Waiter to the Rich and Shameless: Confessions of a Five-Star Beverly Hills Server (3 page)

Once
he was done making me nervous, which was clearly his power trip shtick, he
shook my hand and said, “Congratulations, we’re excited to have you join the
team.”

I
smiled and breathed a sigh of relief, which probably smelled like a vodka
martini. That’s what George and I drink.  

He
pointed to Aggie and said, “That young lady will get you all set up with your
uniform, medical and dental insurance, as well as an optional 401K plan.” 

I
thanked him and told him that I was excited, too.  Actually, I was. This was a
big damn deal. George Clooney can go fuck himself. I got this.

Aggie
explained the benefits program to me and said, “I was rooting for you, Paul.”

“Thanks,
Aggie.  You are all so nice here, and you’re obviously not on drugs. I don’t
know how you do it,” I said jokingly.

“Prescription
meds,” she said and we both had a good laugh.  I was still smiling when I got
out to my car.  Coincidentally, I was parked in the very same spot as on my
first visit when I was saying goodbye, only now I was saying hello. Maybe I was
catching that elusive bus after all.

There
was only room for one daytime bartender and I had beat out twenty or more other
applicants who didn’t quite fit the bill.  I wondered if one of those unlucky bastards
had gotten my urine test results.  I did remember seeing two of the other
applicants there at the clinic.
C’est la vie,
as Chuck Berry used to
say.  I had struggled enough lately and this new job at the Cricket Room could
just be my salvation.  Somehow the prospect of working at this legendary,
five-star oasis for A-listers kept my mind off almost everything else and made
it easier to leave my rock ‘n roll past behind. If it all worked out, maybe I’d
start a blog and compete with the other dude I’d been reading. He sounded like
a douche anyway.

The
angels were smiling down upon me and I felt that if I listened hard enough, I
could make out the fanfare of their triumphant horns announcing my victory. 
This was no longer the funeral march that I’d imagined being played as I’d
walked toward the clinic for my drug test.  It was more like Caesar’s victory
march. 
Veni, Vedi, Vinci!

A
comprehensive training period began.  I was issued a classic Cricket Room
uniform, which reminded me of a butler’s or ship steward’s outfit.  I looked
very fancy with my hair cut short and no facial hair, which was not allowed.  Fortunately,
I had listened so some inner angel that had kept me from getting that neck
tattoo I’d once considered. Suddenly, I felt all grown up – it was the first
time that I’d ever had employment benefits.  Medical, dental, and financial.  I
had never heard of a restaurant that provided benefits. They also gave me a
fifty-page Employee Handbook – I had two days to read it and return the signed
pages; it was ridiculous but mandatory, so I signed it without reading most of
it.  A change took place in me almost immediately.  I felt safe, protected,
dignified, and respected. A first.  As a rock musician I got a lot of attention,
but it was fleeting and insubstantial. This was
tangible
evidence that I
was
worth
something. Management cared enough about me to insure my
health and future financial stability.

It
was cool during my training to learn that the Cricket Room bar uses the
old-fashioned, classic “Club Service.” If you ordered a rum and Coke, for
instance, you would get rum on the rocks and the bartender would open a small
bottle of Coke, pour the Coke from the bottle over your rum, and then you would
keep what’s left in the bottle of Coke next to your drink.  No soda guns at
all.  The drinks always arrived on an elegant paper coaster emblazoned with the
Cricket Room logo (an elegant green Cricket League shield).  Patrons are also
offered a trio of complimentary first class bar snacks, which are accompanied
by a small linen napkin neatly folded in quarters.  The whole presentation of
even the simplest drink was one of elegance, class, and sophistication.

The
night bartender, Don, had been there for years.  He was the grandfatherly patron
of the Cricket Room and looked the part.  There was also a swing shift
bartender named Mary who covered our days off.  She was a fat, aging version of
Pat Benatar from the wild frizzy hair and lots of makeup era.  Mary worked two
night and two day shifts and still had full benefits.  She liked it that way
because if she didn’t she would have changed it.  Mary was forceful,
strong-minded and pushy as hell but we got along well because I did everything
just the way she taught me.  Otherwise, I’m sure there would have been a
problem. I also treated her respectfully and never flirted with her - you’d be
surprised how many guys would, just because they thought she would help them.
This was a dream job and I sure as hell didn’t want to fuck it up by being a
smartass.

Mary
was instrumental in helping me pass my ninety-day review.  If she hadn’t wanted
me to pass, it wouldn’t have happened. She was that trusted.  She gave me
detailed instructions on how to maintain the bar, polish the brass, dust the
bottles, stock the glasses, wipe down shelves, and accomplish many more
required tasks with near military precision.  Every morning there was an hour
of new side-work to be done and I paid close attention.  It seemed that the
night crew didn’t do any of this. They probably figured they were the “A” Team
and us day peons could do the grunt work. That was okay with me, at least for a
while, but I had ambitions to move up, even as a probationary employee. I was
inside those magical walls now and I wanted to take full advantage.

The
ninety-day review marked the end of my trial period, and it entailed a strict
grading of my grooming, product knowledge, punctuality, and attitude.  If I
hadn’t done well, I would’ve been let go.  I’d never heard of this kind of
thing at any of my previous employers’ establishments.  I was taken aback at
how “by the book” the place was run.  But by then, I was rocking and rolling
and my review was pretty much just a formality.   There I was, finally on my
own, and I could call myself the bartender of the Cricket Room.  That was a
status not many achieved and I was damn proud of myself. 

During
those ninety days, I had already gotten to know most of the local Beverly Hills
regulars.  My shift ran from eleven in the morning to seven at night, so I
didn’t see much of the legendary late-night craziness.   But there were plenty
of early birds who liked to drink their lunch from a martini glass, treating
the olive as a salad.  

One
of Michael Jackson’s many doctors enjoyed expensive chardonnay by the
glassful.  A local tycoon who bought and sold bankrupt businesses always carried
at least five grand in hundred dollar bills rolled up in a rubber band.  He
liked black cherry vodka with a squeeze of lime and a bottle of club soda on
the side. A female Beverly Hills court clerk poured out her sorrows into her
Ketel One martinis.  She drank them dirty so her tears wouldn’t ruin the
taste.   Frequent customers included a couple of middle-aged trust fund
slackers who claimed they had tour-managed for the Rolling Stones, which I
later found out was a crock.   Then there was the famous lawyer who would never
look me in the eye.  Mr. Rubin had lost all his money in a big legal scandal
but he still had enough left to eat and drink well at the Cricket Room. 
Another interesting repeat customer was the congenial owner of a private jet
company. Marcus drank about four martinis in an hour’s time and got aggressive
enough to start arguments with random women every time he visited. I think he
was mad at his mother.  Of course, there were always one or two looky-loos,
tourists or writers from out of town who were too stupid to recognize the
celebrities sitting right next to them.  If it wasn’t one of the Jonas brothers
or Justin Bieber, they didn’t give a shit.

On
the surface, it was the most civilized job I’d ever had, but I wasn’t fooled by
the assortment of white-collar drunks lined up in front of me.   A vice is a
vice, a drunk is a drunk, no matter what the booze costs. You can be a useless
piece of shit drinking high-end Scotch whiskey just as easily as you can
drinking swill at a neighborhood dive. You just feel better about yourself.

After
the ninety days were up, I really enjoyed being the captain of my bar with no
one looking over my shoulder.   I was inspired by the one-on-one contact with
guests from around the world and the fact that I didn’t have to rely on anyone
else – cooks, bar-backs, etc. – in order to do a great job. I was totally
self-sufficient behind the bar.  It began to feel as if the Cricket Room bar
was my own living room.  I was in complete control. My days were filled with
talk about international issues, politics, and show biz, the main occupation of
this industry town and shaking up fresh-raspberry lemon drop martinis, key lime
martinis with graham cracker rims, mojitos and glasses of fine Champagne for
the ladies.  The men drank an occasional mint julep, vodka martini, or Macallan
18 at twenty-five bucks a pop as if they were just bottled water. I even
started reading more newspapers and trade magazines so I could converse
intelligently.

One
evening as I was cleaning up, getting ready to go off duty for the day, I looked
around the room. The mirrored wall behind me was lined with sparkling, softly
backlit glass shelves boasting thousand-dollar bottles of cognac and all the
finest liquors of the world.  As I stood behind my intimate, solid oak bar
outfitted with brass rail trim, it was a good feeling.  It dawned on me all
over again that the Cricket Room was truly a unique place.  And not just as a
bar frequented by Hollywood’s elite, but because there was no other place quite
like it in the world. It had history and tradition. This was a rarified
atmosphere that deserved to be treated with damn near reverence.

It
also demanded a high level of commitment and integrity, two qualities that were
necessary while pursuing my music career.  So it wasn’t too much of a stretch –
I felt up for the challenge. The rocker slouch was gone, replaced by squared
shoulders and prideful chin. I had slid into a long line of tradition and I
felt like I belonged.

I
took my position as a dignified bartender to heart.  I cleaned up my language,
started paying more attention to the details of service, and brushed up on my
etiquette.  Thanks to the international clientele, I also got in touch with my
European roots more than ever before.  Living in Western Europe where respect
for history, art, and good taste are all ingrained in society, it has a deep,
almost unconscious effect on you.  Their culture of service is more refined and
developed than ours in the US.  Over there, schools for service personnel are
considered gateways to an honorable profession.  I came to believe that the
Cricket Room had been founded on these principles.

As
time went on, I started to relax enough to get to know some of the staff.  Our
hostess, Ariella, was the real-life embodiment of Jessica Rabbit.  She wore her
skirt short, her heels high, and her blouse bursting with feminine exuberance. 
She was something else. With her thickly but expertly made up eyes and face,
she impressed every man and woman who walked in the door.  Her demeanor was
professional in the dining room but behind the curtains, she could hang with
the guys and handle the raunchiest of conversations.  Though the company openly
discouraged dating colleagues, I’d had my eyes glued to her from the first day.

Then
there was Lola, the always blasé sous chef whom I had to deal with when my
guests ordered anything solid to accompany their liquid lunch or early dinner. 
Lola was a tall blonde with no particular body features that worked in her favor. 
Her hair was short, her eyes sky blue and droopy, and she only moved fast if
she was mad.  Then she’d rush around the kitchen with short quick steps,
dropping the F-bomb every other word.  Lola was a classic example of a burnout
and her attitude was one of indifference to nearly everything.  It was always a
battle to get perfect food from her to serve my guests, but I was protective of
them and fought her every time she slapped some shit on a plate that looked
nothing like it was supposed to. Fuck her, my customers were more important than
her apathy and I let her know it. Needless to say, she was not fond of me.

During
my first six months at the Cricket Room, I became friends with one of the most
original and talented waiters anyone could ever hope to work with.  His name
was Jens, pronounced with a soft J as Yens. Jens was about thirty-five years
old, blonde, slim as a twelve-year-old boy, and Danish.  He spoke French,
German and English as well as Danish, and he had had a thorough culinary
education.  He’d attended schools in Russia, Tokyo and in Denmark to study the
culinary arts and he knew all there was to know about fine food, fine wine, and
the art of five-star food service. 

Jens
stopped at the bar one day right before the lunch rush and struck up a
conversation with me.  It turned out that we had traveled to many of the same
countries and in light of my having grown up in Denmark, we instantly hit it
off.

Nowhere
in Los Angeles was there another waiter who could match all of his attributes. 
I used to watch him through the glass that separated the bar dining area from
the main dining room, animatedly describing our signature dishes, or selling
great California cabernets, white burgundies or imported champagne to delighted
patrons.  He always bowed and smiled as he poured. He had a built-in desire to
serve and gave those he served attention far beyond their expectations. He was
quick-witted and charming and there was nothing you could throw at him that
would stick.  The consummate professional, he was skilled at making people feel
comfortable.  No matter who they were, he could relate to them and find
something to say that was appropriate.  There were never any complaints from
the guests as far as his service went, but his fellow wait-staff complained a
lot.  They all grew jealous of his popularity and the many guests who began
asking specifically for him to serve them.