Concierge Confidential (11 page)

“Great. It'll be just half an hour or forty-five minutes.”

I had money to give him, but I wasn't sure when I should pass it along. Giving straight cash is always a tricky thing to gauge. It can be in anticipation of a favor or as gratitude, or you can mean it to be one but it'll end up being perceived as the other. I went up to him when he stepped away from the podium. “Wow, you guys are so hot. It must be fun to work here. I bet everyone does what I do and are always bothering you. I hope you understand we concierges are on the frontlines. Everybody looks at us like we're idiots because we can't get them in here. I'm sorry to bother you but it's my job.” I shook his hand and palmed him $200.

He didn't make a show of protesting, as most maître d's in my experience tend to do before pocketing the cash. He pretended nothing had happened. But two seconds later, we were being seated at a table—and Hal Druiter was my new best friend, as nice as can be.

Hoping to be
seen,
I did a quick scan of the other diners. Were we even in New York City, let alone downtown? It didn't buzz like other places with that kind of hype. Where were all the alleged celebrities? The crowd was clearly a well-heeled bunch, but there were no air kisses. It felt a little bit like we were all guests at a wedding where we really didn't know the family.

The food itself was really, really good—just like at ten thousand other restaurants in New York. But the larger part of going to eat at a nice restaurant is the experience, and that's where it fell flat.

It's engaging to let people in service know that you're really enthusiastic about what you're about to experience. It makes them want to make the experience even better for you—if they're normal. But there didn't seem to be any sense of excitement from the staff at The Trough
.

We got the menu and I looked it over. “It all seems so good. What's
your
favorite thing to try?” I asked the waiter.

He sighed with irritation. “Well, it depends on what you like. If you like fish, then this one is good.”

After I left that night, I made sure to say good-bye to Hal. “Call me anytime,” he told me. “You're the best. Let me give you our direct line.”

Cool,
I thought.
I got the number!

A couple of weeks later, a guest wanted a reservation for a table. I called the number—but it was the same as the regular one, except it bypassed the hold music. Some secret! “Sorry,” they told me on the phone. “We have nothing.”

“Well, will you tell Hal that I called?

He actually called me back. “What do you want?” he said. He wasn't very warm and he wasn't very cold; it was just very businesslike.

“I'm so desperate,” I said.

“What do you need?” he said.

“Can I get a four-top in at eight?”

“What's the name?” he said, impatiently. He didn't want to linger on the phone because he didn't need to linger on the phone. I had a short, specific request, and it was granted. The guest got their table and I did my job. Everyone was happy.
I'm so in now,
I thought.

Now I felt comfortable recommending The Trough to the guests of the hotel. The next time I called, I thought my old buddy Hal would be glad to speak to me. But it was my
old
buddy Hal—the one who didn't know me from Adam—who was on the other end of the line.

“Hi, is Hal there?”

“Hold on,” the hostess said. “Who's calling?”

“It's Michael Fazio.”

“Let me check.” They put me on hold, and I was forced to listen to opera music for a few minutes. “Yeah, he's going to have to get back to you.”

Crap. Crap, crap, crap!

I went back there after work one night, about eleven o'clock. I sat at the bar and ordered a drink. Hal was there at his station but, even though it was late, he was still busy. He didn't act like he really remembered me, which I didn't take offense to. “Hey, Hal,” I said, when he had a minute. “Can I buy you a drink?” Obviously he doesn't need to pay for drinks at his own place, but it's a gesture of respect—just like when you buy strippers a drink.

“No, no, no,” he told me. He didn't really say anything else or even engage me in conversation, which I also didn't take offense at.

As I was leaving, I stopped by him one more time. “Thanks again for everything,” I said, palming him fifty dollars more.

I was a little taken aback that he didn't do what other people in his position usually do, which is to feign humility. “Thanks for coming in,” he said, pocketing the money without any protest.

The next time I called them, I got the reservations that I needed—and then Hal stopped taking my calls again.
Damn,
I thought.
Here we go again.
But he had a bit of an excuse; the person on the other end of the line told me that he was in Italy on vacation. Since I knew “the number” I had a
little
bit of creditability with them. “Where is he in Italy?” I asked. “I want to send something to him.”

“He's in Capri,” she told me. Then she gave me the name of the hotel where he was staying.

Abbie speaks Italian, so she called his hotel. We sent him a beautiful bottle of wine, a bottle of Limoncello, and some pasticiotti. All this was not cheap. Abbie spoke to the concierge at the hotel and they attached a note, in Italian, to the gift. We thought we were being really classy, and we thought we were being kind of clever. We had found him all the way out in Italy and sent him a gift that was thoughtful.

Now we sat back and waited for the phone to ring. But there was no acknowledgment, not even a terse note. There was
nothing
. Nothing, nothing, nothing. Maybe we were being too upfront and honest for Hal's taste. We were establishing the boundaries of our relationship, but in doing so we were robbing him a little bit of his power. Maître d's—like concierges—cultivate an air of mystery about their position. They don't like their clients to feel totally comfortable. It's very much a situation where good service is given when
they
feel like it—not when
you
demand it.

But now I had to get a reservation that was very important. My friend Courtney worked at Bergdorf's, and she would always do really nice things for my clients and me. She would call and let me know that in ten days a certain collection was going to go on sale. I'd send people in. They'd pick out what they wanted, give it to Courtney, and she'd give it to them at sale price—and ring up the purchase ten days later.

Her corporate buyers were coming into New York, and she wanted to impress them. No surprise, but they wanted to go to The Trough for dinner. She called me right away, anxious that I make this happen.

“Of
course
I can do it,” I told her. “Don't worry.”

I managed to connect with Hal on the phone; maybe he was relaxed after having gone on his Italian vacation. “Incidentally,” I asked him, “Abbie and I sent you something. Did you get our gift?”

“Oh, yeah!” he said. “That was great! How'd you know where I was?” He was more curious than grateful. I got the message: we weren't that kind of friend. I was
trying
to be that kind of friend, but failing.

“I really, really wouldn't bother you if I didn't need this one reservation,” I told him. “This is a favor for a close friend.”

“I'll see what I can do,” he replied. It wasn't a yes, and it wasn't a no. He clearly didn't want to keep the door open for me to call anytime in the future. But I hoped that maybe he'd help this one time—and then I'd leave him the hell alone, like he wanted.

But Hal never called me back, and Courtney went ahead and told her guests that they'd be eating at The Trough.

I didn't want to be a pig and call him again. He had made it clear that we're not pals. None of my gestures was reciprocated. The Trough was literally—
literally
—the only place where those gestures didn't work. Maître d's know that concierges are kind of like matchmakers—we recommend their places to customers who would appreciate it, and we send them customers who would behave appropriately and add to their vibe. But no matter what you do, at The Trough you're still just an outsider.

It got to be the day of the reservation, and I started to get a bit of an attitude. I kept calling him, and calling him, and calling him, and calling him—and Courtney started calling me.

“This guy's being a dick,” I told her.

“I already told them that we're going,” she reminded me.

I imagined Courtney calling her buyers, who were totally psyched about eating at The Trough. She'd have to tell them that she was a loser and actually didn't get the reservation after all—and then she'd have try and do business with them in the future? It would be awful.

At around five o'clock, Hal finally got back to me. “I can't promise you anything,” he said, “but just tell her to come and see me.”

So I called Courtney. “Come by the hotel,” I told her. “I want you to take something with you.”

She didn't have that much money to throw around, and she didn't feel totally comfortable accepting money from me, but she had to do it so that she wouldn't have egg on her face. I didn't want Courtney to feel awkward, so I didn't tell her that it was money I was giving her—and certainly not how much. I put it in an envelope so she'd never know. “When you get there,” I instructed her, “say hi to Hal. Give him this and tell him it's from Michael.”

Courtney and her group went down to the restaurant—and I didn't hear anything the entire night. I was sure that it all backfired. But she called me first thing the next day. “You are amazing!” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“He took the envelope and sat us right away.”

Abbie and I gave up on The Trough, and started playing by their rules. They take reservations thirty days in advance, and they open at 10:00
A.M.
We would always start dialing at 9:56, a month before we needed a reservation. But even if we got through at 10:01, they never had 8 o'clock tables available. It would always be like 6:45, or 10:30. Maybe the 8 o'clocks are the ones that Hal uses for some sick I'll-decide-who's-worthy game.

I couldn't be more over The Trough if I tried—and I wasn't alone. I've yet to meet a concierge in the city who didn't roll their eyes at the name.

Whenever a hotel guest would request reservations for The Trough, I would always tell them, “You know, everybody wants to go there. I get it. But we get much better feedback from other places. The food
is
great, but they aren't going to make you feel very special.”

Rarely, people would ask for other suggestions.

PLACES I WOULD REFER A CLIENT TO IN LIEU OF THE TROUGH

If You Are Looking for Great Italian Food:

1.   San Pietro—
Bellissimo! Beso, beso, beso.

2.   Marea—Culinary talent and hospitality humility.

3.   Al Di La—Simply real. No reservations. (Please don't tell everyone!)

If You Are Looking for Foodie Cred:

1.   Little Owl—You need the cell phone of the maître d'.

2.   Bouley—Nothing trendy about a genius.

3.   Shaun Hargatt—Finally, a newcomer that is too expensive to be trendy.

If You Are Looking for Grossly Overpriced Cuisine:

1.   Masa—I “get” it … except that I don't.

2.   Gallagher's Steak House—This might have been cool, once.

3.   Valbella—Sorry you have to pass along the expensive rent, but
really
.

If You Are Looking for a Totally Obnoxious Experience (Masochists Only):

1.   Casa Tua in Miami—or most places in Miami, for that matter.

2.   Any Graydon Carter restaurant—worth the punishment, if you want to be in an “it” place. They usually don't have a phone number. If you're lucky enough to get the private email address, you have a chance. But it's like hoping to get Fantasia Barrino to write you a letter.

3.   The Park—It's still around, but so is Chevy Chase. At one time, they were the “first” not to publish their phone number. If you
were
lucky enough to get it, you were greeted with a computerized call-screening device that said, “Thank you for calling The Park, please announce your name at the tone.” After you said your name, it replied, “Please wait while we check to see if your party is available.” Rejected by a machine! (Gross, huh?) And today …
crickets
.

But the majority of guests didn't want to hear it. They knew about the reputation, but wanted to go there because, they say, they loved the way The Trough's famous chef/owner came off on TV.

“It's really difficult,” I let them know. “This is the one place where we just don't get anywhere with them.”

The thing is, I knew why the guests wouldn't take my advice. Everybody knows that The Trough is impossible to get into. That in itself is probably a good portion of the mystique. Saying you had dinner at The Trough is the kind of thing that would impress your friends.

A lot of people buy into the concept of who The Trough's chef/owner is. He's kind of a hippie, with this wife whose family used to own a goat farm, where they make their own cheese. He puts on this air like, “Look at me, I'm not a celebrity! Look at me, I wear Crocs! I wear these all the time! I'd wear them to Steve Irwin's funeral, I'm so average!” I'm really not even exaggerating. The man wouldn't even put on a tie to meet the First Lady—at the White House. But he's about as rustic as Mr. Howell was on
Gilligan's Island.
Just because you're with the coconuts doesn't make you a native.