Waiter to the Rich and Shameless: Confessions of a Five-Star Beverly Hills Server (4 page)

The
gay boys who worked the day shift thought they controlled the dining room, but
soon found out that they were being upstaged by Jens, and were in fact losing
some of their regulars to him.  Customers could tell instantly that he was
sincere, really cared about them, and the others were just performing for tips.
It was entertaining to watch the dance play out in silence, through the glass,
like an old silent movie. I’m sure many of those early movie stars drank and
dined here. Maybe their ghosts even haunted the grounds and were at least
partially responsible for luring me behind the walls.

The
managers all liked Jens because he would come in a bit early and set up the
entire garden area with perfectly-pressed linens and make sure every table had
full salt and pepper shakers and polished stemware for water.  He had
tremendous energy and passion for the business.  The kind you don’t find very
often these days.  Jens’s extensive knowledge and dedication to the culinary
and service arts became an inspiration to me and I found myself constantly learning
lessons about food and table service from him.

He
made a strange request one morning: he asked me for a Bloody Mary made with
Akvavit to cure his hangover from the previous night.  From that day on, every
morning I had a Danish Mary waiting for him in a white Styrofoam cup.  You
could say it was my tuition for the grand education he was giving me. 

Behind
the bar, everything was under control on my watch.  My guests were introducing
me to check totals I had only dreamed of, as they would order Beluga caviar and
drink Dom Perignon by the glass.  The hockey great Wayne Gretsky ordered both
but added a shot of Stoli vodka that he knew I kept in the freezer.  Gretzky
was a no-nonsense guy, not exactly loosey-goosey, just straightforward and
tended not to chit chat.  This was just before the U.S. Fish and Wildlife
Service listed the Beluga sturgeon as a threatened species. Nowadays the guests
have to settle for Ossetra caviar from Iran.  There’s a lot of stuff to know in
the food and beverage service business, at least at this level.

With
Gretzky at the bar, I spied Warren Beatty seated in a booth with his hand in
the air, furiously trying to flag down a server to wait on him.  Instinct told
me to approach him immediately.  I quickly looked around for our Maître d' but
he was nowhere to be found.  Even though I hadn’t been trained to serve the
tables, watching and listening to Jens had given me a false sense of confidence
and I boldly approached Mr. Beatty.  He was pretty angry. 

“What
the hell is going on here today?  Can you get my guest something to drink? 
What do you want, Sam, an iced tea?”  Sam nodded.  “Yeah, get us two iced teas
and don’t put that orange in it just a bunch of lemons on the side, okay?” 

I
nod as I’m writing furiously in my captain’s pad.

“What
do you want, the fish, Sam?  Yeah, waiter, we’ll both have the sea bass,
broiled not grilled, no butter just a little olive oil, no salt and some
steamed broccoli and sautéed spinach, but sauté the spinach with garlic, would
you?  And no salt on anything, right, Sam?” Whoever the fuck Sam was, he nodded
again.  “And bring us some of that flat bread, the ‘lavask'? You know, the hard
cracker bread?” 

“Yes,
sir, would you like some mineral water?” I asked when I finally got a chance to
say something. 

“No,
we’ll have some green tea after lunch with some blueberries and blackberries
for dessert, and don’t put any sugar on them – just
au naturel
, okay?
All right, thank you.” 

“Thank
you, Mr. Beatty.”

I
repeated his order back to him just to make sure I’d gotten it right.

“Yeah,
yeah, and hurry up with the bread and iced tea, please.”

“Yes,
sir.” 

All
of a sudden, I’m a waiter and my guests at the bar are left without a host. 
How does it happen in a place like this that a superstar like Warren Beatty with
Hollywood glamour practically tattooed on his forehead can be sitting unnoticed,
reduced to waving his hand in the air?  It wasn’t long before I realized that
there’s a different movie playing behind this particular silver screen, one not
so obvious to anyone at first glance.

Bartending
is a very special, unique line of work. It’s much more than serving drinks –
it’s a calling.  Bartenders serve many functions – we are often sounding
boards, philosophers, psychologists, marriage counselors, dating coaches, emotional
stand-ins, devil’s advocates or even confidantes.  Sometimes we can even be
teachers:  students lined up facing us on barstools, eyes fixed, relaxed and engaged,
paying complete attention to the story being told or wisdom being imparted. What
you never discuss, unless you’re the Evel Knievel of bartending, is politics
and religion. You can lose tips, teeth, or your job by taking the wrong side or
insulting someone’s beliefs.

Holding
court in a temple of history, tradition and elegance like the Cricket Room was
the Holy Grail of bartending. There was no other place like it and I constantly
worried whether it could survive in today’s culture where cheap, fast, and
crude were valued above class, dignity, and quality. So far so good; we were
raking in the dough. The level of celebrities, however, couldn’t hold a
burned-at-both-ends candle to the elegance of Cary Grant, Doris Day, Marlene
Dietrich, and the other stars of Hollywood’s heyday who were frequent guests
here.

Sometimes
in quiet moments, I stood behind my bar soaking in the atmosphere, feeling like
king shit, and thought about why I was there, in that special place. For a
bartender, this was hallowed ground. Hearing Cricket Room celebrity stories
from the past, often told by guests, other employees, and even management, made
me jealous, but not of the people who witnessed them.  I just wanted something similar
to happen to me.  I wanted to see movie and reality show stars have impulsive arguments,
emotional meltdowns, and passionate hookups. I also wanted to help them blow
ridiculous bundles of cash at my bar.  So far, my only real celebrity encounter
had been with Warren Beatty, and aside from being impatient, he’d behaved
perfectly. Why couldn’t he have stood up in the booth, started throwing dishes,
and ripping off his clothes? Now that would have been something. I wanted chaos
and mayhem dammit. Bring on the crazy. Somebody come in and let your freak flag
fly high and proud. I was anxious for a chance to prove that I had the training
and maturity to handle it. I was prepared for anything short of murder.

For
the first six months though, working the bar had been uneventful.  No guest
ever stumped me with some fucked up made-up drink request, and even if they had
I would have just made something up and served it. People who pull that crap on
bartenders never know the difference if you serve it with confidence. It’s all
in the attitude.

The
drinks ordered were all old school.  By the glass: French Champagne like Veuve
Cliquot and the occasional Dom at a mere $100 a glass; high-end wines from our
rotating list of fourteen wineries from around the world; vodka martinis
(mostly Ketel One, Grey Goose or our most expensive at the time, Ultimat, in
its signature cobalt bottle); gin martinis (Bombay Sapphire and Tanqueray); lots
of Old-Fashioneds and Manhattans (mainly mixed with Maker’s Mark Bourbon); aged
Scotch whiskey (primarily Macallan 18 and 25 and an occasional Balvenie or
Lagavulin for those who wanted to grow hair on their backs); and basic mixed
drinks. Negroni, a bitter concoction of gin, Campari and vermouth, was ordered
mainly by Italian and French guests.  Singapore Sling was Hunter Thompson’s
favorite when he had been a famously frequent guest, especially during the ‘60s
and ‘70s. Every year, Hunter Thompson fans would actually come in on his
birthday to drink Singapore Slings in his honor.  I could easily picture the
iconic writer sitting at the bar, wearing his trademark tinted glasses, smoking
a cigarette, discussing world events or politics. Ahhhh, the bad old days.

One
day I was furtively checking out some skinny, goofy-looking guy at table number
one who wore large cartoonish glasses and sported a hairdo that looked as if he’d
gone to clown school, then seen a ghost and been electrocuted at the same
time.  It took me a minute until I realized that I was looking at Phil Spector,
who was famous for his music and in later years for his murder trial.  Many of
the songs you know were either written or produced by this little twerp. He was
sitting with a blonde girl who looked a hell of a lot like Lana Clarkson, the
woman he later murdered, and who was also about the same age.  But according to
court testimony, it couldn’t have been Lana because he claimed to have met her
for the first time at the House of Blues on the night she was killed.  This was
pre-murder, however, and the Cricket Room doesn’t even vaguely resemble The
House of Blues. He’s now serving prison time, no doubt singing soprano to his
girlfriend, Inmate #70238956 a/k/a Butch.

It
was lunchtime and two old regulars who had been coming to the Cricket Room for
at least twenty years were sitting at the bar.  Mr. Peterson said he preferred
the lounge’s bar atmosphere to our formal dining room. By now, the stool’s
imprint is permanently worn into his butt, not that I’ve looked mind you. Mr.
Peterson of the Peterson publishing empire and his wife always came to my bar to
have lunch, but Mr. Peterson would complain about how terrible the food was. He
loved to tell me stories about the good ol’ days, and how they all used to dine
like kings at his old restaurant, Scandia, on Sunset Boulevard.  He’d bought
the restaurant in the 1970’s from the original proprietors, Ken and Ted Hansen,
who had made it into a number one celebrity dining spot that had competed with
the Cricket Room of the time.

The
waiters had worn red jackets, the captains differentiated in black jackets, and
the service was reputed to have been beyond impeccable. One guest recalled that
if you dropped your napkin, a swarm of staff would descend upon you to replace
it and lay it in your lap. The food, as he described it, was
Scandinavian-inspired luxury continental cuisine.  Having lived there, I’m
highly skeptical of the cuisine, but I always let him talk (read brag)
uninterrupted. Scandia’s sumptuous
interior was
elegantly designed with exotic paneled woods that today’s tree huggers would
despise, copper and brass fixtures, bright red chairs, royal blue and white
china, and crystal vases. The kitchen had received many awards for its gourmet cuisine
from the ‘50’s through the ‘70’s.  Mr. Peterson
even admitted to me that
he had no idea how to run a restaurant and finally in 1989, after losing money
for ten years, he had to close his beloved old-school eatery.  Now he came to
my bar to relive the old days, which sounded quite similar to the Cricket
Room’s heyday.  Today, if Frank Sinatra suddenly arose from the dead, the
Cricket Room would be the only place in the LA area where he’d feel
comfortable. We might even let him smoke.

Right
next to Spector and his blonde mystery date was Warren Beatty at his usual
table, number two.  This time he was getting good service. Somebody probably
still has teeth marks on their ass from the chewing out they got, even though I
had saved the day by jumping in to help. Someone of Beatty’s stature should not
have to even ask for service, let alone wave his hand like an idiot flagging a
taxi.

Next
to Beatty on table three was Steven Tyler, a rock and roll peacock in his flashy
outfit. Without the crap all tied into his hair, his ten pounds of jewelry, and
his over the top outfits, he would look more like somebody’s skinny grandfather
than a rock legend. But legend he is; I’m a huge fan and would have loved
nothing more than to act like a fan and run up to him for an autograph. That,
of course, was not done at the Cricket Room and would have gotten me fired
immediately.

Suddenly
I felt as if I had truly arrived, and this was the Cricket Room I had been
hoping for.  “Fuck yeah, this is more like it.”

As
I was gazing at these iconic figures from behind the bar, a memory flashed back
to me from my waiter-ing days in Boston. I was working at a trendy spot on Boylston
Street when Tyler walked up to me and asked: “Hey! What kinda beers you all
gots?” As if he were rapping out the lyrics for “Walk This Way.” He was just
about to order an Anchor Steam when his wife Cyrinda intervened. They later
went to a table where Joe Perry, Tom Hamilton, and their ladies joined them. 
Mid-dinner, Steven went to the bathroom and did not come out, even with the
band and Cyrinda pounding on the door.  Finally, the restaurant staff had to unscrew
the hinges. And there they found Tyler, passed out cold. They quickly paid
their bill and dragged Tyler’s limp body out with Perry and Hamilton holding
him up.  He certainly looked a lot more alive and healthy this time. It would
have been cool if he’d remembered me, but he probably didn’t remember that
night at all, let alone me.

During
my early days at the Cricket Room, it seemed to me as if I was being auditioned
by many of the old regulars.  Just a feeling I had – that they needed to make
sure I could pass muster and maintain their standards.  They would subtly test
me in conversation to see if I could politely keep up my end of the discussion.
 Could I remember their names?  The details of their usual drink orders?  The
strength, the two cherries in the old fashioned, the blue cheese stuffed
olives, the two drops of vermouth in their Plymouth martini, the brand of
bourbon in their Manhattan rocks?  It became evident that I was passing their
tests because more and more locals began showing up and the bar was becoming
busier by the day.  I liked to think some of that booming business was due to
my bartending skills and charm, but it may have been coincidental. Celebrities
like to say they “cherish their anonymity” and love to “fly under the radar”
but that’s bullshit. They crave attention and adulation; it’s why they’re in
the business. So they love coming to a bar that’s known for celebrity
clientele. It makes them feel special, and it’s my job to encourage that
delusion.

I
served Sheryl Crowe and Lance Armstrong after they had attended a fundraiser
for the Democratic National Party.  She looked very plain-Jane in person and
Armstrong looked like a thousand other thin, fit guys you’d see anywhere. I
didn’t even know who she was until she handed me her credit card.  The same
went for Claire Danes.  Girl-next-door types you might see at any bar or
Denny’s in America.  Selma Blair was hanging out a lot and bringing her then-buddy
Matthew Perry.  They were always funny and entertaining, never rude or
arrogant, but too antsy to sit still for too long so I never really got to know
them.  When certain actors become known for a signature role, like Perry is
with his role on
Friends
, people often expect them to be the character
instead of themselves, whether it's being funny or a superhero. In person, they
more often than not just want to act like normal people out for a drink or a
meal. They may have chosen the Cricket Room because it's special, has great
food and service, and not like others in their business who come for the snob
appeal.

They
have normal-people problems too:  Taryn Manning’s credit card was declined and
we ended up picking up her check.  She was quite embarrassed and said she’d
come back to pay but she never did. And this was after her big breakthrough in
Hustle
& Flow
. 
Yo, it’s tough out there for a pimp! 
Maybe she forgot,
or simply was too embarrassed to return and pay her debt, but I lost a lot of
respect for her.

Not
one but two James Bonds came in: Roger Moore and Pierce Brosnan came in two
days apart.  Moore had a cranberry juice, no ice.  I wanted to ask him, “Shaken,
not stirred?” but I refrained since he might not be drinking for a reason. 
He’s probably heard it a million times anyway. He was looking a bit bloated and
old, actually.  Brosnan had a couple of Ketel One Martinis “shaken!” with
olives.  He was cool and approachable but his phone kept ringing so we really
didn’t talk much.  He’s so good looking (and taller than I expected at six two)
that women’s heads turned and he got a lot of attention.

Ozzy
Ozbourne, who had a house account, approached me at the bar.  He sort of did
his little wobble-float walk and then stopped, facing me, and said: “Gimmieashodabsoluvoka.” 

I
picked up the Absolut bottle and raised my eyebrows.  “This, sir?”  

“Yeajusgimmieashod
quick,” he said, so I filled my aluminum shaker with ice and prepared to chill
him a nice shot of vodka.  

“NohIdonwaninieyes.” 

“No
ice?” I repeated.  He shook his head so I poured it straight out of the bottle
into a shot glass.

“Makeyadubel.” 

“A
double,” I repeated.  He nodded his head, so I poured it straight out of the
bottle into an old-fashioned rocks glass.  He almost grabbed it before I stopped
pouring, gulped it down in two slurps and then wobble-floated away.  He left an
herby-scented trail of Patchouli hippy perfume in his wake and a question mark
on my face. I felt as if someone should jump in and present me with a
certificate for interpreting a foreign language on the fly. But no matter how
bad Ozzy had fucked himself up, he was still the coolest dude on the planet. I
think he could have had a pile of shit on his head and people would have
thought it was cool.

There
were two young guys at the bar who had just gotten two of their scripts signed
with National Lampoon Films and were celebrating. This kind of celebrity
encounter was just what they’d come in hoping for.

“Wow,
dude, that was fucking surreal!” they said regarding Ozzy, and then they asked
how much per shot for the Louis XIII (a top shelf cognac by Remy).