Waiter to the Rich and Shameless: Confessions of a Five-Star Beverly Hills Server (7 page)

Jens
catches on; apparently he still has a few brain cells firing. “It’s fine, Pauli,
go ahead!”  Right before I close the door, I hear him yell, “Don’t get the
sheets dirty!” 

Susan
went into the bathroom and I heard the sound of running water.  I turned on the
television and started watching a rerun of
Sex in the City
.  Samantha was
in her frilly lingerie, seducing some young guy. I remembered a stupid joke
about a Chinese restaurant featuring ‘Cream of Sum Yung Gai’ and laughed. 
Simultaneously, I had an attack of performance anxiety and wondered if I would
be able to perform well in bed with all the coke in my system.  If this woman
was a pro, was I about to embarrass myself?

I
started thinking of the excuses I might use as Susan slowly exited the bathroom
wrapped in a white terrycloth hotel bathrobe. Her blonde hair was wet and
slicked back, but her makeup was still intact, and boy, did she have hips. Once
she let that robe glide off her body and I saw her voluptuous naked body, I
didn’t need excuses. We had amazing steamy sex and the buzz I had going
actually enhanced the event to a level of intensity I hadn’t experienced for
quite some time.  There were fireworks exploding all around the room. Or were
they just in my head?

When
we finally came out of the bedroom, I wasn’t prepared for the full-on porn
scene that greeted us.  Both Victorias were spread out naked on the floor, one
was doing the other and the other was doing Jens.  My first reaction, of
course, was,
Awesome!
  Then I immediately became uncomfortable.  This
was a bit much even for a former European and rocker. Woah.

“Oh,
I’m sorry,” I said, apologizing for barging in on their perverted debauchery
that was also extremely hot.  

Blonde
Victoria, who was on her back with Jens’ junk in her face and the other woman
giving her a complete gynecological exam, opened her eyes as fast as her thick
black eye makeup allowed.  “Oh, that’s all right, why don’t you two come over
here... oooh, that feels great, honey... and join us. We’d all love to see what
you two feel like!”  Her eyes slammed shut, she moaned loudly, and went back to
pleasuring Jens who was pleasuring no one but himself.

What
the fuck!
 This
was my big chance to make every man’s fantasy come true but I just wasn’t
comfortable enough with these people to do it. Having sex with a stranger was
one thing, but a massive orgy was another.  What if Jens started talking about
it at work, what would people say?  I pulled a Woody Allen and sort of choked,
“Eh, that’s okay, you guys are doing, uh, so well without us, we’ll just go
downstairs for a drink and be back in a while.”

Susan
didn’t flinch – she must’ve been used to this stuff and I wondered again if she
were a hooker, or just a friend of Jens’ who likes fucking strangers.  I
excused myself as I climbed over brunette Victoria, and almost changed my mind
about leaving as she brought blonde Victoria to ecstasy.  I grabbed the glass
straw to hit the coke again.  I said I was uncomfortable, not reformed. Walking
away from crazy sex was one thing; walking away from free coke was just stupid.
 

Susan
and I made it down to the lobby bar right in time for last call.  When we got
back up to the suite it was two in the morning, just an hour since we had
left.  Jens had moved his sex party into the bedroom and I swear to you, this
is no joke; I was shocked to see Jens in the master bathroom spraying blonde
Victoria with a golden shower as she sat in the bathtub.  The whole thing
should have been shot in a San Fernando porn studio for raunchy reality TV.  She
looked like she was getting off on it.  Jens turned around and laughed that
evil laugh of his and the other Victoria slammed the bedroom door shut in our
faces. That was the last image that I had in my head for the rest of the
night.  They didn’t sleep.  They had plenty of coke in their bodies to fuel
their obscene orgiastic extravaganza. To sleep would have wasted valuable coke
and porn time.

Susan
and I talked about everything and nothing, and then she fell asleep on the
couch as I slept on and off in the chair with my feet on the coffee table.  I
noted that Jens had since moved the coke elsewhere.  The next morning around
ten, I woke up and peeked at Susan who was still asleep.  I sat there for a
while playing through Hustler-type flashbacks in my head.  It felt totally
surreal; I hadn’t understood what Jens was capable of. This was my first time
socializing with him outside of work.  That must have been what it was like when
first meeting Mr. Hyde after only knowing Dr. Jekyll.  Like meeting a
completely different person.

I
grabbed a bottle of water and drank it down quickly.  I had that terrible day
after cocaine feeling, kind of like a vampire at a sunny pool party.  My brain
was burning; I felt dirty all over and knew the best remedy would be a Bloody
Mary.  I grabbed the ingredients out of the minibar and mixed a nice one, spicy
with lots of hot sauce.  There had even been a lime and a lemon on the fridge,
but no celery.  How thoughtful of them. I imagined that they’d be charging Jens
$35 for this drink and the bottle of water. The way I felt, it would have been
worth it at twice that price.

Susan
awoke as I took my first few sips.  She looked pretty, bathed in the morning
sunlight as it bounced off her jade green eyes.  It was like seeing her for the
first time, sober. I walked out onto the balcony and asked her to join me when
she was ready.  It was a perfectly clear morning, mid-70s already. It was an “I
Love LA” kind of morning.  As soon as the drink got to me, I started feeling
better.

“Susan?
Would you like me to make you a Bloody Mary?” She was already drinking from a
bottle of Fiji water.  She paused then said, “That would be terrific.”  

Hmmm,
“terrific?”
 I
haven’t heard that word in a long time.  Then it dawned on me that in spite of
our having been
very
intimate and we now knew each other’s bodies very
well, we actually knew nothing about each other. Knowing someone’s got a
birthmark on the inside of their thigh, or that they are very ticklish in
certain areas, does not make a relationship.  Were we even having a
relationship? Did I want one with her?  The thought crossed my mind but then
quickly drowned in my beckoning Bloody Mary.

I
smiled but said nothing and mixed her a drink with the same passion I had mixed
my own, adding a squeeze of lemon and lime.  We decided to go downstairs and
have breakfast and some very necessary cappuccinos.  While I was downstairs, I
got a text from Jens asking where the hell I was.  When we got back upstairs,
Jens and his two brides were enjoying a huge room service breakfast.  It looked
like they had ordered everything on the menu except that Chinese dish I
mentioned earlier.  They were probably out of that one by now.

We
all spent the rest of the day hanging out on Venice Beach, drinking at the
Waterfront Café.  The girls were prepared and had brought beachwear with them.  I
bought a pair of cheap sandals and cut my pants off about three inches below
the knee.  I went to the bathroom with Jens and he tried to give me some
Ecstasy and some coke but I declined and said, “I’m already having such a great
time, why risk it, right?”

We
both laughed.  “Listen, Pauli, my girlfriend Christie…”  

I
interrupted him, “Yeah, I was wondering how you manage that, you do live with
her right?”  

“Yeah,
I’ve got to call her.  Listen, just say that you wanted to surprise me and that
we went to San Diego to visit your family or something.”  

“I
do have a cousin there, sure.”

“Okay,
I’m gonna call her now,” he said, and when he did, he and Christie immediately
started arguing.  Apparently just the sound of his voice launched her into a
tirade.

I
grabbed the phone from him and tried to calm her down saying what he had instructed
me to say.  She was obviously upset and rather quiet while on the phone with
me.  Afterward, they argued about some chores he was supposed to have performed
around the house.  It culminated in a shouting match and he hollered a few choice
obscenities in his guttural accent, ending with, “Fuck you, bitz!” And he hung
up on her.  I was startled by his quick changes, like flipping a switch.  But
then again, he'd gone from classy waiter to porn star so what was my problem
with instant rage? Maybe I should have just enjoyed the show and stopped
thinking so much. After all, I was impaired to put it mildly.

The
rest of the night went off without a hitch and I didn’t refuse Susan’s
invitation when she pulled me into the bathroom at Rebecca’s Bar in Venice that
night.  I bent her over the counter while she powdered her nose with cocaine.  It
was hot. And very quick. I was getting the hang of this porn king thing. A line
of girls were waiting to get in when we finally emerged.  The first one gave me
a pissy look on my way out but I could have sworn a few others winked at me.  I
love this sleazy town. I wondered if Susan would mind if I made a U-turn but
the thought bubble burst quickly.

I
stuck to alcohol all night and Susan drove me home around two in the morning.  Jens
stayed at the Viceroy again with blonde Victoria, whom I found out later was an
actual porn star. 

When
I saw him at work that Friday, around eleven, he looked like shit, though he
was clean-shaven and his uniform and hair looked unbelievably sharp.  The party
from the night before had probably just ended.  His voice was raspy and low
from no sleep; there were bags under his eyes the size of silver dollars, and
his skin was breaking out like a girl’s on the first day of her period.  It
took a long time for the image of him with two women to fade. Anytime I needed
a little “stimulation” all I had to do was call up that image and
boom.
Instant
flag salute.

But
Jens quickly proved that nothing could get in the way of his love of serving
guests in the Cricket Room.  He juggled several tables with ease, sold wine and
champagne like a seasoned sommelier, and acted as though nothing was bothering
him.  It was as if it were just another day at the Beverly Hills Cricket Room.

Around
one o’clock, I walked through the kitchen to get to the waiters’ stocking area,
and I caught a glimpse of Jens rounding the corner with a bottle of ‘92 Corton
Charlemagne and two glasses carefully balanced on his silver tray.  He walked casually
over to the big 30-gallon trashcan on the way from the service bar and made a
pit stop.  I thought he was going to take a swig from the bottle, but instead
as he was elegantly holding his tray away from his body, he bent over the can
and puked twice.  Then, still holding the tray perfectly, he walked over to his
glass of iced tea, rinsed his mouth out, gargled a bit, and wiped his mouth
with a cloth napkin that lay folded on his wrist.

I
watched him carry out that perfectly balanced tray as if nothing had happened. He
poured a taste of wine for the host at the table, then served the lady first,
bowing politely while maintaining eye contact with the guest.  He never missed
a beat. That was the moment when he officially became my hero, albeit a hero
who had gotten his balls polished by two professionals.

Later
on, he came over to my bar.  “Pauli, make me a Danish Mary before I crash and
burn.”

“You
got it, buddy, I’ll put it in a Styrofoam cup right there for you.  Have you even
been home yet?” 

“Thanks,
no,” he said with a laugh.  “And I’m not looking forward to it. She’s pissed
off beyond belief.”

Thinking
about the deep shit he was in with Christie, I giggled cautiously.  Martin Scorsese,
who was drinking at my bar, turned around to face Jens.

“Rough
night?” he asked. Apparently one of the world’s most famous directors could
recognize a hangover when he saw one.

“Yeah,
but worth every minute of it,” said Jens. 

Scorsese
chuckled knowingly and saluted Jens with his glass. It was a
one-scoundrel-to-another salute if ever I saw one.  At that point, I didn’t
even know he was Scorsese but I kept thinking he would look like Scorsese if he
had gray hair.  The eyebrows were the same.  Our conversation was light. We
talked about nothing for almost an hour and there he was, drinking Coppola
Claret, which in retrospect definitely seems like cannibalism. 

I
realized later that it was indeed Scorsese, damn it!  Mr. P, our Maitre d’,
confirmed it.  I decided I would not miss any more opportunities like that.  I
was disappointed in myself for not recognizing a man as famous as Scorsese and
began to reluctantly spend a few minutes a day paging through People magazine,
Variety, and other tabloids in order to stay current on celebrity 411.  In retrospect,
though, I think Scorsese enjoyed being spoken to as an average guy without
having to defend or explain his work to someone he didn’t know.  It was a
valuable lesson.  Once it all clicked, I realized that I wanted to be more
informed for my own sake but I also understood that the celebrity guests might
appreciate a more restrained, anonymous approach. No more fan boy shit for me.

Bottom
line on the party:  It cost me a fortune in hard-earned savings but was worth
every penny. Would I do it again? Probably not, but it’s a memory to get me
through dry spells. I never saw Susan again.

Whatever
you know of greater Los Angeles and its districts like Hollywood, which is west
of downtown, or neighboring cities like Beverly Hills which lies west of
Hollywood, you probably don’t know just how beautiful it all is.  LA is hillier
than most people imagine and because you have the interplay of ocean, valleys,
and mountains, the weather can be as dramatic as anything filmed in the famous
studios. We get raging fires, strong Santa Ana winds, fog, and days so
beautiful they make you ache to be outside. Early mornings are beautiful; the
pewter gray fog drapes itself over the hills, folding down into the shallow
valleys, and giving the whole metroplex an other-worldly look. I've lived all
over and there's no place like LA. Guess that's why I've stayed so long.  And
lest you think I'm just a sentimental pussy, let me assure you the availability
of gorgeous women and the uninhibited party lifestyle don't hurt. You won't see
Jens and me on a Chamber of Commerce poster, however. Just keeping it real.
What Vegas is to gambling, LA is to beautiful and/or talented people. 

And
it’s been that way since the early days of the movie industry, when The Cricket
Room got its name.  Way back in the 1930s, there were mostly rolling green
fields in Beverly Hills and only a few buildings to mar the otherwise pristine
landscape. Across the street from the pastel stucco Mediterranean-inspired
edifice was a large park and a cricket pitch. Among the game’s fans and players
at the time were many A-list Hollywood actors as well as studio heads, who in
those days were often lured from Hollywood to Beverly Hills for a day’s getaway
of fun and games.  Afterwards, the players, coaches, and fans would gather at
the restaurant to celebrate, and the place started to make a name for itself.  The
game of cricket was just intriguing enough, just unique enough, to appeal to
the elite senses of the wealthy. They never passed up a chance to appear more
“in the know” than their peers. Cricket was the perfect sport, a diversion
worthy of nose-in-the-air snottiness, and yet fun. It smacked of European
privilege, always a good thing for Hollywood types. They could dress up in
their summer whites and be photographed sipping champagne from crystal flutes,
having fun and kissing each other on the cheek like royalty.

With
this entrée, the Cricket Room began to charm Hollywood society with its
stunning architecture, cloistered, beautifully appointed dining room, and lush
garden veranda dripping with bougainvillea.  It had a fine menu, and the
stringent door policy provided total privacy that attracted celebrities and
tycoons from all over the world.  The Cricket Room was an exclusive hideaway
where old Hollywood could come to play after dark, undisturbed by prying eyes
and uninhibited by provincial morality. They might as well have hung out a sign
that said: No Riff Raff or Regular Folk Allowed.

There
are famous pictures of Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Sammy Davis, Jr., Marilyn
Monroe, Marlene Dietrich, and Humphrey Bogart all holding court at various
tables.  The comedian Jackie Gleason would become a regular at the bar.  Their
ghosts still come by now and then for a laugh or two. Over the years, there
have been many ghost stories and “sightings” from staff members. I myself have seen
doors flung open with no one in sight on some of my closing shifts while covering
for Don who was on vacation.  It was mighty creepy especially since I was all
alone and everyone else had gone home.

For
most of the Cricket Room’s history, you couldn’t get past the Maître d’ unless
your face was your calling card or you were personally known to him.  The
Maître d’ was notorious in those days for strategically, and sometimes
brilliantly, connecting different people.  If he liked you and felt you were
worth the crapshoot he would introduce you to the most powerful players in Los
Angeles.  Many an acting, writing, or directing career got its start from the Maître
d’s introduction at the right time.  I’ve had many people tell me about how
they started their careers in the Cricket Room and they still come back to pay
homage to this special place.

My
immediate boss, Mr. P, was the subject of a bit of history himself. As the
latest in a long line of legendary Maître d’s, he has been working at the
Cricket Room for almost thirty years.  He started as a busboy straight out of a
Mexican high school, and in those days he could barely speak English. He was
always a very hard worker. His superiors took notice. 

After
several years as a busboy, he had gotten to know most of the guests by their
first names.  Young Mr. P became so good at his job that he started covering
the waiters when they took a break.  They liked it because he did all the work
and they kept the tips, sharing with Mr. P only what suited them. He never
complained and seemed happy only to be of service.

Once
the waiters discovered that he had a talent for serving guests, they trained
him in table service and allowed him to cover their duties so they wouldn’t
have to work as hard and could spend more time screwing off in the back room
smoking, eating, or drinking and horsing around. There are two worlds in a
restaurant, even one like the Cricket Room: what the guests see in the dining
room, and what goes on in the back. No matter how famous the guests, the real
drama usually happens in the back, where there are fights, tempers flare, food
is thrown, drugs are used to fight fatigue, and love affairs spark and flame
out like fireworks. A waiter may have just thrown up in a trashcan, popped a
pill, kissed a girl, and punched a line cook, but when he steps foot into the
dining room he is smiling and focused on service.

About
eight years after Mr. P started as a busboy, one of the waiters, Ponce,
indulged in a few too many drinks courtesy of his buddy the bartender. Ponce
went on break and was unable to complete his shift.  The Maître d', Nino, asked
Mr. P to put on Ponce’s jacket and take over his tables.  The jacket stayed on
for another ten years until he finally became Maître d' himself. 

Like
his predecessors, Mr. P knew all of the regulars by name; he knew where they
worked, where they lived, what they ate, what they drank, who their family and
friends were.  He most likely knew uncouth details about their lives too,
overheard but never repeated.

Each
holiday season regular guests came by with wonderful gifts for him:  gold watches,
expensive shirts and silk ties, baskets of imported chocolates and best of all,
cash. There were four regular guests who always gave to the whole staff and would
come in with two to four grand in wads of cash and then Mr. P distributed the
largesse among the floor staff and the kitchen workers, as he felt
appropriate.  You wanted to keep on his good side or your holiday tip could be
fucked.

Though
Mr. P was not technically a tipped employee, and earned a straight salary from
the restaurant, he made a bundle seating guests who wanted certain tables and
who didn’t mind paying dearly for them.  He accepted their donations gracefully
but never expected them.  He has always remained incredibly humble and
grateful.

I
will say this much for Mr. P:  he’s not greedy.  He’s always been fair with the
guests and the staff and retained an aura of old-world class in the way he treated
all comers.  For someone with such a severe language barrier when he first came
to work at the Cricket Room, he evolved far beyond most people’s expectations
and still runs the floor of the most important restaurant in all of Southern
California.

The
Cricket Room has always been the place to see and be seen, and in the old days,
elegance and class prevailed.  Every male guest was required to wear a dinner
jacket at lunch and dinner upon penalty of expulsion, no matter who you were. 
Or, if you were important enough, the Maître d’ would provide one for you.  
Even Johnny Carson was once asked to put on his tie.  He described the event on
The Tonight Show
, joking that he wore the tie, but removed his shoes
since they didn’t have a shoe policy. 

Women
were not allowed to enter unaccompanied or wearing slacks.  Can you imagine? Supposedly,
Marlene Dietrich was 86’d (restaurant jargon for refused or removed) for
showing up one day in pants.  Back then, they were concerned with quality as
opposed to quantity, and they didn’t hesitate to turn people away who didn’t
adhere to the rules. 

It
was then, as it struggles to remain today, strictly a classy old-school
gathering place for Hollywood celebrities and moguls, the wealthy gentry, and
all manner of business tycoons.  The cricket pitch is long gone, given way to
commerce as the price of land exploded, but the restaurant has not much
changed. It remains as a monument to Hollywood’s glamorous history and
traditions. “I’m ready for my close up, Mr. DeMille,” and other famous movie
lines have become in ingrained part of American culture. “Say hello to my
leetle friend.” Two California governors came from “the biz” – Ronald Reagan
and Arnold Schwarzenegger.

No
paparazzi have ever been allowed inside the building or even to wait outside in
the parking lot.  It’s still the only public place in town where, once you’re
on the property, no one but the walls knows what happens inside. Oh, and the
staff, like me, but for the most part we’re forced into a vow of silence like
members of the priesthood.

There’s
an enduring story about Frank Sinatra, who was always reputed to have mob ties.
As the story goes, he was sitting at his usual table, number three, partying
with his boys. He always traveled with a gang and was never seen alone.  Now
Frank wasn’t a very soft-spoken guy and in those days before political
correctness made people wary of them, Frank and his buddies used racial slurs
when speaking to one another.  That was just the way they spoke: 
greaseball,
WOP, guinea, kike, spook
.  As the story goes, there was a Jewish guy at a
nearby table who was quite prominent in the entertainment business.  He started
to smolder with anger as he listened to the steady stream of loud racial slurs
the gang directed toward each other.  Though the conversation was among only
them it could easily be heard at nearby tables. Neither the wait staff nor the
Maitre d’ would dare step in and ask them to quiet down. No one wanted to wake
up with a horse head in their bed.

The
Jewish guy (who must have been a real dumbass) walked up to Frank’s table and
stared Sinatra in the eye.  With a measured, deliberate tone, he asked Sinatra
to keep it down.  Sinatra didn’t take kindly to the intrusion.  He became
enraged and started smacking the guy around, just going ballistic on him and
yelling, “Why don’t you mind your own business!  Mind your own business, you
fucking bastard, who the fuck do you think you are coming up to my table and
interrupting our conversation!” 

The
guy didn’t fight back, he was shocked, and he was ducking and trying to avoid
the worst of it.  Sinatra’s boys had to tear Frank away from him because he was
in one of his rages and he would have given him a thrashing.  It was all over
in less than a minute but it quieted the Cricket Room down for a while. The guy
was bleeding out of his ear and the side of his face.  The Maître d’ came over
with handkerchiefs and ice but the guy just sat there with his head in his
hands.

When
Sinatra’s boys came over to see if they could patch things up, the gentleman
said, “I don’t want anything from you guys.  I just want an apology from him,
that’s all.”  About a half hour later when Sinatra and his party were walking
out, Sinatra took out a bundle of cash – three or four thousand in Benjamins –
and threw it on the guy’s table.  “Here’s your apology, and be careful whose conversations
you interrupt in the future.” 

The
guy never sued, and even if he had, no one in that room would have testified,
not a single patron nor the staff.  Sinatra knew that.   He was the Chairman of
the Board, the king of the entertainment world and no one was gonna dare cross
him.  

Of
course, I had heard this and many other tales of the Cricket Room, all hidden
behind those famous stucco walls, and they are definitely part of the lore that
attracted me to the place. That, and its reputation for being the apex of the
Hollywood food chain. And if I was going to work in this business, why not aim
for the top.

There
are also countless stories detailing what my colleagues experienced firsthand
not long before I arrived. The high-drama legacy continues to the present day.  For
example, the convicted murderer and legendary music producer Phil Spector was
often the subject at the time.  Although there are many stories about him, two
really stick out to me, in addition to the Lana Clarkson date I’m pretty sure I
witnessed.  Spector had been dining with some friends at table one and there
had been a bit of table jumping as well, as there always is among the elite.
This is common on tables one, two, and three as those are visible from the
entrance, and certain old-school celebrities always like to sit there.  It’s
like putting their brand on the place. “Hey, I’m here. Notice me!” Nowadays,
the Johnny Depp and Brad Pitt types prefer a much more private table and the
same goes for the big time directors and producers.  Stars of old used to seek
publicity, but now with 24/7 media, they’re more likely to seek privacy. They
like to be able to talk unmolested and Cricket Room wait staff is trained to be
nearly invisible.

But
Mr. Spector always liked to sit at table one, so people would sit down with him
and his friends and see who could tell the best stories.  On this particular night,
Spector was still seated in his booth at closing time and had drunk so much
that his eyes were rolling around in their sockets.  Finally, after everyone
had left, he stood up with the help of the Maître d’.  He was wet all over the
front of his pants and the velvet booth was soaked underneath him.  He had
pissed himself. Classy, right? Don the bartender came around and helped the
Maître d’ walk Mr. Spector out to his Rolls Royce and waiting driver, and off
they went to his little castle in Pasadena to take his wig off and put on his
striped English jammies.  Maybe an adult diaper.