attention to them, their
bill is already more than eight thousand and I haven’t even rung in the food
yet.  They’re gonna make our night.” 
If you and Juan don’t fucking kill
them. Murdering your client’s kids tends to lower the tip substantially.

Jose
nodded and headed toward the dining room at his regular lazy-ass pace.  I can’t
help thinking,
when are they gonna train these guys right
?  Management
exerts no pressure on them to grow or improve.  I bet they’d even feel better
about their jobs if they were held to a higher standard.  But in the Cricket
Room, all the pressure falls on the waiters, and it is only we from whom
perfection is demanded. 

I
carefully input the Depps’ order, then entered the kitchen to begin the dreaded
review and specifications with Lola.  As I was walking away, these words slip
out uncontrollably: “Now don’t fuck it up, Lola. Please.”  I didn’t dare turn
around to look at her but Paco, the food runner, heard me and was chuckling to
himself.  The truth is, she always fucks it up.  She didn’t ever pay close
enough attention to the tickets we wrote and in such a highly rated and
exclusive restaurant, that is an unforgivable sin. But we couldn’t argue with
anyone in the kitchen.  They had some special immunity from prosecution, like
federal star witnesses in a mob movie.  It was probably because the food and
beverage director used to be the executive chef and all the wormheads with a
chef title attached to them were his buddies from some other previous life before
their Cricket Room gig. 

All
of a sudden, all those thoughts were washed away and replaced by the sound of
someone screaming. 

Then
I realized it was Lola, screaming at me.  “Get the fuck out of the kitchen,
Pauli, and don’t come back, you stupid asshole!  Get the fuck out of the
kitchen now, Pauli!” 

I
could just imagine her – I didn’t dare turn around to look – her face beet-red
with anger and that fast neurotic walk she took on when she got mad. 
I
better speed up my pace and get out of here before management hears all the
commotion.
  My back was still turned when I exited the kitchen.  I could see
Paco laughing to himself ‘cause he knows what I said was true.  She was always
sending the food runners out to the tables with incomplete orders or a wrong
item on the tray.  Now I know you’re thinking that the runners should have
started checking the orders themselves before taking them out, but it’s hard
when she’s already stacked the plates with tin covers on top of one another and
is yelling, “Take this out to table number 49 NOW!”  They are much too
intimidated by her to stop, remove the covers, check the order, then proceed.
They’d rather take their chances than face her wrath.  And anyway, it’s her
responsibility, not theirs.