Waiter to the Rich and Shameless: Confessions of a Five-Star Beverly Hills Server (24 page)

Another
top contender for the Olympics of Shame is August Busch IV, descendent of the
founder of Anheuser-Busch and known as a marketing genius.  He used to come in and
be seated at table 12; we would set it up with cheese and crackers, two wine
buckets full of Bud Light and Bud, and all kinds of special perks. He is a
great looking guy who partied often with friends and beautiful loose women whom
he’d bring back to his hotel suite. One time he requested one of the waiters
bring him three bottles of spray whipped cream and a roll of cellophane plastic
wrap. Wow! That must’ve been a kinky night.  I’d hate to be the maid assigned
to that room, but Jens was taking notes. Busch had three of the seven sins all
wrapped up in cellophane to go with a cherry on top.

But
sometimes it’s not the guests, it’s the help who screws up and makes terribly
funny mistakes. Like the time I messed up royally. As I remember it, our waiter
Daniel had been serving a table of four well-to-do Texans, all quite happy to
be in Beverly Hills and especially the famous Cricket Room. There was one
woman, her husband, and two obviously gay men in the party.

The
woman was a very beautiful, quite classy lady with a gigantic bust hidden beneath
a thick turtleneck.  I believe this is what Howard Stern calls “Sweater Meat.”  Mr.
P and I would often bring sexy women to each other’s attention by enticing one
another to either pour water or check in with the table to see if things were
as they should be. Quite a childish game actually and perfectly suited for the limited
and often juvenile attention span of front-of-house restaurant staff. Well,
after this well-to-do family finished their dinner, I spied Mr. P with his back
turned to me, having a conversation with Daniel while they were facing the
Texans’ table.  I saw my chance and slipped up behind Mr. P, casually resting my
hands on his shoulders and whispered ever so softly into his ear so that Daniel
couldn’t hear him. “That woman has lovely biiiiiiiig breasts!” I said in an
exaggerated, lustful tone. Daniel had a straight face, seriously listening to
Mr. P. Mr. P did not answer me and the two of them went on with their
conversation.  I was surprised that Mr. P would ignore me, so I waited a moment
for a better opportunity to point out the wonderful sight facing Mr. P. As I
waited with my hands still resting comfortably on Mr. P’s shoulders, I looked
over to my right and there, by the host podium, was none other than the real
Mr. P with a questioning look on his face.

Fuck!
I instantly
withdrew my hands from the imposter’s shoulders in horror and quickly scampered
away into the back office area.  As it turned out, it was the woman’s husband
himself to whom I had been whispering so lustfully, which explained why there
was no real reaction at first.  He had been wearing the exact type of suit as
Mr. P and looked just like him from behind!  I was mortified!  I ran and hid in
the back office, trying to catch my breath, waiting on the man to hunt me down
and beat the snot out of me. But as I thought about what I had done, I started
giggling madly.  Was my lust sinful or understandable?  I tried to hold it in,
but after a few moments I fell to the floor, laughing harder than I can
remember ever laughing before.  My entire chest cramped up from the
convulsions.  I couldn’t even breathe or speak.  When I finally got myself
together and crept stealthily back to the dining room, my pride firmly back in
place, I discovered that the Texans had left and Daniel and Mr. P were waiting
to ask me what I had whispered in that stranger’s ear.  Once I explained,
Daniel and Mr. P burst out laughing.  It only took a minute for the story to
spread throughout the dining room and kitchen, and for me to become legendary –
the entire staff was having a good laugh at my expense. Even some of our
regular guests heard the story and I became quite well known for it, which was
very embarrassing.  Luckily the Texans left the restaurant without mentioning a
word about it or ever calling to express insult.

We
cherished that tale for at least six months afterwards.  My girlfriend and I
had a good laugh about it too and that’s probably because I told her that Anglo
had done it, not me. I have always wondered what went through the Texan’s mind.
Was he flattered that a waiter admired his wife’s breasts? Or did he go home
and show his appreciation for them himself? I’ll never know, but I hope it was
the latter.

Ariella,
who was usually under immense pressure, as was her brassiere, forgot to tell
the chef that James “Actors Studio” Lipton had called ahead to let us know that
he’d be in with Anthony Hopkins and his wife for a late dinner. By the time
they arrived, the chef had gone home for the night and only one late-night cook
was working. Mr. Lipton had brought a party of eight, planning on having a full
meal. Mr. P tried to save face by telling them that everything would be fine.
An unsuspecting Lipton, Hopkins, and entourage were told they could order from
the dinner menu. I heard the music from
Jaws
in my head; disaster was
approaching. There was no way the late-night cook on duty could manage the
complicated dishes all by himself.  He was used to making burgers, salads and
fancy quesadillas, which is the usual late night fare. Eventually, it took so
long to get them some food that they walked out, furious. It was truly
embarrassing, although we the staff enjoyed eating their forsaken dinners
approximately fifteen minutes after they left.  The late night chef really didn’t
do a bad job at all.  Impatient wrath had not served them well. It was all quite
tasty.  Should we have called them to come back? Nah. Greed and gluttony, you
say?

We’re
good at that.  Late one evening service had ended and the kitchen had a
leftover leg of lamb. After we all finished cutting off pieces and gorging
ourselves, Ariella grabbed it like a primeval weapon and started chasing me
around the back of the restaurant as if she wanted to club me. Greasy fat and
meat were hanging off it; it looked like something prehistoric from
The
Flintstones
or maybe
Jurassic Pa
rk. I ran from her, not from fear of
being hit, but fear of getting lamb grease all over my uniform. There's that
evil vanity again, chasing my ass around the room right along with Ariella.

Just
as she rounded the corner into the empty dining room, with her hand high in the
air holding this nasty looking meat club, Michael Bolton walked in looking for
Mr. P.  I remembered him eyeing her and, with a big grin, saying, “Well, that’s
interesting.”

Ariella
burst out laughing and dropped the lamb limb into a bus pan, grabbing a cloth
napkin to wipe her greasy hands. Her face was flushed from chasing me and her
enormous boobs were threatening to make an escape of their own. It was
embarrassing as hell, even though we all knew him very well since he liked to
close the place down at least once a week. He seated himself in his usual booth
and never made any further mention of the “games people play.” I think he just
got a kick out of it, catching us off-guard and more than a bit informal in the
stiff and stuffy dining room. Cool guy.

Another
guy who’s so cool that he’s almost cold, Roger Waters (co-founder of Pink
Floyd)
had been coming in every night
along with some of his band
members and their management
following
their week-long, sold-out performances of
The Wall
that they’d been
staging at Staples Center.
 I
had read it was a spectacular show and the kind of intelligent rock that I
really like. Unfortunately, my work schedule prevented my attending, although I
would have loved to.  Waters, who in my opinion looks like a case of “separated
at birth” from Richard Gere, is without a doubt, a true musical and lyrical
genius filled with the ability to project insightful imagery through his words
and music. He invokes the deepest questions in all of us. I would have asked
him or his nervous manager, Mr. Twitchy Face, for a ticket but truthfully they
were not approachable and quite arrogant.  It’s the kind of conceited cold
shoulder I could never get used to.

Two
nights in a row, they managed to convince Mr. P to stay open and feed them
after we were closed. Waters’ stupid girlfriend sent back her omelet three
times and he was pissed that he couldn’t get fresh black truffles on his omelet
(the chef had locked them up before he’d left that night and the night cook
only had canned black truffles). Each night Waters downed multiple glasses of
Pinot Grigio as if it were water. Twitchy Face, whom Roger playfully called his
father, always ended up footing the bill.

One
night over dinner with Twitchy Face and several others, Waters was having an
argument with his lead singer Robbie Wyckoff, or Wackoff as Waters called him.
They were getting really loud in their heated argument and out came that
distinct voice of Waters’ that we’ve heard on so many songs like at the end of
“Don’t Leave Me Now” – Roger at the top of his lungs. “You don’t know what
you’re talking about you fucking nimwit, you don’t know the fucking difference
between an M16 and an AK 47 because you’re stew-pid!”  

That
edge in his voice was so recognizable from those desperate shouts on
The
Wall
album – I half-expected Floyd’s huge orchestral sound to crescendo and
back him up. While they were busy arguing, I asked the Cricket Room guitar
player (the same guy who Rod Stewart had consulted with earlier regarding
harmonica playing) if he would play “Wish You Were Here” since he does such a
nice job with that one. He was coincidentally facing the other way and had no
idea Waters was in the room. A few minutes into the song and our guitarist is
singing: “We’re just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl year after year… Running
over the same old ground and have we found, the same old fears… Wish you were
here.”  When the song reached its peak, Twitchy Face realized that he’d been
hearing one of his client’s songs and tapped Waters on his shoulder while he was
in the midst of his wrathful yelling match with Robbie.

“They’re
playing your bloody song, Roger! Roger! They’re playing your bloody song!” as
if it were a crime punishable by death.  Roger stopped for a minute, listened,
and stiffened for a few seconds. He then said to Twitchy, “It’s okay, it’s
okay!” 
Oh, goodie, no public hanging tonight.

Once
the guitar player finished and found out who was in the room, he wasn’t too
happy with me for setting that up. Surprisingly, deceit isn’t one of those
Deadly Sins. No musician likes to sing or play someone else’s song in front of
them. It can go extremely well, or horribly wrong, and it's a gamble not many
musicians want to take.

On
their last night in town, Twitchy Face kept asking me if there were any hookers
in the room. I replied, “Why don’t you order some good bottles of wine so
they’ll come out of the woodwork?”  I felt like saying, “Hey, dumbass, I’m a
waiter not a pimp.” So he ordered three bottles of crappy cabernet, but the
girls still gathered like flies on fruit. Actually, most of them were forty-year-old
groupies that they had invited to join them after the show. Later, when Twitchy
revealed that the “fucking shows” were over and that he dreaded the next three performances
which were to take place in Mexico City, one of the groupies yelled out, “Yay,
Viva Mexico! Sangria! Margaritas!” A sinful combo pack of lust, wrath, and pride.

A
genius of a different and more eccentric stripe, Quentin Tarantino, sat down at
table three, then quickly ordered a Goose and OJ, and then a single barrel Jack
rocks with a $130 per ounce serving of caviar. An hour later, the gorgeous Tia
Carrere showed up to join him, and had a Hendricks martini up with olives.
Quentin had a few more drinks, Tia had a few more drinks, and they talked about
possible movie roles for her. Tia and Quentin then had a couple of glasses each
of red Bordeaux, and they also shared an eight-ounce $200 Japanese Wagyu steak
with fries. Quentin was his usual spastic self, eccentric and genius-like,
talking expressively with no end or deadly sin in sight, his arms gesturing in
all directions. Her beauty and his strange, rough looks made them a real odd
couple. They don’t call it Holly-weird for nothing.

Meanwhile,
Woody Harrelson walked in with an entourage of men who all smelled like “medical”
marijuana – the whole table reeked of it. They ordered some light food, mostly
appetizers, and a few drinks. Suddenly, Woody looked around, saw Tarantino,
then got up and walked over to Quentin’s table to talk to him. Perhaps he was smugly
trying to get a part in anything Quentin might be currently writing or
directing. Woody said he was really into playing a cop right then, referring to
his role in the poorly rated movie
Rampart
.  

The
arrogant Tarantino, who was riding high on his horse that night, said, “You
should study Michael Chiklis on
The Shield
if you want to know how a cop
should act.” Woody’s face dropped, he looked down, disappointed, then thanked Tarantino
for the conversation and went back to his weed-smoking friends.  I thought the
Tarantino play was rude and hurtful for no good reason. Speaking of conceited…

A
few minutes later, a regular guest paid the piano player to play the theme
music from
Love Story
for Quentin and Tia.  The regular leaned over to
Quentin and said, “I asked him to play this for you and your new friend.” He
probably didn’t even recognize her. Quentin laughed and lustfully crammed his
tongue down Tia Carrere’s throat, like a snake devouring a mouse.  She gladly
accepted the assault on her tonsils and it really got messy for a while right
there for everyone to see. After putting up with that, I hope she got a
starring role in his next movie. She sure deserved a reward. Wouldn’t have
shocked me if she had gone all
Kill Bill
on the man.