Waiter to the Rich and Shameless: Confessions of a Five-Star Beverly Hills Server (9 page)

At
the grill, we had Miguel and Johnny.  They were both experienced grill masters
while still only in their thirties.  These poor little bastards’ arms were covered
in burn scars that made them look more like war veterans than kitchen survivors. 
And they were constantly berated all night long by Lola.  It was their job at
the grill station to cook the majority of the menu items themselves:  the meats
and poultry, burgers and vegetables, fries, and potatoes.  If you’ve never been
in a commercial kitchen, you’d be shocked at how stupid loud it is, and how
hot. With open-flame char and flat grills cranked up, stove burners all going
full blast, heat lamps to keep the food warm, the only refuge is the walk-in
cooler. Sometimes there was a traffic jam in there of people just trying to
cool off. Or hook up, but that’s another story.

Philipina
and Harvey at the cold station prepared salads, shucked oysters, assembled
cheese plates and the like.  Those two were a frickin’ joke.  I learned they
had been at the CR for ten years and were still working for the same salary. 
I’ve never met two people more burnt out or less ambitious in my life. They
were on a treadmill and seemed not to care. Philipina does everything extra
slowly and Harvey will never, ever make eye contact with a waiter.  They move
as if they’re auditioning for roles in a zombie film.  Once I figured out their
burnt-out M.O., I realized that I must never make a mistake with the cold items
because it would take way too long before I got my replacement dish.  I cannot
explain how they kept their jobs for so long; maybe management types felt sorry
for them. They were not going anywhere, though, so I had to learn to work
around them.

Moving
on, we had Martino the pastry chef whose apparent mental disabilities would
later earn him the name “Patzo the Clown” (“pazzo” means “crazy” in Italian)
for always forgetting to put the 20-minute soufflé in the oven and for
disappearing from his post without letting Lola know he would be absent for a
while.  He should have had a role in
La Strada
or
I am Sam
for
that matter.

He
wasn’t actually a bad guy though – he always gave us sweets and desserts
whenever we wanted them.  We often crowded around him like kids on the
playground.  I really liked him.  I think I had a soufflé every night during my
first year of being a waiter there thanks to Patzo, our constant benefactor. 
Are they fattening? Yes, and it’s the kind of fat that takes an extra long time
to shed too, I can confess to that.  Maybe I shouldn’t have considered Patzo a
saint; I should have shouted, “Get thee behind me, Satan!” each time I saw him.
His temptations were more unhealthy for me than Jens’ ever were. The easy
accessibility of food and drink has led to the demise of many a waiter and
bartender. A restaurant is like a crack house for sugar addicts.

Finally,
on the sauté side as we called it, we had Nico, my Italian homey.  He handled
the pasta dishes and many of the pan-roasted and sautéed fish and seafood
dishes.  Nico was a thin, tall, good-looking guy in his thirties.  All the
chicks thought he was awesome until he smiled.  His teeth were brown and crooked,
but as long as he kept his mouth shut he’d be getting girls left and right.  He
was always good to me even before I started as a waiter. Nico would cook me
anything I wanted, at anytime.  He was a happy guy with a great attitude, and
we had an unspoken “paesan” bond. 

Now
let’s meet the busboys, shall we? That’s a job title the PC police have been
after for a long time but can’t seem to change, but whatever you call them,
they’re incredibly important. Most waiters come up from busboy jobs. If
conductors keep the trains running on time, it’s the busboy equivalents who
keep the restaurant running. Career-wise they’re on the first rung of the
ladder with everybody above shitting down on them. 

Juan,
a Mexican (you’re shocked, right?) father of two, had a healthy head of coarse black
hair and a huge beer belly that hovered over his skinny legs like a dirigible
over two sapling trees. His arms looked like lengths of rope.  I guess the only
thing that had grown on him since his teens was his belly.  He was in his
forties and had been working two full-time busboy jobs for ten years and showed
no signs of wanting more responsibility.  He owned a modest home in the San
Fernando Valley, about thirty miles away so his biggest gripe was always LA
traffic.  He was funny and loved to laugh, always with a joke about stupid LA
drivers. When Juan was stressed or behind in his work, he’d appear cross-eyed
and looked stupid even though he wasn’t. I often found myself quietly chuckling
at that.  He also drank so much club soda I was sure that his pee must’ve been
carbonated.   He probably didn’t pee, he spritzed. When I told Jens my theory,
he said he might start drinking gallons of club soda just to see what kind of
bubbly “showers” he could rain down on blonde Victoria.

José
was a short, round, grey-haired man who was just over fifty.  He had one work
pace, medium-slow, as if he were a robot. Nothing short of a Taser was going to
jolt him into moving faster. José disliked most waiters because they often requested
that he do crazy things – things that were included in his job description.  To
him, insisting that he do his job – like clearing the dessert dishes – was
unreasonable. When you asked him for something he would call you the by the
GM’s last name as if saying, “Okay, Boss Man,” but that was just José’s way. 
José loved to goose people’s butts – especially the gay waiters.  I often
caught them scolding him and he would reply, “Come on, puta, jew know jew like
it.” 

All
in all, José was an okay guy to talk to.  He also liked to joke around and
laugh.  Much like Juan, he was not a serious guy.  There were other busboys too
but they came and went so frequently that I could hardly ever recall their
names.  They were like replaceable and forgettable extras in our little movie.

Our
food runners were Paco and Marino.  I always seemed to be working with Paco,
which was cool because he always agreed with me.  Of course, he did – I was the
one tipping him.  He got me, though, and he was always amused when I would lash
out at people who kept screwing up.  But what I really liked about Paco was
that he would try hard to do his job well and I could respect that.  Paco had a
quiet demeanor and although he was of Mexican descent, he looked as Spanish as
the actors who have played Zorro.  I also suspect he’d had drug problems but
had gotten himself sober.  I can always tell a tweaker apart from the rest of
the crowd and Paco was definitely a former user. Just call me the drug
whisperer.   

The
next evening, Mr. P took me into the dining room to teach me the table numbers
and how to set up a table properly.  Each tabletop was to be set with an
appetizer knife and fork as well as a dinner knife and fork, with the knives to
the right of the plate, of course.  The appetizer silverware was placed on the
outside next to the dinner silverware. To the left of the appetizer fork was a
plain, small bread plate with an old-fashioned butter knife balancing on the
right upper and lower edges.  A stemmed water glass would be placed directly
above the dinner knife and a stemmed white wine glass placed slightly to the
left above the water glass.  Centered between the silverware there had to be a
logo plate (sometimes called a charger) which is extra heavy, trimmed in gold,
and with the restaurant’s green shield logo emblazoned in the center of the
plate.  On top of the logo plate was a specially-folded white linen napkin with
the restaurant logo embroidered on it, facing the guest.  The napkin would
cover the logo on the plate but as soon as the host had seated a guest he (or
she) would remove the napkin, open it up with a flourish, and lay it the
guest’s lap, leaving the logo on the plate exposed.  The higher the prices on
the menu, the more ritual comes with the meal. And the Cricket Room is
expensive. You get plenty of pomp and circumstance to make you feel very
special. It costs the restaurant nothing, but validates in the guest’s mind
that the special treatment is worth every dime. Suckers, yeah, but I guess if
that’s what it takes to make someone feel special, or generous at check time,
who am I to argue?

Before
the night shift could begin, waiters had to polish everything on their tables. 
This table detail included:  polishing the sterling silver salt and pepper
shakers, the logo plates, all the silverware, and all the stemware.  We also
were expected to check the tablecloths for holes, check under the table to make
sure that nothing had been left behind during the lunch shift, brush off the
seats, and light the sterling silver table-top candle lamps.  Salt and pepper shakers
had to be completely full and the white porcelain sugar caddies had to contain
five packets each of raw sugar, white sugar, and every brand of artificial
sweetener known to man.   All packet labels had to be facing in the same
direction. Uniformity and attention to detail was mandatory or you would be
called on it.  This was the dining room’s version of
mise en place
, a
French phrase meaning "putting in place."  The silver candle lamps
were also polished once a week by the stewards (an expensive word for
dishwashers).

Serving
tables at the Cricket Room was to be performed in a specific manner and there
were precise Rules of Service, as they were called, and those rules were not
negotiable.  Each waiter had to touch on over twenty points at each table during
the course of dinner service and many points were to be carried out within
specific time limits.  But hitting every point within the specified time limits
was nearly impossible.  Only the best reached that level of service; Jens was
one of the few who could do it and I wanted to achieve it as well.

After
Mr. P had given me a printed “Rules of Service” list, he told me that I would
have to memorize it, and within a few days I would have to serve a table of the
executive party to see if I could pass the “Captain’s Table” test.  Keeping my
job at that point would depend on hitting those twenty points on the nose.  
Jeez,
I thought,
these people are anal as shit. It’s only food service, right? Or
would I be doing brain surgery for dessert? Maybe a little fucking rocket
science?
But merely food service or not, it was important to them, and
keeping my job was important to me.  I also knew the clientele of the Cricket
Room expected top-notch service. They might not know if their waiter missed one
of the twenty touch points, but if a guest happened to be one of the monthly
secret shoppers, the Maitre d’ would certainly find out.

Then
Mr. P described all the service imperatives that were
not
in the “Rules
of Service” but were nevertheless expected.  
Fuck, there’s more?
At
round and square tables that were free-standing, at which you were able to
access both sides of the guest, Mr. P explained that he wanted plates of food
to be served from the guest’s left and empty plates removed from the right. 
Beverages should be served and removed from the guest’s right.  Napkins were to
be removed from the guest’s setting and placed in the guest’s lap from the
right, upon arrival, if not already done by the host or hostess.  However, in
the booths or on deuces (tables for two) that were up against a window or wall,
Mr. P told me to follow his serving rules but only if possible.  He stressed
that I should always be aware of the guest’s comfort and always use discretion,
ultimately serving from the side that was least intrusive to the guest. 

Mr.
P went on to teach me the position numbers of all the tables.  For example, as
we faced a booth he said position number one would be furthest to the left and
it would go up from there, moving clockwise.  It definitely got trickier at the
free-standing tables but it all made sense to me and I learned the drill
quickly.  The reason that waiters have to make note of position numbers on
orders is so that the food runners can put down each plate in front of the
appropriate guest without having to ask the guest or announce the dish.  Mr. P
explained that I must always be polite and remember to never, ever, argue with
a guest.  If I ever were to have a problem with someone, he told me to just
come and get him.  “Jew can never to take matters into jur own hands.” 
Great,
so I’m responsible for everything but have no ability to take control.

He
continued to describe how I must behave, always excusing myself before setting
anything down, or removing anything from the table.  I was never to reach across
a guest while serving, but if I were forced to, I must always pardon my reach. 
To me this whole approach seemed very old-school but then again this whole
place seemed to be an anachronism right out of the 1930s.  The world had
changed in over seventy years but not the essence of the Cricket Room. The
winds of turmoil, change, and chaos might swirl all around the outside of the
building, but inside it remained the calm, sophisticated, and sane oasis it had
always been.

That
was kind of cool actually and one reason I was drawn to it.  I fell in love
with the place and this new challenge was very appealing to me.  I couldn’t
wait to become a world-class waiter, maybe one in Jens' league. 

At
this point, you may be wondering why the hell I’m going into so much detail
about how the Cricket Room operated. My purpose is to differentiate that very
unique place from the jillions of other dining establishments and bars, and
make clear just how special it is.

Every
table in the Cricket Room was set with long, draped white linen over a long
table skirt in a hue that accented the color scheme of the dining room.  Hardly
any of the tables were a uniform size, which added an interesting feel to the
different sections of the restaurant.  There was the front dining area, with which
I was already familiar.  This section had a bit more festive and less formal
air because it was close to the bar and the live entertainment.  Included in
this section was a recessed area we grew to call The Cove, as it included one
four-top and five super cozy deuces.  The Cove was surrounded by garden view windows.
This space saw many proposals for marriage made, make-up gifts exchanged, and
no doubt some indecent proposals as well.