Waiter to the Rich and Shameless: Confessions of a Five-Star Beverly Hills Server (31 page)

I
called Juliana and told her that I’d be spending the night at Jens’s
apartment.  She wasn’t too happy, for obvious reasons.  She wasn’t very fond of
Jens since I always ended up coming home high or sloshed after hanging out with
him.  But that night it made sense especially since I had offered to take him
to the airport early the next morning. 

As
soon as I had gotten off the phone with her, Jens convinced me to go to a club
with him and really live it up this last night together.  “Come on, Pauli, for
old time’s sake,” he wheedled. “You can’t deny me this final night of fun.” And
I couldn’t.

We
went to Avalon on Vine Street in Hollywood because it was Jens’s favorite place
to party.  Everybody knew him there – the bouncers and lots of nightclub
hipsters were shaking his hand and slapping him on the back. Everyone wanted to
buy him a drink. I felt like grandpa amongst all the 20 year olds. I bought a
bottle of “Sampagne,” as Jens pronounced it and hoped it would make us look, or
at least feel, important. Jens was decked out in his club gear with his shirt
wide open and some kind of a scarf tied in a trendy knot.  Someone sent us a
round of lemon-drop shots and then some flaming Russian roulette shots. Jens
disappeared for a while, probably to find drugs; I spent some time dancing by
myself drenched in the rain of the laser lights. When I saw him again he was
back at our table with two smoldering hot blonde Scandinavian girls hanging on
him. Mia and Lena were barely dressed with short shorts on and cute little
hats; not much else. By the time we got back to his apartment, he was already
making out with one of them and the other was feeling up her friend.  It was
crazy, as usual, and brought back some fond memories. 

I
fell asleep on his large IKEA shag rug that he had kept after he and Christie
broke up. I sort of heard him and his Swedish Doublemint twins going at it off
and on throughout the night but I never jumped in. That's my story and unless
someone has a torture device handy, I'm sticking to it. 

In
the morning the girls left and Jens and I went to Hugo’s for breakfast. 
Halfway through, Jens got a funny look on his face and rushed to the bathroom. 
He probably threw up because he came back looking 100% more alive and ate the
rest of his breakfast like a champ. I asked him what he would do with his
apartment and all the stuff he’d left behind.  He said he had given the keys to
his friend Ozcar (his drug dealer) and told him he could do whatever he wanted
with it.

“I’ve
got everything I really need in my suitcase, Pauli, and I don’t care about the rest.”

We
laughed a lot when he told me what he had done with Mia and Lena.  He was
pretty proud of himself and I felt confident that once he got back to
Copenhagen he would be the big fish in a smaller pond and that would work out
just fine for him.  It was strange saying goodbye – I was too hung over to get
teary-eyed but as I walked back to my car I felt envious of Jens.  He was
getting out of here and onto a new and exciting adventure that I was sure he’d
make the best of.  I needed a big change in my life too but I wasn’t sure how I
would go about that yet.

A
few weeks later my wife and I spent the weekend with the DLF people.  They were
somewhat weird but not half as bad as some of those pretentious yogi people who
change their names to Moon and Sun and Hummingbird Breeze and all that absurd
stuff.  If you don’t live in LA you may not know the type, but trust me, you
don’t want to.

My
teacher’s name was Danny, a normal name, I noticed, and he was an okay guy.  It
was odd that he was always smiling, but he seemed genuine otherwise and very
dedicated to his work.  The teachers spent thirty minutes describing what we as
a group would be doing and then I met Danny privately and he showed me the
Transcendental Meditation technique. For the next few days we did a lot of
meditating and talking in groups about what we were experiencing.  There were
several people from Oprah’s new LA staff since she had offered it to any
employees who were curious. 

By
the time we went back ten days later for our follow-up, I had already been in
touch with Danny.  The cumulative effect of the meditations had left me so high
and focused that I could not figure out what to do with all my energy. 
Everything seemed crystal clear to me and some of my meditations were “super
cosmic” as they used to say in the seventies.  I actually felt like I was
traveling through the cosmos and the energy got me so revved that I could
barely sleep at night.  I needed to come down somehow because I was unbearable
to others and also to myself.  I had diarrhea of the mouth and couldn’t stop
talking about anything and everything. Luckily, Danny showed me some simple
yoga and breathing techniques that worked; it brought me way down. I was
completely exhausted from my ten-day high.  So exhausted, in fact, that I
called in sick for two nights and sat on the couch for both days, just
staring.  It was beyond strange.  Later, once I started meditating again,
everything was a lot more balanced and it really never got crazy like that
again.  It transformed into a wonderful feeling inside whilst I was able to
sort through my thoughts and find an inner calm.  It led me to a clearer, more
productive lifestyle and best of all, I felt a keen connection to nature, life,
and people in general.  I was able to listen and accept people at a different
level, and it helped me deal with the stresses of life at the Cricket Room. 
All in all, I think it humbled me. Yes, your wild and crazy rock star waiter to
the stars used meditation and yoga to become more focused and relaxed. It
worked too.

Nothing
has been the same since I started meditating and even though my temper has come
more under control, I still feel that this job leaves me wanting more.  No
matter how peaceful I feel inside, the fact remains that the Cricket Room has become
a bore to me, and I need some new challenges.  Among the many projects I took
up with my newfound, clear-headed energy, I wrote and finished a comedy
screenplay – a buddy movie that epitomizes the Hollywood movie business.  I
also started writing and drafting ideas for this book. 

In
addition, I used some of my newfound focus to draft a plan for management with
suggestions on how we could humanize their “Rules of Service” and make them
more efficient.  I felt we should train every server to better “read” their
guests at the very first introduction, before just blurting out mindless
up-sell suggestions. The way the stupid rules were structured, if you
approached a table of Muslims or Mormons you would immediately offer them
expensive wine.  My plan included the type of language to use and defined the
tell-tale signs to look for before up-selling, as well as what the signs were
to not push a sale. I also explained that there was much gratification to be
had in the art of serving and enhancing a guest’s experience, and that allowing
the server to adopt that approach would bring dignity to the entire situation.
It was a detailed, four-page proposal and when I presented it I was laughed
at.  I could tell that no one in lower management was courageous enough to get
it to the executives that handled the training. They were particularly afraid
of it getting out since what I was recommending – staffing for powerful success
– meant they would simply have to hire a few more people.  Mr. P, for example,
was too afraid of presenting that notion since it would make him look weak, as
though he couldn’t handle the job, or like he’s been operating understaffed for
years without bringing it up.  It’s obvious that his longevity was based on his
willingness to bend over and take it prison style. He had turned taking it in
the shorts to an art form.

When
I suggested that I would show it to the new GM or senior executives myself, I
was shut down quickly and told that if I wanted to last in the Cricket Room the
smartest thing I could do was to keep quiet and follow the rules, that’s it. 

“Leave
the executives to do their jobs and you do yours, Pauli.” 

I
believe in the end the folks in lower management were scared it would make them
look like they were not doing a good enough job, which they weren’t.  And,
quite frankly, how could they when they were not given the right tools.  The
strategy of management by fear won out again and our immediate supervisors
elected not to rock the boat even though it would make their jobs easier, and
would likely improve the bottom line.  What was I thinking?  It was time to
stop trying. Time to stop rearranging the deck chairs on the sinking Good Ship
Cricket Room. I had given it my best effort and they returned the gesture with
a rude “Fuck you.”

I
hoped I could find a lifeboat and fuck them first.  
Ohhhhmmm....

The
idea of life beyond the Cricket Room has become a constant, nagging motif in my
thoughts.  I often imagine myself joining a rock band and giving it one last
shot, or developing some of my writing ideas, including this book.  I feel the
urge to challenge myself but the fear of going through life as a broke artist
yet again chills me.  Don’t get me wrong – I’m grateful for my experiences at
the Cricket Room, grateful for the friends and money I’ve made and for the
insider’s view of an iconic American bar/restaurant, but I have to accept the
fact that it’s time to move on.  Some of our servers will be here until they
retire or drop dead preparing a tableside steak tartar, but I’m not like them,
at least not anymore.  Thanks to a loving wife, meditation, a kaleidoscopic
array of colorful interests that include cuisine, service, music, real estate,
finance, wine, and writing, I now understand that I have options instead of
just opinions. And that’s the message I want to communicate: So do you!
Everyone has options; you just need to gain the confidence to exercise them.  I
had to find the courage to follow my convictions.

I
keep thinking about Jens and Don and all the others who were offed lately. Great
careers just hacked off, chopped like my unwanted ponytail. It seems so
unfair.  Did my dream job change, or did I?  Or both?  It’s probably always
been like this; it’s just that I finally saw through the illusions of my own
contentment and now I’m faced with only one direction: forward. But how does
one leave a great job like this and how can I believe that it would be better
anywhere else?  Truth is, I can’t but I have to have faith and it’s better to
grow in life than to be stuck doing something that is stagnating and uninteresting. 
At least that’s the theory.

As
I was mid-yawn, in walked Katie Perry, the recently separated Brand-ex and
then-number-one pop star in the U.S.  That was a wakeup call to my fractured
psyche. How apropos -- she happened to be entering just as the piano player
performed his up-tempo version of “California Girls” by the Beach Boys.  Of
course, she thinks he’s playing it because she’s walking in so she can’t help
herself but to mouth the lyrics and bounce up and down a little like the
vivacious doll she is. 

Her
hair is dyed powder blue and her matching and very tight dress accentuates her voluptuous
body.  Ms. Perry looks like an animated, X-rated cartoon figure who just
climbed out of a Baskin Robbins ice cream cake and I don’t need to tell you what
Jens would be doing in that scenario. She’s a real hottie and to her credit
gives off an honestly positive air. 

She
joined a couple of businessmen already seated, and an hour later she left, but
not before she was cornered by a female guest in the lobby who wanted a photo
with her.  She gladly complied and our security guards allowed it since she was
into it. The room seemed darker after her departure. She glows vibrancy and
energy.

Valentine’s
Day arrived again and the only interesting person in the Cricket Room was
Charlie Sheen. 
Come on, Charlie, bring on the crazy.
I’d been waiting
for this day to come – he’s the bad boy of all bad boys, my wife hates him and
the show he got fired from, so I can never really watch the show unless she’s
out.  Charlie was with a hot-looking date, someone I didn’t recognize. She must
be at least a little special, else why bring her in on V-Day?  She ordered a
glass of Champagne… or something.  I can’t even remember, as all I can think
about is,
finally I got a big spender here again
,
and on top of it
all, it’s Charlie Sheen who’s known for his impulsive generosity – among other
things.
 

Charlie
asked for our best scotch, and I brought the bottle of Macallan Lalique 57 to
show him.  I explained, “Mr. Sheen, the Macallan 57 is $2,800 per glass, because
it’s been matured for 57 years in Spanish sherry oak casks and only four-hundred
bottles were produced.” 

He
gave me an engaging look and said, “Go on.” 

I
assumed he meant continue, so I did. “It’s rich, dark, and complex with spicy
notes of sun-dried raisins and orange zest.”

“Aren’t
all raisins sun-dried, Pauli?” he said with a devilish smirk on his face. “Go
on, Pauli.” 

I
continued nervously as I hadn’t had much time to memorize this from my iPhone
research. “With lingering touches of citrus and peaty smoke.” 

He
approved with a knowing nod, so I brought out the bottle on my silver tray and
poured him a shot at his table. He drank it served neat; scotch is best served
with no ice and only a splash of water.  When I checked on him a few minutes
later, he gave me a warm glance then said, “I’ll have one more, please.” 

“Yes,
sir, anything else for the lady?” 

“No,
she looks fine, doesn’t she?” He said it with his usual leering grin.

“Yes,
she certainly does, sir.” I placed a fresh glass on the table from my silver
tray and measured a two-ounce shot as my manager looked on from afar, probably
to make sure I didn’t over pour. 
Asshole. That’s the kind of stuff that
just drives me crazy. By this time, I should have earned a high level of
credibility and unquestioned trust.

“Nicely
done, Pauli, thank you.” 

“My
pleasure, sir.” He seemed to be eating up all the old-school formalities but he
was definitely calm and collected, not the crazy Charlie we had seen all over
the news.  Damn, just when I needed him for some entertainment, he gets
straight.

The
carte du jour was a set menu as always for Valentine’s Day and really not a
great one.  Charlie had a meat dish and his date had fish.  During his dinner,
he downgraded to a couple of double Macallan 30’s at a mere $1,000 a pop.  When
everything was said and done, his check was $7,400 and he left me a $1,700
tip.  Charlie Sheen walked out content, collected, and self-assured and I shall
remember him just that way.  Shit together, check. Straight, check. Sober, hmmm,
not exactly. It was interesting how, on this romantic holiday, he spent
thousands on himself and just a couple of hundred bucks on his date. In fact,
he spent more on me than he did on her. Maybe she wasn’t that special to him
after all.  Full blown ego, check. It was clear to see that Sheen may have been
off the testosterone cream but he was still the ultimate rock star poster boy for
self-indulgence.  And isn’t that why we love him so much?

When
I got home that night, my wife was still awake.  I had brought her a beautiful
flower arrangement that someone had left at their table.  I’d had to get a
backdoor pass from the manager on duty so that I could show it to the prison
guard at the security desk on the way out.  Even with the huge tips, it always
felt like freedom – the air even seemed fresher – when I left the place. I kept
waiting on them to install the razor wire and guard towers, but Beverly Hills
building codes probably frown on them.

I
gave her a long kiss and told her that I yearned for the days when we could
spend all of our holidays together.  She let out a longing purr and then
whatever was supposed to happen did happen. When I woke up the next morning, Juliana
had already gone to work as usual and I sat at my computer writing in my
journal and checking e-mail.  I looked at the stock market and it was going up
as it had been for most of the beginning of this first quarter.  Fortunately, I
was partly exposed to the upside in my 401K – a sunny spot on the dark horizon
since my recent huge losses.

Back
at work, things were getting more and more boring.  Johnny Depp came in twice
and didn’t drink anything but iced tea.  What the hell was going on?  Russell
Crow hadn’t been in to the Cricket Room for almost a year.  I think they were
catching on that it has lost a lot of its old Hollywood glamour and was turning
into a chain restaurant with more tourists than in-crowd. I expected to see two-for-one
drink special coupons and early bird dinner specials any day. Some moron in a
cubicle was undoubtedly designing pre-packaged logo snacks like airline
peanuts. “Hey, we could call them Cricket Chips! This is gonna be great!”

There
had been one good surprise:  I made a $1,000 tip from J. Williams, a huge
player in the entertainment representation business.  In normal speak, that
means he’s an agent. He was hosting a client on Vino’s night off and ordered
two bottles of wine:  a Peter Michael Chardonnay at $200 and a bottle of Grace
Family Cabernet, $700.  Later, when I asked if they wanted another bottle, he smugly
threw out a suggestion he thought I’d never be able to fulfill:  “You don’t
have the Harlan Estate, do you?” 

Busted,
chump.
“We do,
Mr. Williams.  May I decant that for you?” 

“Well,
I only want it if you have the 2001,” he said, winking at his guest. 

I
returned within a few seconds with the wine list, pointing to the 2001 Harlan
Estate cabernet, which was listed at $3,200.

Bluff
called.
“Oh,
fantastic!  Bring it out would you, Pauli?” 
Cha-ching!
  He looked a
little ashen but braved it out.

He
pretty much had to say that in order not to look like a jerk in front of his
guest, a potential client whom he was wooing.  I went on to sell them chocolate
soufflés and just about anything else I could think of short of hookers.  I
hope cubicle coupon boy doesn’t think of that. By the time Mr. Williams left,
he was in great spirits.  We shook hands but I never saw him again, unfortunately. 
He probably got the credit card bill and a huge case of buyer’s remorse along
with it.

Johnny
Depp finally came in, returning for a third time, with Vanessa.  He bought her
a bottle of Cristal Rosé to share with her girlfriend but he didn’t drink at
all.  I guess all the rumors of their breakup were false or maybe they’re just
friends.  I don’t see him as being a monogamous person and I don’t think she’s
dumb enough to believe he would be.  After all, if you have all the girls in
the world throwing themselves at you for long enough, you’re bound to break
sooner or later.  That’s the price of fame.  It also explains the rarity of
long-lasting Hollywood marriages. Human nature, at least the male version of
it, is what it is. (Honey, if you’re reading this, I’m the exception. No
worries.)

As
he was sitting there, I reminisced about the last time he had tipped me ever so
generously.  It was about one year ago to date, and he had come in that time with
Vanessa, Keith Richards and Keith’s wife, Patti Hansen.  Keith had been looking
all rock ’n rolled out – in black, tight skinny jeans and black Converse
sneakers, a red headband, and some weird shit sewn into his hair.  Basically, a
very modest version of Captain Jack Sparrow.  These two had become very good
friends and they talked about the “Pirates” movies and Keith’s autobiography
that Johnny had narrated for the CD version.  I remember noticing that Depp was
sort of putting on a British accent or something.  Gwyneth Paltrow and Madonna
do that pretentious shit too. Granted, he never really speaks normal “American,”
but now it was really much more like Keith’s accent.  Maybe he’s such a
character actor that he just adopts the accent of whomever he’s with.

Johnny
went on to order his usual two bottles of Haute Brion and luckily we still had
them.   Keith ordered a vodka cranberry to start.  I guess he was going for
that anti-oxidant healthy rocker thing. When I brought Keith his drink, he
tried to suck on the stir stick as if it were a straw.  It’s true that our stir
sticks are thick and designed in a clear plastic with a knob at the end so they
do look different, but they don’t really look like straws.  I think he just got
confused for a second, or maybe that’s a permanent condition.  I stopped to
watch him and once he was done trying to get some liquid out of that solid stir
stick, he burst out laughing at the whole thing.  Johnny was chatting with
Vanessa and pretended not to see it. 

After
a polite pause, I asked Keith, “Mr. Richards, would you like me to bring you a
straw for your drink?”  I maintained a straight face, which I’ve gotten good
at. I think I could be a spy.

He
looked at me and replied in his trademark slurred, cockney accent, “No, it’s
just funny that’s all, I thought it was a straw and I started sucking!”  Now he
was laughing and Johnny was keeping a straight face and wishing I would just
leave it be, but Keith kept on laughing and saying in his accent, “It’s just
funny, that’s all!” and shaking his head.  It was funny and I was tempted to
laugh but I managed to remain professional about it. 

During
that dinner, Keith and Johnny kept sneaking out to the patio to smoke.  The
rest of the night went off without a hitch and Johnny thanked me with another
$2,500 tip, which had helped pay for my wife’s wedding ring. A white gold band
with eternity princess cut diamonds totaling four carats.  I always think of
that ring when I see him now.  Thanks, Mr. Depp. (I could say that when I look
at my wife’s ring I think of Johnny Depp, but that would be weird.)

Oscar
season rolled around and things always start getting really stir crazy around
that time of year.  First of all, there are many, many awards parties and
ceremonies and a slew of movie and music stars staying in town that normally
live elsewhere.  And then you have all the tourists in town trying to spot a
celebrity at a famous hangout.  It’s hard to weed them out without being
accused of discrimination. The corporate monkeys like their money. But there is
also a whole mess of more or less not-yet successful or small-time players and
industry wannabes who are looking to grow their brand and/or find or make that
big contact that will take them to the next level.  Oscar season is ripe for
picking up contacts.