Waiter to the Rich and Shameless: Confessions of a Five-Star Beverly Hills Server (26 page)

At
that time I tried to be discreet by saying, “Ms. Kudrow, do you have another
card?” But she didn’t catch on, and asked in true Phoebe style,

“Why?
What’s wrong with that one?”

“It
was declined,” I said painfully.

At
that point, she immediately gave me another card without another word. But here
I was watching Willis squirm and finally he reached into his shirt pocket and
pulled out his wayward Platinum card, then handed it to me like it was my
fault.
Fuck me,
I thought,
why didn’t I think to reach into his
pocket and pull out the card? Was he waiting for someone else to toss down a
card to pay the check?
I’ll never know, but I did notice that Kutcher never
made a move to pay, he just looked kind of confused and like, “Wow dude,
where’s my car?”

My
attitude:  “Sorry, man, I don’t care if you’re President of the United States,
I have got to get fucking paid, that's the bottom line.” I guess he’d put the
card in his front pocket for easy access so that when the check arrived he
wouldn’t have to look through his wallet. He left me a good tip and I served
him several more times after that, never with a problem. As a matter of fact he
returned a month later with Emma for a prime NY steak and a bottle of Jonata
Syrah for which we shamelessly charged $450 without flinching. Fuck it, it’s
the Cricket Room! We got license to charge.

When
I came in to work the next night, I had no idea that somewhere in the cosmos it
must have been declared vomit night at the Cricket Room. Just as things were
going great, an eight-year-old girl got up from her table in the main dining
room and projectile-vomited all over the carpet like Linda Blair in “The
Exorcist.”  It was seriously smelly and disgusting, and there was a lot of it.
Many guests had to be moved and some were comped because they lost their
appetites. Poor Juan had to clean it up alone. Where the fuck was Anglo when
this shit happened?  He’s never had to clean up any poop or vomit. With timing
like that he should be a greedy stock market investor.

Later
that same evening, the young Princess Al Saud from the royal family of Saudi
Arabia came in with her servants and they were seated in the garden. She
ordered hot tea and biscuits. By biscuits, she meant dry cookie-like pastries
you’d find in Great Britain. Thirty minutes later she stood up to walk to the
bathroom but she didn’t make it.  She walked right into the garden podium and puked
her guts out on the immaculate patio tiles. She finally got herself together
and wiped her mouth, then walked out fairly composed with her bodyguards at her
side, trying mightily to maintain a princess-like, haughty demeanor. They
escorted her to the lobby bathroom.

Meanwhile
on the patio floor she’d left huge pile of puke behind her – it looked like a
heap of cow manure. Mr. P. gallantly helped poor Juan clean all that crap up
again. Believe me, royal puke is no better than peasant puke. In fact, it may
be worse. We were shocked when she returned an hour later gluttonously asking
to order some dinner.  I served her but kept a wide margin, wishing for an
umbrella by my side just in case. Luckily, she kept it down as far as we knew. 
I was thinking heroin use, and Ariella was thinking pregnant with quintuplets.
I knew from the tabloids that she wasn't married so some dude might be facing
serious Saudi justice.

Whatever
the cause, Juan told me he didn’t eat for three solid days after that puke
fest, which should’ve done him good, but all that happened was that his legs
got even skinnier and his belly stayed the same.

Another
great evening started with Leo DiCaprio and his then-girlfriend du jour, model
Bar Rafaeli.  They drank tap water and he had an Arnold Palmer, which is
lemonade and iced tea. He had an ounce of Ossetra caviar and our Monday herbed
pan-fried chicken special.  Bar had a tortilla soup and our famous chopped salad.
Geez, if her parents had been hard up to find a name for their baby girl, maybe
they should have consulted Prince. He’s good at coming up with them.

Anyway,
Leo was yelling at her to shut the fuck up and she was crying through most of
their dinner. They both decided to take their entrees to go. He was ignoring
her for most of the time, just constantly texting on his phone. He’d been in
before and generally does not seem to have a good time with his dates.  I think
it just takes a lot to interest him; maybe they bore him. If you are going to
talk, it better be interesting or just shut the fuck up. For instance, when he
was dining with Amanda Seyfried, she was telling him that she had just gotten
back from NYC and how much she liked it there and how bad she wanted to go back. 
She was very excited about it. His reply was, “Oh, you’re going through that
phase, huh?” To be as brilliant an actor as he is – my favorite role was the mentally
handicapped boy in
Gilbert Grape
– his mind must race and he’s reluctant
to slow down for dates to catch up. That’s just my guess. He could just be an
asshole.

All
these stories aside, and in spite of a continuous parade of the seven deadly
sins, plus all the laughs we’ve had, the bulk of the experience was slowly
fading into a grey abyss of sameness and servitude. I was beginning to feel that
I should be doing something more valuable with my life. I didn’t want my
picture to end up hanging in the Cricket Room Hall of Shame with the plaque
reading:

Paul Hartford

He coulda been a contender.

My
personal life unexpectedly screeched into a one-eighty within a few months. 
Jens had moved in with a new girl crazy enough to take him in, and right around
that same time I got engaged to Juliana.  She and I realized pretty quickly
that we belonged together, and I popped a rock on her finger on a rainy night
in a quaint, romantic restaurant in Topanga Canyon.  I had intended to do it on
a hike in Malibu Creek State Park where we had enjoyed so many beautiful walks
and long talks.  Juliana would have loved that since she always talked about
the time we found ourselves in the middle of a field of daisies and laid down
on our backs to watch the sunset together. But, as the date approached, heavy
rain was forecast and hiking in the rain is no fun. The cozy little restaurant
I chose had a lot of meaning for us, as we often stopped in for candlelit
dinners after our walks.  It all worked out pretty well, though the damn ring
box kept getting stuck in my inside blazer pocket and I nearly ripped the
blazer apart trying to get it out.  Luckily she said yes.

You
can probably guess that Juliana wasn’t too fond of Jens, especially after the
night when she had to pick us up at two a.m. after a long day of partying that
started on Venice Beach and ended up at the Geisha House in Hollywood.  Neither
Jens nor I could remember where we had parked our cars.  I think I realized
then (or the next morning) that Jens was not going to be very good for my relationship
with Juliana and I had better make a choice. So I left her.  Just kidding. 
Jens became part of my frivolous past and I had found my reason to focus on the
future.  Juliana “got” me, we had more fun together than I remembered ever
having with anyone, and for the first time, I felt my partner was also my best
friend.  That became a fantastic basis for an awesome relationship. So in
restaurant lingo, I had 86'd Jens and Juliana was the new house special.

Jump
to the following spring: The featured cinematic event was set in Florence,
Italy; the night air was still crisp after a beautiful 70-degree day.  Juliana and
I were there to bond our souls in matrimonial bliss, and where better to do
that than the country of our ancestors’ origins.  As I gazed into the ancient
Arno River, I suddenly felt grateful for my job in a way that I never had
before. 

We
were living a dream come true for both of us and my heart was beating double-time
every day.  But in all honesty, sometimes I wasn’t sure if my palpitations were
from adrenaline or from anxiety about how much money we were spending.  As we
strolled along the medieval streets, Juliana calmed me down, speaking in
reassuring tones and reminding me that it’s our experiences in life and not
possessions that matter. I knew she was right; she always is.  And I’m grateful
that my lucrative job at the Cricket Room has allowed us to afford this
experience.  
Thank you, big spenders!

The
next morning, we had to sign our Nulla Osta, a civil document that all foreigners
must sign at least three days prior to marrying in Italy.  The rainy morning
traffic was thick, and our cab driver swerved onto side streets to try to save
time, but pedestrians were dashing across the street in all directions,
zigzagging between vehicles, trying to dodge the rain.  From the back seat, it
looked like a video game of Dodge the Taxi. Bicyclists and people on scooters were
draped in plastic bags or raincoats; chaos reigned, but that’s normal in Florence,
rain or shine.

Nadia,
our wedding coordinator from San Marino, showed up to meet us at the U.S.
Consulate a little late, in genuine Italian style, but with enough time to keep
our appointment.  Thanks to Nadia, we were guided competently along every step
that we needed to take in this adventure. No one can create quirky, tangled,
complex, incomprehensible laws and regulations like the mercurial Italians.
It's a national sport and you better have a good coach. Nadia got us in quickly,
we got our papers signed and stamped, and we were back on the street in less
than an hour.  It should actually have taken five minutes, but anytime you can
get something done in Italy in an hour, you are fortunate indeed.

Nadia
struggled with her English but managed to ask if we wanted a ride home; she had
instructed her driver to wait at the curb.  The Tuscan sun had broken through
the clouds and Juliana and I looked at each other, smiling, and told Nadia that
we’d prefer to  walk around the city a bit and get some lunch.  She shook our
hands and reminded us about our meeting the next day for our Atto Nottorio,
which is a sworn statement that we are each free to marry.  We all nodded our
heads in understanding just like Chinese tourists do in the U.S., then went our
own ways, hoping but not entirely sure that any of us really got it right. 

Nadia
jumped into the taxi and we walked away, along the Arno, the pulsing backbone
of this city, ready at any time with our umbrellas.  The road led us to Via
Nazionale, a central thoroughfare, and we stopped in at
Rosso Pomodoro
(red tomato) for pizza and beer.  We drank
Nastro Azzurro
(blue ribbon)
beer and shared a mushroom pizza.  The mushrooms were pale but had the rich,
bright, nutty taste of chanterelles. They certainly didn’t taste like the bland
mushrooms from home. It was our first full day and first time in Florence so we
reveled in watching the people, listening to but not quite understanding their
animated conversations, and viewing the sights.  It was like Fellini’s
Roma
,
a barely functioning but beautiful city; chaos was everywhere. It amazed me
that anything got done, but somehow it does, and has for many hundreds of years
longer than anything in America. To fully appreciate Italy, you have to really
let go of the concept of time, and just “be.”

It
was two o’clock, long past American lunchtime, but hordes of Italians were on
their lunch breaks, smoking cigarettes, conducting loud discussions, and
gesturing wildly over their espressos. It amused us to watch, as everyone sounded
so agitated and expressive when all they were really doing was having an
everyday conversation.  I loved it; we both got a kick out of their passion,
even though they spoke so quickly that we usually had a hard time figuring out
what they were discussing. 

Right
across the street outside the Central Market there were two very precise rows
of tiny parked cars and a third long row of scooters, bicycles and motorcycles
tightly stacked side by side.  After lunch, as we got up to pay the bill, some
guy on a scooter with a three-quarters helmet, sunglasses, and a cigarette
hangin’ out the side of his mouth was cut off by a miniature car the size of
Shaq’s sneaker. Make that Shaq's sneaker when he was twelve. We heard awful
crunching sounds that could have been bones breaking as his helmet flew off and
he rolled across the uneven cobblestones like a rag doll.

At
that very moment a large city bus rounded the corner, and I feared both of them
– the car and the scooter rider – would be crushed. I instinctively jumped out
into the street, waving frantically, until the bus driver saw me and came to a brake-grinding
stop. When I turned around, the cool scooter dude was getting back up and began
yelling at the driver of the sneaker car.  One of the blue, mirrored lenses was
missing from his sunglasses, and he limped toward his helmet in his fashionably-worn
Diesel jeans, which were now authentically distressed. Everybody was now
honking and screaming, gesticulating wildly. I ran over to help the Italian
scooter dude, picked up his scooter, and in complete gratitude for my saving
his life, he yelled at me to back off. Amazingly, he yelled at me in English,
when I’d been told all my life I look like an Italian Guido. Well, fuck, another
myth shot to hell.

Meanwhile,
Signore Millegrazie was also yelling at the driver who he thought had caused
the accident.  I threw my hands up in the air – what else would an Italian do? 
I backed off, grabbing Juliana by the arm. “Let's split.”

We
walked off quickly before things got any more melodramatic. The bus driver had
also gotten into the melee, and was screaming at both of them and looking
around for the
idioto
who had waved him down.

“I
guess we come from a long line of hotheads, huh?” I asked.  “Did you leave a
tip?” 

“No,”
she replied. "Why?  I heard you only leave 3% if you’re at a full service
restaurant. This was a walk-up counter.”

“That’s
right,” I said, remembering how it was. “No wonder Italian tourists are always
stiffing me at work. Fuckers don’t know how to tip for shit.” 

“Forget
about work now, honey, we are here to enjoy and relax. If you can resist being
Superman for five minutes, that is.” She kissed me sweetly on the cheek. 

“I
was just trying to help that guy on the scooter for God’s sake, it’s not like I
was trying to steal his bike or nothin’. Ungrateful little shit. I shoulda let
the bus hit him.” 

Juliana
just laughed, “Calm down!  You did a good deed.  He’s just too mad to see it.”

We
carried on up the street toward the Accademia Museum where we stood in line for
two hours before we were able to enter. Somehow staring at Michelangelo’s amazing
sixteen-foot statue of David made it all worthwhile.  To be so close to such an
incredible sculpture was thrilling – he almost seemed alive.  I felt like I
could see the twenty-six-year-old Michelangelo at work, coaxing this Adonis
pulsing with life from cold, indifferent stone.  We really felt we had entered
another dimension at this point.  The Accademia houses many famous masterpieces. 
One of my favorite sculptures at the Accademia was Michelangelo’s unfinished
“The Young Slave,” in a contorted pose and still taking shape as he struggled
to free himself from the raw stone.  Michelangelo had intended it for the tomb
of Pope Julius II. 

Another
of my favorites was “The Tree Of Life,” painted by
Pacino
di Buonaguida.  This complex composition features Jesus painted in the cross
position as the stem and foundation of the tree while each of the forty-seven
circles on the tree limbs represents a leaf encapsulating its own related allegory.
Upon close examination, some peculiar stories are revealed, like at the top
where a pelican is piercing its own breast in order to feed its young with its
own blood, or Judas’ soul being pulled out of his body by a dark demon.
Seeing these works of art
awakened something within me – perhaps my Italian heritage – and a newfound
passion and appreciation began to warm my soul. This became an added dimension
to a trip that would change my life in ways I had not even envisioned.

For
the next three days, we met up with Nadia numerous times, to get our Atto
Notorio from the Italian consulate and then a sworn declaration from the Town
Hall of Fiesole, the village in which we were to be married. Meanwhile, we
managed to squeeze in tours of Uffizi Gallery (which houses works of art by
great Italian artists like Botticelli, Leonardo da Vinci, Raffaello, and
of course Michelangelo)
,
and the Duomo de Santa Maria, the cathedral
that dominates the skyline of Florence; it was designed by Arnolfo di Cambio at
the end of the 13th century.

By
the fourth day most of our fifty guests had arrived and we had a huge cocktail
party hosted by my mother at a place called Negroni Bar on Via Dei Renai.  The
drinks were so strong everyone got plastered, and there were nothing but idiotic
smiles everywhere.  It was great seeing all my European friends who I had grown
up with, as well as my many cousins and of course my brothers and sister and
beautiful niece. We all wobbled home to our hotels laughing as we split up and
said goodnight.  Smiling, chattering, singing, and gesticulating, we blended
right into the Florentine landscape.

The
next day, the day of our wedding, I was so nervous I thought I would die. My
heart was pounding so loud I thought everyone could hear it. My skin felt
prickly, my palms were sweaty, and I probably looked like I was high. Nadia and
her crew picked us up in separate cars after my fiancée had been primped and
made up.  We arrived in the small
paese
(town) of Fiesole around two
o’clock and passed right through the center of town five seconds later.  We
wound our way up serpentine roads passing huge, medieval estates with rolling
vineyards, finally reaching the top of the hill.

The
car stopped and I couldn’t believe my eyes. I was to be married in a twelve-hundred-year-old
castle – a
castle
for God’s sake – complete with parapets, towers and
vines growing up the side of it. Surrounded by immaculately landscaped estates,
the castle commanded a stunning view overlooking all the hills of Florence.  In
the distance I could see the curved red Duomo we had just visited. Once again,
I had the feeling of being transported back in time as we approached this
imposing ancient building.  It had been raining off and on but the sun was
finally shining, bathing the grounds in warm golden tones.  In true medieval
fashion, large torches dotted the gardens and musical fountains serenaded us.  It
was the perfect blending of old and new, as we prepared to make our vows, begin
life anew together, and build upon the ancient foundations of our heritage.

Our
guests were picked up at their hotels by two busses that we had leased, and
dropped off at the castle at four-thirty for our five o’clock ceremony. Not
unexpectedly, none of my co-workers were able to make it since they all had to
WORK.  Upon our guests’ arrival, cocktails were served to loosen them up in the
intriguing Armaments Room of the castle, lined with antique tools of battle. 
Not a foreshadowing of my impending marriage, I hoped.  Ironically I was the
one who really needed a drink but since my best man/older brother is a
recovering alcoholic, he wasn’t thinking of bringing me that double Grey Goose
vodka on the rocks I so needed.  Where was good old enabling Jens when I needed
him? Probably engaging in some sort of debauchery in a hidden corner of the
restaurant back home. A fleeting thought of – make that a longing for – my old
life and its freedoms nearly caused me to run screaming for the hills of
Florence, but good sense prevailed. This was my future and the past had no
place in my thoughts.