Waiter to the Rich and Shameless: Confessions of a Five-Star Beverly Hills Server (5 page)

“A
hundred and fifty,” I said. 

“Give
us one each.” 

And
before I could lift the damn bottle Ozzy was back.  “Gimmia nu-uh dubulshod.” 

So
we did it again, only this time I knew the drill, he gulped it down and as he
was leaving I asked, “Put these on your house account then, sir?”

“Yepuputweypercentip.” 

“Thank
you, Mr. Osbourne.”  He waved his hand and just wobble-floated on out again.  Everyone
in the bar was too mesmerized to speak or even attempt to approach him. He had
that effect. It was like seeing God. You didn’t run up and ask God for an
autograph. Well, Ozzy either.

I
served the two scriptwriters their once-in-a-lifetime glass of Louis XIII,
which they had no idea how to drink but would brag about it to their grandkids
one day.  One of them shot it and the other one tried to sip it but really didn’t
like it at all so he shot his too.  They high-fived each other and giggled – a
funny sight.  Coupla lucky newbies with big dreams and more money than brains.

I
went back to thinking about Ozzy. I thought:
Isn’t Ozzy supposed to be clean
and sober
? According to the press at the time, he was on the wagon.  No
wonder he was in such a hurry. Sneaking shots behind Sharon’s back, eh?

As
time went by, I had my share of attention from women who frequented the bar. 
I’m not a bad looking guy, but singers and bartenders have one thing in common:
women think they’re hot. One of my fans was nicknamed The Stalker by Ariella.  She
told me an elaborate story about how she was the ex-girlfriend of the actor Ed
O’Neill and also had dated Andrea Bocelli.  The Stalker would come in around
noon and sit there for four hours telling me her life stories and all about her
men and her “spiritual” relationships.  Most of her stories included some actor
or rich businessman with whom she had connected on the Internet and had managed,
with her good looks, to lure into a rendezvous.  The constant name-dropping was
just a bit too much at times but I had to listen with a smile. Her ego
translated my smiles into interest in her. I would serve her the same thing
every time:  chopped salad, no bacon or cheese, side of ranch dressing and a
diet Coke with lots of ice and a lemon wedge.  For someone so supposedly
“spiritual,” she ate like a typical faux-Zen Angelino obsessed with her weight
and appearance.

She
was very pretty; tall with dark brown hair, a great body probably from Yoga, but
a small chest.  She never wore makeup, and she didn’t need it.  It didn’t take
a genius to determine that she was a time bomb so I kept things very
professional and never called her outside of work, even though she left me her
number on several occasions.  There was a direct phone line to the bar and she
somehow got the number and always called to make sure I was working before she’d
come in.  I heard that she never showed up when I wasn’t working.  She was
truly exhausting, always asking me what I thought about her relationships, etc.
 Who did she think I was, Dr. Phil?  If I had been, I would have advised her to
stop sitting in a bar for four hours a day and trying to seduce a bartender who
didn’t give a flying crap about her, but I’m not and I didn’t. My job is to
listen, not opine.

This
went on for a whole year and I’d be lying if I said that the thought of going
over to her apartment in Hollywood and having hot sex with her hadn’t entered
my mind.  But I knew that with this one, it would be a big mistake.  I actually
eventually grew so incredibly tired of her stories that I could feel my mind go
into hibernation within a few minutes of her arrival. She was the intense kind
of woman who I could see boiling somebody’s pet rabbit or hiding a huge chef’s
knife under the bed. No thanks. There were too many easier ways to get laid
without risking body parts or pets.

During
that same time period there was a divorcee from Mulholland Estates in Bel Air
who began showing up.  She would come to my bar and pour her heart out about
how lonely she was.  She tried to lure me in by describing how quiet it was up
there in her big house all alone and how she wanted to cook for me and serve me
a candlelit dinner.  She dropped me her number but I kept stalling, mainly
because she had that fake plastic surgery face and the boob implants so common
in Hollywood.  She was a nice enough woman, but to top it all off she was
actually kind of heavy and I couldn’t get past her plastic-looking
Planet of
the Apes
face. To me, almost everyone who has had that amount of plastic
surgery ends up looking strange, like a certain new breed of people that live
mostly in LA.  Do they all go to the same doctor?  I just couldn’t see being
with her.  What would Mom say? Probably something like, “She looks like there
might be big clips in the back of her head holding it all together.” Sex on
demand or not, she was just too creepy and I was scared to see her naked.

Just
as I had wished, every day started surprising me with something out of the
ordinary. The tourists and regulars kept coming, but Paul McCartney came in one
evening with his then-wife Heather and ordered a couple of margaritas with salt
and lime squeezed into them.  I was truly honored to have the world’s best
songwriter of our time at my bar.  He looked great and his wife wasn’t bad to
look at either.  I shook his hand and told him that I was a huge fan and that
it was my greatest pleasure ever to have him at my bar.  He was very humble and
thanked me in his trademark Scouse accent, but was much more interested in
regular everyday chitchat with his wife than chatting with me. They weren’t
able to sit too long before other people noticed them so they had to be moved
to a private table.  I was sad to see him leave but psyched that I had had the
brief opportunity to meet him.  I never charged for the drinks – are you
kidding me?  (Mr. P signed off on it.)  It’s a Beetle for God’s sake!  How many
people can say they served a drink to a Beetle and his wife?

I
served Donald, his ex, Ivana, and their daughter, Ivanka Trump, but all at
separate times.  Ivanka is absolutely a real quality woman. She’s beautiful and
very classy; she’s a real pearl in the classical sense.  Ivana used to come in
with her Italian tennis-playing boy-toy Rossano who was at least twenty years
her junior.  She was always sweet and very courteous.  She always ordered a Goose
Martini and Rossano would have an espresso.  I’ve got to admit I could see what
the guy saw in her – she definitely had something special in addition to the
obvious, even with the huge age difference. Maybe she was his homeroom teacher
and he was her teacher’s pet? I almost asked if he had a note from his mother,
but of course didn’t. 

Months
later, Trump himself came in with his then-fiancée Melania.  Grey Goose Martini
for him and a Goose Cosmo for her.  She was definitely impressive-looking.
Trump left without paying, meaning no tip for me, so I had to transfer the
check to his table.  What a jerk, but that’s already written all over his face
anyway – you don’t need me to tell you that.  When he enters a room he has that
demeanor of parting the seas. “I’m here now. Everyone can breathe.” It’s
amazing what a gorgeous woman like Melania is willing to overlook for a measly
few billion.

Broadway
Joe Namath showed up one day and had three Grey Goose Martinis, shaken, with
olives.  He sat at the bar and told me that he was building a house around the
Brentwood Park area to be closer to his daughter.  Thank God he didn’t talk
about football because that’s one thing I don’t know shit about, having grown
up in Europe and all.  Joe had a great vibe about him and it wasn’t long before
he was swarmed by rich locals at the bar calling out his name, “Hey, Joe,
remember me?”  Or “Hey, Joe, we met at blah blah blah,” one after the other. He
paid for his three drinks and got out of there quick.  I shook his hand, he
left me a Grant, and I’ve got to say, that guy never stopped smiling from the
time he came in until the time he left.  Never saw him again, though. But I
heard he came back several times after that from Don, who served him. 

Paul
Magers, an award-winning news anchor from the Twin Cities, signed a deal with
CBS News Los Angeles and bought a house up the street from the restaurant.  He
would come in to unwind after work and talk about how it felt to return to LA
after being in the frozen north for years.  He liked his Chalon chardonnay and
house-smoked Balik salmon.  Nice guy, good tipper, even if he was wearing TV makeup. 
I always enjoyed serving him.

Stan
Lee (comic book writer, editor, publisher, media producer, television host,
actor) would sit at one of the tables very close to the bar and insist that I
come out from behind the bar to serve him.  He was going through a real revival
of interest his work, and his comic book creations were famous again,
especially
Spiderman
.  This was right after the first movie starring
Toby Maguire.  Lee had also created the
Fantastic Four
, the
Hulk
,
Iron Man
,
Thor
and the
X-Men
.  So when Hollywood started
making big-budget movies featuring Stan Lee’s characters, we started seeing
more of him. Even though he was getting on in age, nothing dampened his smile. 
One time I introduced a regular customer of mine by the name of Mr. Hart to Mr.
Lee.  They talked for a long while and Stan ended up signing some stuff for him.
 Mr. Hart was so thrilled that he tipped me seven-hundred bucks, the biggest
tip I ever received as a bartender.

During
my period as a bartender, I also waited on numerous rock stars, which always
touched a nerve for me:

Bon Jovi:
 Boring, doesn’t drink alcohol. 
Just kind of walks around for everyone to notice him and then gets bored and
leaves.  He’s as boring as his singing suggests, even though he had been my
“hair” inspiration. To his credit, he’s been married to his wife for twenty-four
years and has always kept a good image. Gay?

Richie Sambora (Bon Jovi
bandmate):  
Likes
to drink decent wine, is happy-go-lucky, and doesn’t mind talking to strangers.
He picked up the tab for himself and his guest, drummer David Bryant (who looks
like he’s been living large).  Sambora excitedly expressed his appreciation for
Steely Dan whom he had recently seen perform live. Nice guy, though he’s got
the reputation of a player with the ladies. Rock on, dude. Rock on.

Mick Jagger:
  A wiry fucker and still just
drinks iced tea.  Was joined by a female publicist and another businesswoman.
He let them drink their wine and once their guard was down he laid out his
points and got them to agree, and before they knew it, he was gone.  Handled
like the true businessman that he is. I love his hair and his rubber face.

Johnny Rzeznik (Goo Goo Dolls
musician and vocalist):
 
A shy, quiet, romantic, who drinks light but prefers a dark candlelit table to
court his young girlfriends. It’s fun to watch him mesmerize them by taking
them to the most exclusive dinner spot in Los Angeles and gaze deeply into
their eyes from behind his long bangs.

Billy Corgan (Smashing Pumpkins): 
The same as
Johnny only a lot taller and his girls are at least fifteen years his junior;
he seems like one hell of a serious, scowling bald man.  He drinks inexpensive
Napa Cabernet by the glassful like a conventional suburban housewife on a tight
budget. What kind of rocker is that? Seriously, buy a good bottle, impress me
snarl-face!  By the way, when you sing you sound like an angry baby! Maybe
somebody smashed his pumpkins.

Neil Diamond
:
 No introduction needed. Fan or
not, everybody knows this crooner. Red wine drinker.  This guy’s a freak.  He
likes ‘em younger, baby, yeah! No smiles; has a very serious attitude. He
married his manager who has the convenient last name of McNeil and is
thirty
years
his junior.
 
Just seeing Mr. Diamond reminds me of the story about him coming offstage at
The Last Waltz and saying, “Top that!” to Bob Dylan who was standing in the
wings.  Dylan famously said, “What do I have to do, fall asleep?” My sentiments
exactly.

Simon Le Bon:
 Rented our private dining room
to try on stage outfits for his new tour with Duran Duran, is British, tall and
good looking in a pretty-boy kinda way.  Le Bon sat at the bar for a while and
I served him a glass of Moët Champagne.  He seemed very sophisticated for a
rock-star, a pretty mellow old fellow, I’d have to say. He didn’t embarrass
himself.

Harry Belafonte:
 An old school musical genius. 
Drank Myers Rum on the rocks with a lime squeeze. He still has the fire in his
eyes.

Diana Ross:
 Champagne and smiles. When she
walks in the room, the piano player always plays “Mahogany” and she shouts in
excitement, “They’re playing my song!”  She’s been coming regularly for years,
gracefully prancing through the restaurant like the diva she is.

50 cent:
 Is far from the hood he portrays
in his music and never wears a bandana or tank top to the Cricket Room.  He
developed a vitamin water product with Glacéau called Formula 50 and assumed a
stake in the company.  Coca-Cola eventually purchased Glacéau for $4.1 billion,
and
Forbes
estimated that 50 Cent walked away with $100 million after
taxes.  He likes sweet fruity drinks and yo, he ain’t no thug.