Waiter to the Rich and Shameless: Confessions of a Five-Star Beverly Hills Server (19 page)

I
scurried back over to Rod’s table to take his order.  He and Penny looked cozy,
leaning in toward each other, shoulder to shoulder, bathed in warm candlelight,
and still deep in quiet conversation.  Tonight Rod wanted some house-cured
Balik salmon as an appetizer.  We serve it with a nice side of poached white
asparagus garnished with crème fraiche and black American caviar as well as
fresh-griddled potato blinis.  Penny ordered (shock!) a salad of mixed market
greens with thinly-sliced fennel and carrots, garnished with shaved Asiago
cheese.  The dressing was white balsamic vinegar and organic Sicilian first
cold-pressed extra virgin olive oil.  For his main course, Rod asked for our
juicy rotisserie chicken lightly herbed with rosemary, fresh tarragon, and
Himalayan salt, but instead of potatoes Rod asked me to bring steamed asparagus
with a side of Hollandaise sauce
.  I don’t know what Rod’s fascination is with asparagus, but one
time I served him that small, skinny, wild asparagus and he picked one up with
his fork. 

As it hung flaccidly (probably overcooked), he said to me, “You
call this asparagus? Go get me some proper asparagus.”

So I did, I got him the regular asparagus stems that were cooked
just right and could stand erect off the top of his fork. He liked that much
better.  Penny asked me for the
caramelized sweet Nantucket bay scallops
served over a fluffy
butternut squash risotto and garnished with drizzles of truffle parsnip purée. 
I repeated their order back, and then, knowing that Rod never orders dessert --
apparently out of vain concern for his weight -- I decided to yank his chain a
little more.  I offered them a chocolate soufflé for dessert, which we have to
prepare in advance.  I mean, what pregnant woman doesn’t want chocolate? Rod
kinda looked at me like,
you asshole
, then turned to Penny who considered
it but decided against it.  I’ll bet that little critter inside her stomach
would’ve loved some, but I guess he’ll just have to wait until he’s old enough
to order for himself.
Hello Brat Pack, here comes another Rod Junior.

As I hurried to the computer to input the Stewarts’ order, it
struck me that I was a pretty lucky bastard to be waiting on people like Rod
and Johnny.  Well, I’m damn good at my job, so they’re lucky to have me too.  But
they definitely made this thankless job a little easier to take.  After all,
there are only a handful of waiters in the world who have shared my experience,
and if serving was how I was going to make my living, then this was definitely
THE place to do it.

I then set up both the Depp and Stewart tables with the proper
polished cutlery for both courses.  I was hoping they’d figure out what was
what and not use the wrong cutlery for the wrong course as most of our guests
do, especially the Brat Packers who always make snide comments about so many
forks and spoons.  They usually deciphered what to do with the soupspoons,
though.  Bravo!

The clock struck nine and Mr. P informed me that Lola was furious
with me.  He told me I couldn’t go back into the kitchen and all communication
must go through him. That prompted an impassioned internal monologue:

Okay, great, is he
gonna learn to speak English in the next few minutes?  ‘Cause if he’s not I’m
gonna call in a fucking translator. Dammit, all because I said, “Don’t fuck it
up.”  Why did I have to open my damned pie-hole?  I have to just learn to keep
my mouth shut like the rest of these one-dimensional gutless empty-headed
cardboard figures that work here.  It doesn’t matter that Lola told me to fuck
off and get the fuck out of the kitchen.  Actually, I would have told me that
too if I were she.  No one likes it when you expose their weaknesses, but for
me there’s just too much at stake.  I’m responsible for the well-being of every
guest who sits at my tables even if I’m not the one screwing it up.  I’m the
face of the restaurant, the guest’s representative, their go-to guy.  To the
guest, if a runner brings the wrong dish straight from the kitchen, it’s my
fault, not the kitchen’s or the runner’s.  If it’s cold, I must have been late
somehow.  Overcooked?  My fault too. 

So naturally, there
is a lot of pressure on me, and whether I want to or not, I have to delegate
certain responsibilities to my colleagues.  Without their help, I can’t get the
job done.  And if they screw up, it’s my ass.  Let’s not forget that I serve
the most affluent people in the world here with all of their quirks, demands,
eccentricities, and allergies.  They are paying for the privilege of getting
what they want. And even if their expectations regarding the food we serve are
not sky high, they do expect great service and to not wait more than a
reasonable amount of time for their food.  They don’t expect to be poisoned or
have their deadly allergies triggered and be carried out on a stretcher because
the staff didn’t listen or made a mistake on their order.  This has happened
more than once. There are so many things that can go wrong in the process, and
I am responsible for all of it. 

And besides that, I
need my guests to have an exceptionally magnificent time.  I want them to feel
catered to and relaxed.  That’s how I make a living; guests show their
appreciation by tipping us, thanking us, and coming back.  I can honestly say
that I really do care how they’re doing when I ask, and I really do care if
they’re enjoying their meal.  I really am looking out for them, period, and I
can’t stand it when some jackass drops the ball just because they don’t have
integrity or they know that the hammer will fall on me.  That’s why everyone I
work with knows that you don’t screw up on Pauli’s tables.  You just won’t get
away with it.  I hold my team to a higher standard.  You’ve got to pay
attention, be strategic, and respond quickly.  That’s what I do, and I expect
nothing less from my colleagues. 

I don’t know why I get so fired up about this stuff but Mr. P’s
warning got my blood boiling over and I felt like punching my fist straight
through a wall.  Preferably a wall with Lola standing in front of it. Luckily, while
I was furious, I’m still smart enough to know that I would just hurt my fist
and probably break some restaurant property.  Not a good idea.  I wasn’t going
to let Lola or anyone else push me to the brink.  If you are ever so fortunate
to have a fine server, whether it’s a diner or a five-star restaurant like the
Cricket Room, be sure to recognize it and appreciate the experience. It’s rare.

To blow off some steam, I decided to mess with Juan as he rounded
a corner, about to enter the dining room with a basket of bread and butter.  I stealthily
put my foot out without looking him in the eye, and as his foot makes contact
with mine, he stumbles and tosses the breadbasket in the air.  In one smooth
motion, I caught Juan with one hand and the basket in the other before either
one hits the ground.  My anger turned into a circus act! I slapped him on the
back – “Gotcha!” – and continued out toward the dining room with the
breadbasket in hand.  Under his breath, I hear him grumble, “Pinche puto
maricón
.”  He always falls
for that one.  In the fast-paced restaurant business, we have such limited time
to interact with each other that short jokes and pranks with instant
gratification are often the only choice.  I knew he would laugh about it with
me later anyway.  I would say that there are very few intellectual discussions
going on amongst restaurant staff – it’s more often sexual shenanigans and
mischief that rule in this foxhole work environment.

The young comic writer Seth MacFarlane, creator of
Family Guy
,
and the infamous Paris Hilton had just been seated in a cozy booth in my
station, out of sight of the madding crowd.  Before I approach them, I took a
moment to gather myself and put on my best Cricket Room persona.  Little did Seth
know that he was seated in the same booth that one of the greatest authors in the
world had just vacated.  Only thirty minutes prior, Gore Vidal had left that
booth to return to his beautiful house in the Hollywood Hills
that he’d owned
since 1977.  His 4,800 square foot home, full of
wall-to-wall bookshelves, sits just off Mulholland Drive.  He was still singing
and clutching his martini glass as his nurse wheeled him off to the car to be
chauffeured home.  What a legend.

I greeted Mr. McFarlane and Ms. Hilton by name, and I welcomed
them back.  I set the breadbasket down and explained the different breads, and
as I made eye contact with Seth I could tell that he was excited to be there –
he had a humble look and demeanor despite his tremendous success.  Paris, on
the other hand, was not eager to make eye contact with her lowly waiter and
displayed a jaded, “over it all” arrogant attitude, as she often seems to feel
about everything that isn’t HOT.  I guess that’s telling me something; maybe I
should go back to the gym and work on my abs.  She’s hard to read and
impossible to impress. It’s sad to me that someone so young can be so hardened
to the joys of life. Imagine how bitter and nasty she will be in her old age.
If she makes it.

The aloof princess ordered a bottle of Fiji water.  Seth had a
Jack Daniels on the rocks and talked Paris into having a Jack, but she ordered
it with Diet Coke.  I followed up by announcing the chef’s specials. Paris
couldn’t have cared less and Seth was moderately interested, but much more
interested in Paris.  I let them know that I’d be right back with their drinks.
They both said, “Thank you,” but I actually couldn’t believe Paris said it.  Of
course, she pronounced it with that Beverly Hills mall rat accent, “Th’nk yowwwwww,”
but she actually smiled a little bit and looked at me. Yeah, she made eye
contact, wow!  Maybe I am hot after all. 

As I walked away, I couldn’t help but wonder,
what’s the comic
genius doing with shit for brains?
  I returned with their drinks and I was
trying to eavesdrop ‘cause I couldn’t think of any reason they would be sitting
together, other than her looks.  Maybe he was about to humiliate her on the
show and he just wanted to give her a heads up.  My silent speculation
continued:
That’s probably it.  Or maybe he’s actually gonna try for it.  I
mean, I know he likes blondes.  Maybe that’s all it takes.  Hell, if nothing
else it’s a nice notch in his belt – what’s he got to lose, right?  Respect? 
With a show like
Family Guy
you can’t really rely on traditional respect
anyway.
 

I’d already cleared Rod and Penny’s appetizer plates and confirmed
that they had plenty of water and wine, proper cutlery, etc.  I had also
assured them that their main course would be arriving any minute.  I always do
try to be present at the table when the guests’ orders arrive, to help the runners
place the dishes in front of the appropriate person.  All that information is
already on the ticket, but sometimes people change seats after they order.  I
also like to make sure that each dish is prepared the way the guest requested
it, often averting disaster. 

I rushed over to my money table to check on the Depp family.  Paco
was just starting to serve their main courses, and I assisted him.  Mr. Depp’s
steaming, perfectly sliced Japanese beef is broiled dark on the outside and
juicy on the inside.  Also on the plate:  
potatoes
boulangère, truffled crimini mushroom croquettes, Brussels sprout leaves, and a
side of homemade red wine sauce in a silver gravy boat
. Vanessa’s halibut
with sautéed spinach looked scrumptious.  The kitchen had sautéed some wild
ramps (leeks) with chanterelle mushrooms to fill out the plate and made an
American caviar sauce on the side if she should want it.  I asked if everything
was the way they liked it.  Johnny was looking a bit fuzzy after four grand
worth of wine and was already chewing a piece of the steak, said, and I quote: 
“Deeeelicious, mate!”  I wondered if he was suddenly turning into Captain Jack Sparrow.
All the weird characters he’s played have got to be locked up inside his head,
trying to get out at inappropriate moments.

I noticed that his glass needed more wine – he still had another
thirty-six hundred dollars’ worth to consume.  Vanessa seemed fine with the
wine but asked for some balsamic vinegar reduction for her vegetables.

“Right away, ma’am,” I replied, and went immediately to fetch her
reduction.  When I returned I was happy to see that little Jack was still well
and hadn’t started convulsing from allergic shock.  Instead, he was eating up his
pasta and French fries.  I made sure to make eye contact with Ms. Paradis and
her placid expression assured me that everything was as it should be.  She
smiled, I smiled back, and that was my cue to move on.  One of Depp’s
assistants gestured for my attention at the next booth, and ordered a chocolate
soufflé.

“Shall I have our pastry chef put that in the oven now for you, sir
(Mr. Idon’tcarewhatyournameis)?” 

“Yes please
(Mr. Waiterslavewhomakesalotlessmoneythanwedo.)” 

“Very well then, I’ll do that now, sir.”
The fake polite banter
of servants engaged in subtle psychological warfare.

Rod and Penny’s dinners arrived at that moment and as I assisted
Paco in placing their plates, I noticed that their entrees looked perfect, just
the way they’d ordered them.
Seems Lola straightened up tonight
. I asked
the couple if they needed anything else with their dinner. 

“I think we’re fine for now, mate” Rod said.

I wanted to enter the kitchen to let Lola know that she hadn’t
killed anyone yet but it was probably not a good idea.  Very tempting, though. 
Perhaps it was because she was dealing directly with Mr. P, but for some reason
she had not fucked up even one order. It was a banner night and I knew I should
just roll with it, but that’s not my nature. I wanted her to know that I knew
she was not being her usual fuck-up self. I managed to control my urges,
however, for the sake of peace. And my continued employment.