Waiter to the Rich and Shameless: Confessions of a Five-Star Beverly Hills Server (2 page)

It
was a cruel joke.  AOR (album-oriented rock) was dead, and it was goodbye
Pauli, hello to angry depressed white rockers.  How the hell was I supposed to
fit into this?  My deal with the production company was up, no more money. What
could I do?  So I took a job as a waiter. Wet dream over, hello dry white wine.

My
first job in LA was at the El Torito Grill in Beverly Hills, an upscale version
of the regular El Torito where they served designer margaritas and had a
traditional Comal grill to make fresh tortillas for every table.  I just
slicked my rock ‘n roll hair back into a ponytail and put my music persona on
the shelf while I was working.  I kept playing my music and performing all over
the Hollywood area as often as I could, all the while working as a waiter at various
restaurants and bartending gigs to pay the bills. The dream was like Freddie
Kruger and wouldn’t die, but it was bleeding and on life support. After several
years of feeling like my music career was stuck in idle, I decided to take a
break from the music biz altogether, which was gut-wrenching.  I had put so
much hard work into it, and all of my love, passion, and hope, but had still
come up almost empty-handed.  It was hard to take. I asked myself, “How the
fuck did I get here?” as the Talking Heads once said.  “Is this the end of the
road?”  I finally felt that it wasn’t worth it anymore, and decided I needed to
make a big change.

As
I sat down in Julio’s chair, I knew I had to create a physical and symbolic
break with my past and start anew.  As each twelve-inch lock of my rock ‘n roll
hair fell to the floor, I thought of yet another song I had recorded that no
one would ever hear.   I had no idea what I would do with my life if I weren’t
pursuing that dream, but a new one was beginning to form.

Julio
finally snapped me from my reverie by removing the cloth he had covered me
with, shaking the rest of my former mane onto the floor, and spinning me to
face the mirror. I was stunned! Who is this guy? I would have to get to know him
again. I smiled and he smiled back.

“Dju
like?” Julio asked, his eyes narrowed with concern.

“Yes,
I like it a lot,” I answered. And I meant it. This felt great. Not just lighter
physically, but unlike Samson who had become weak when Delilah cut his long,
flowing hair, I actually looked and felt younger, stronger than I had in years
– as if a heavy load had literally been lifted from my shoulders. This guy
staring at me in the mirror could do anything. He was someone to reckon with.

We
shook hands and the new me gave him a huge tip, one I couldn’t afford, but it
felt right. I’d do without something else.

I
took one last glance in the mirror, winked at new guy, and headed out into the
heat of the day.

My
video vixen girlfriend and I broke up.  You’re shocked, I know. You thought it
was gonna last like all those other LA rocker-model romances. Sorry to
disappoint. Who knows, maybe she liked me better as a rock star, since she
traded me in for a real one:  Matt Sorum, the drummer for Guns ‘n Roses and The
Cult.  By then I didn’t care much what she did – she had revealed herself as a
typical Hollywood bimbo and I was no longer interested in her scene. The old
rocker me would have become moody and brooding, maybe written a song about
getting dumped.  The new me handled it well; fuck her, loser.

The
legendary Cricket Room had always been just a distantly intriguing enigma to
me.  I didn’t know anyone who frequented the place or anyone who worked there,
but somehow I had always felt some sort of vague attraction to it.  I had
driven past its iconic façade on the way to Malibu Beach quite often, but it
wasn’t until I needed a better job that I actually considered applying for work
there. 

At
the time I was working part-time in downtown LA as a nightclub bartender.  The
money was good there but year after year the clientele was the same every night
or might as well have been, like interchangeable parts.  They were as boring as
beer guzzlers at the neighborhood bowling alley and I found that I had very
little in common with them.  I was feeling restless. It was time to move on. The
new clean-cut me hoped and prayed that this would be the answer.   I figured if
this was to be my chosen profession, I’d better make it count and aim for the
top. 

It
always seemed that the Cricket Room’s stucco walls held back a tidal wave of
secrets and old Hollywood glamour. The more I thought about it, the more it
drew me into its web. Hey, I looked the part now, not like some out of work
rock musician looking to fill time between gigs. Maybe they’d hire me.

One
day, just on a leap of faith, I decided to get dressed up, walk in, and apply
for a job.   It was noon on a random Wednesday and Sunset Boulevard was
chaotic. The street was filled with automobile bling-obsessed drivers showing
off in their “Fuck you, no wait, fuck me!” sports cars and pseudo-macho Range
Rovers that would never see anything so dirty as a range.  But even with all
the assholes buzzing by me like locusts in a swarm, I was able to appreciate
the lush tree-lined streets of Beverly Hills on the beautiful drive to the
Cricket Room. I could tune out the “now” and imagine how things had been in
Hollywood’s true glamour days, when boozy blondes were to be hidden, not
displayed on talk shows, and leading men could really act.

Unlike
the people you meet in Beverly Hills who look better from a distance, the
property was more impressive close up
. 
Designed in a Mediterranean
Revival style with immaculate verdant gardens, I felt I had arrived at the end
of the rainbow.  They even had a designated parking lot large enough to
accommodate all the Cricket Room employees.
 This is unheard of in LA
with land costing by the inch instead of per acre.
It was also the right
day – they were accepting applications. 

I
walked through the foyer and into the grand dining room across the plush carpet
with a design theme so large it stretched across the entire floor to make its
point.  An instant vibe of money and success emanated from the walls even
though the restaurant was empty. The smell of riches was palpable. The wood was
oiled, the marble was polished, and the wait staff looked like an elite
regiment. Yeah, this was what I wanted to be a part of. This was special.

You
see, people think of waiters to the rich and famous as powerless, people who
can’t do anything else, and the job as subservient and demeaning. In fact, the
opposite is true. Even back in the old days, it’s always been the “servants”
who ran the show. For instance, in the new series
Downton Abbey
it’s the
butler, Carson, who commands everything going on in the castle. His employers
even come to him for advice.  When you can control someone’s entire evening or
special event, that’s power. When you know their secrets and their habits, and
they know nothing about you, that’s power.

As
I entered the HR office, after being directed there by a liveried doorman
wearing white gloves, I came face to face with a friendly woman whose name
turned out to be Aggie.  Aggie smiled her best Human Resources smile and asked
me for which position I was applying. 

“Bartender,”
I said, and then I introduced myself and noticed her soft, curly blonde locks
and a defining mole near her mouth.  She had nice blue eyes and a calm air
about her, reminding me of Marilyn Monroe, or maybe her much younger cousin.
She presented me with a hefty stack of paperwork and I wondered if she were
working here while pursuing an acting career.

“Fill
these out please,” she said.

With
a playful, sarcastic grin I asked, “This isn’t a government job, is it?” 

She
laughed and said that I should let her know when I was done so she could look
it over.  I was used to the old rock ‘n roll way of hiring in which a
recommendation and a cocaine connection pretty much sealed the deal.  This
place was a completely different story.  In addition to running a credit report
on me, they wanted my Social Security number, all of my work history, my
contacts, references, banking information, a criminal background check and my
DMV history.  It was a more elaborate routine than I had been subjected to for
any other restaurant job I had ever applied for. More like what one would
expect from a large corporation rather than a glitzy show biz meeting place. 

Aggie
informed me after I had turned in my application that there would also be a
mandatory drug test. “Are you okay with that?” Her smile had disappeared as
though she were reflecting on the others who had fled the building when told of
a drug test.

“Of
course, sure, no problem,” I replied confidently, my mind racing.
Fuck.

I
had an instant flashback to doing coke after work the night before at the bar
downtown.  Shit! 
Well, nice try buddy
, I thought as I said goodbye to
Aggie and her sweet smile.  I remember her saying, “We’ll be doing callbacks,
so expect to hear from us soon.” 
Yeah, sure.

“Okay,
it was a pleasure meeting you, Aggie, thank you.” There was nothing but smiles
from everyone as I left the coolness of the building and was slapped in the
face with the LA heat.  The air was so thick you could practically eat it with
a spoon.

Once
I reached my car, I looked back at the beautiful property I was leaving behind.
I closed the car door and started yelling, “Shit! Shit! Shit! What the fuck was
I thinking? What kind of place is this? A fucking drug test for a bartender? 
Who the fuck would my employer be, the fucking Vatican?  Of course, I’ve got
drugs in my body!  I’m a goddamn LA bartender!  They should have a sign outside
their goddamn office announcing that mandatory drug testing would be required.
This was fucking entrapment! I’m gonna sue your asses!”

My
rant over, I took a deep breath and got out of my car.  I opened the trunk to
grab an emergency cigarette.  Hell, I don’t even smoke any more, but when I get
all steamed up like this, I have to.  I let the nicotine rush to my brain,
momentarily numbing my nerves and soothing my mind
. 
The passion
surprised me; I hadn’t expected to care so much but suddenly I did. I wanted
this job but I was probably fucked before I even got a shot.

As
my anger dissolved, I gazed down at the paper Aggie had given me when I was
leaving the HR office.  There was an address and a name of the clinic where I
had to go before they closed.  I still had a few hours, though.  Maybe if I ran
up and down the Santa Monica stairs on Adelaide Drive for three hours, perhaps
then I could sweat it all out.  Or, what if I drank a couple gallons of that
drug detox tea?  Maybe that would accelerate the process.  I said a silent
goodbye to the place and drove straight over to the clinic on San Vicente
Boulevard past the Beverly Center. Once again I could see that bus pulling out
of the station, leaving my sorry ass behind.

With
my head hung low and kicking at the sidewalk, I walked slowly along San Vicente
until I reached the clinic
.  I can’t believe it. Why didn’t I know this? I’m
so naïve; this is Beverly Hills – of course they’re gonna drug test me
. 
When I finally walked into the clinic, I showed them the paperwork that Aggie
had given me and they photocopied my driver’s license.  I thought,
Oh great!
Are they gonna share this with the fucking DMV?
  I must have said it aloud
because the girl said, “No, we keep it confidential.  We’ll just inform the HR
department that you passed or failed and that’s all, no details.” 

“Well
that’s a relief,” I replied, surprised that she’d heard me.  After the test, I
drove home to Valley Village where I roomed with two other guys.  We had rented
a house with a pool and the garage had been converted into a big music studio.
I plopped myself down on the couch and watched a stupid reality TV show
marathon for the rest of the night, hoping to forget that I’d screwed up a
great chance to change my life for the better.

Finally,
bored shitless, I went to the computer, found a blog titled
Diary of a
Waiter
and clicked on it:

The moment you are seated, in a
carefully choreographed ballet wherein I play the lead, we will meet. You will
not know the rest of the team assigned to your dining pleasure and comfort, but
their roles are also very important. But I’m the one who will pretend not to
notice your tears when your dinner date is late, the one who figures out what
you mean when your requests are vague to the point of incoherence, and I’m the
one you will reward for my kindness and patience with a huge tip. At least
that’s the way it’s supposed to work.

You might not think so, at least
at first, but waiting tables can be very exciting. It is a game of chance – you
are at the mercy of whatever dumbass (or genius) is doing the seating. You
never know who is going to land butt first in a chair or booth at your station.
It’s like Russian roulette, but without the bullets. At least you hope so. You
are the pawn and the opposing pieces are shadows. You can lose (no tip) or win
big, and the only control you have is your skill. You may be serving the dishes,
but ultimately you must take whatever the shadow, now before you in full color,
dishes out to you.

I have waited on homeless people
with coupons, wannabe starlets with expired credit cards, and celebrities who
are so wealthy they have to try extra hard just to spend all their money. It
becomes a game to them.

In Hollywood, having a fat wallet
trumps shirt, shoes, and civilized behavior for service.

After reading that, I wanted the
job in Beverly Hills even more. If my life got any sadder, I’d have to switch
from rock to country songs. The good old boys do a much better job of wailing
the hell out of a guitar and singing about dogs, pickup trucks, and women with
big boobs and small hearts.

Three
days later, I got a message from Aggie saying that they wanted me to come in
for a second round of interviews.  I must’ve listened to that message twenty
times to make sure it was my name she was saying and that I understood her
right.  When I called them back I was told to show up on a Wednesday again for
an interview with the Maître d’ and manager of the Cricket Room.  Holy crap!

Have
I mentioned how famous the Cricket Room is?  It’s meet-cute central for all of
Hollywood’s A-list players.  It’s been featured in books and movies for decades
and is known around the world. Their logo is even featured on a famous
designer’s clothing. Fuck me, and they’re calling me back? Me?

Maybe
the nurse with the white coat had dropped my piss test in the toilet or
shattered the vial on the cold marble floor.  I’m not sure what kind of divine
intervention was in place but it was definitely happening, because they would
never have called me back for a second interview if the test had been done
properly.  I was one-hundred percent sure of that. 

Well
as it happened, the interview went very well.  The guy I met with had a very
strong Spanish accent and didn’t ask me too many questions; I think he was just
sizing me up. He kept staring deep into my eyes over his thick black-rimmed
glasses like he was trying to do some Hollywood version of a Vulcan mind meld.

On
my way out, I was immediately scheduled for a third and final interview, again
on a Wednesday.  This time I would be interviewed by the Director of Food and
Beverage.  What was it with all these interviews?  I thought that they must
have had my title mixed up with someone else’s and that I’d wind up with a
position in upper management.  Who interviews a fucking bartender three times?
The Cricket Room, that’s who.

The
following week when I met the Director, he was a bit stern, very formal in his
demeanor, but we got along pretty well and I established that I was in fact
only applying for the bartending job, not GM.   Apparently, there was never any
doubt in his mind, but I just couldn’t figure out why they had to summon the
Spanish Inquisition just to hire a bartender.  I guess in Beverly Hills they do
shit differently, at least on the outside.

Two
days later I was called in to meet the real GM, which was just a formality, and
thank God, because I was hung over.  He did ask me more questions as if they
weren’t sure about hiring me yet, so I played his game.  He was a
strange-looking man, stiff as hell, in an expensive suit and tie. He reminded
me of a mannequin with dyed brown hair and ‘70s-style tinted reading glasses
like Saul wore in
Ocean’s Eleven
.  I pretended I was the Clooney
character and tried for sophisticated nonchalance.