Waiter to the Rich and Shameless: Confessions of a Five-Star Beverly Hills Server (13 page)

As
the night continued, the husband used more vulgarity than a sailor on San Diego
shore leave, swearing the whole time he was talking to his wife and guests.
Meanwhile there was a gentleman at the next table visiting from out of town
with his ten-year-old daughter. When I asked the gentleman if his dinner was to
his liking, he said, “Yes, but who is this man next to me? I wish he wouldn’t
use such foul language, since my daughter is here with me.”

I
nod, “I understand, sir.”

I
approached Mr. Haig to tell him discreetly that the young girl at the next
table could hear everything they were saying.  This was all that I said,
nothing more. I thought that if he were a decent guy, he’d realize that he was
compromising someone else’s fine dining experience and adjust his vocabulary.
He said, “Okay,” but later when I came back to help José clear the table, Mrs.
Haig said with a serious pout on her face, “I can appreciate what you told my
husband but we are in a free country and we should be able to say whatever we
want to say.” 

I
smiled and said, “I’m just trying to keep everyone happy, that’s all.” 
Bitch.
Rich and shameless to the bone.

Mrs.
Haig turned to her friends and said, “I can’t believe no one is backing me up
here! Children should be in bed by ten anyway!”

It
was 9:45 pm and the gentleman and his daughter had arrived at 9:00. Finally,
one of the couple’s guests said, “We are frequent guests and should be treated
as such. I’m going to save my comments for later.” He said “comments” in a way
that meant he was going to leave me a shitty tip -- as if I had been rude to
them. Riddled with guilt and entitlement, they struggled to make sense of their
own bad behavior, working it out so that someone else was to blame for their immodesty.
I immediately fetched Mr. P and explained the situation in case it escalated. 
When he came over to talk to them, they said everything was fine. We politely
bid them farewell as they departed but secretly we were holding our middle
fingers high behind our backs as we bowed our heads in an act of faux respect.
I was surprised to find that they actually left a decent tip; maybe their
consciences kicked in.

One
night I make a quick stop at Robert De Niro’s table unaware that the simpering,
star-struck idiot who’s been filling in on Mr. P’s night off had been checking
on him constantly. That particular night, my favorite actor ever had requested
a table in the Cove and specifically paid the annoying Maître d’ a hefty sum to
keep the booths next to him empty because he was entertaining a young black
girl and obviously didn’t want to be bothered.  I wouldn’t normally check
in on a guest who isn’t in my station, but I took this rare opportunity to
interact with one of the greatest actors in the world. As I approached the
table to make sure all is well, I asked with a happy face, “Is everything alright
here, Mr. De Niro?” Sneering at me with that “You talkin’ to me?” face, he
practically yells at me, “Why? Did I say something was wrong!?” Whoa.
Apparently the world’s best actor also has the biggest balls in Hollywood.
Later, as De Niro’s leaving, Dum-dum asks for his mini flashlight back which he
had loaned to De Niro to read the menu. De Niro scoffed and told him to buy a
new one. First time in my experience that a guest reacted negatively to too
much attention from the staff. Who knows, maybe his lady friend wasn’t in a
generous mood that night.

On
that same night, I heard that Sir Elton John along with his husband David
Furnish, and Nicholas Cage all gave bad tips to their servers. And when I say
bad, I mean 10% and less. Though I wasn’t their waiter, I couldn’t help but
think, “That shit stinks.” But some celebrities think it’s an honor to serve
them so you should be grateful they leave you anything. It’s arrogance on
steroids, like their bodies. If you can’t afford the full experience, including
leaving a decent tip, then stay the fuck home. Order pizza with a side of human
growth hormone.

Unless
the service sucked, which perhaps it did, but then why didn’t we hear about it
later?  It’s just unforgivable to be a regular celebrity customer and pretend
that you don’t know the drill.  Yes, even Cage, an American who’s married to a
former waitress, gave a crappy tip to one of my co-workers. I remember
overhearing him at the bar telling the bartender that he was a bit upset
because his wife made him spend too much money on real estate and now he was
being forced into foreclosure on several properties. This was no secret,
because he was willingly dishing out this confession to several listeners at
the bar, and it was all over the news that he’d had tremendous financial
troubles involving the IRS and his real estate holdings. I mean there’s a guy
who earned an average of $20 million dollars a year or more.  Do I really want
to feel sorry for him?  Still, celebrities are human beings (most of them,
anyway) and they have problems just like the rest of us. Making millions
doesn't give them instant wisdom or morals.

I
remember serving Mr. Cage myself a while back.  He came in with his wife Kim
and his twenty-one year old heavy metal son Weston, and Weston’s girlfriend. 
Cage didn’t drink very much – just a couple of glasses of Turley Zinfandel. 
Prior to Weston showing up, he had ordered three appetizers, a tortilla soup
(which was our most popular soup), a jumbo shrimp cocktail and a chicken
quesadilla made with roasted corn and Monterey jack cheese, served with salsa
fresca and sour cream.  When his son, looking very Ozzy-like, and his girlfriend
showed up, they each ordered Ahi tuna tartar topped with chopped yellow
heirloom tomato, and seaweed salad with fresh mashed avocado on the side, as
well as two mixed juices made with pineapple, cranberry, and orange.  When Cage
saw their tuna, he ordered an Ahi tuna tartare for himself and one ounce of
Siberian caviar.  I guess that’s what guys like him eat when they have the
munchies – three-hundred bucks’ worth of appetizers. 

For
their main courses, Weston’s girlfriend ordered the juicy rotisserie chicken
with watercress salad and roasted fingerling potatoes, and for Weston it was even
more tuna:  the rare grilled Ahi steak with sautéed sea-beans, rapini, roasted
peewee potatoes, and a fresh ginger-red chili ponzu sauce on the side.  Cage
had Spaghetti Vongole, sort of a joke version of this classic dish if you’re
from the Mediterranean, and for the Mrs., a chopped salad with everything on it
except bacon. 

The
overall mood among them was a bit tense.  Cage seemed uncomfortable as they
discussed Weston’s recordings with his band, Eyes of Noctum.  Weston complained
about the long hours in the studio and the tedious recording process.  Cage
trumped it by saying, “The movie-making process is so slow, it drives me crazy
sometimes. They keep you there all day and much of the night waiting to act out
a few lines.” 

Oh,
boo hoo. We all started crying for him; I swear I could hear violins playing a
lonely, sad song in the background.  WTF, schmuck!  You make millions on every
movie while “waiting around to say a few lines” – is that worth waiting for?  I
guess our complaints about life are all relative, aren’t they?  Many
celebrities are incredibly generous and thoughtful, and support huge charities
and foundations. Others seem to have no perspective on life beyond Beverly
Hills and Hollywood, and the rest of the world might as well not exist.

Though
Mr. Cage was a bit arrogant and avoided eye contact with me most of the night,
I managed at last to catch his eye when I gave him his check.  I thought it’d
be important for him to look up and actually see me, so that he would see who
had been busting his ass to serve him for the past hour and a half.  He tipped
me one-twenty on a five-eighty tab – that’s 20%.  In my experience, Cage is a
good tipper when he gets good service, even if he does whine like a bitch about
his job.

Now,
regarding David Furnish, Sir Elton’s man toy:  a previous visit had also taken
place around the same time as Cage’s earlier visit, and I was Mr. Furnish’s
waiter then.  That night he came in with his parents, as he often does right
around the holidays.  Obviously, he is used to impeccable service as he is
married to Sir Elton John.  The two of them employ several full-time butlers
and servants.  I know this because they travel with Elton and his bride
everywhere, and the butlers dine with us all the time and actually leave
impeccable tips for those lucky enough to serve them.  On this evening, Mr.
Furnish and his distinguished parents had a bottle of Ruinart Champagne (a
terribly overlooked wine in America). My first impression of his parents was a
lasting one.  What absolutely sweet people Jack and Gladys were – so down to
earth and yet dignified at the same time.  They seem like typical good salt-of-the-earth
English folk. Furnish always looks impeccable, like a Wall Street banker,
certainly the opposite of his flamboyant partner.

They
ordered a bottle of Peter Michael La Caprice Pinot Noir along with their main
course, per Vino’s suggestion. Of course, Furnish had to change the menu –
that’s just what people like him do to declare their wealth and superiority. 
He had the caramelized scallops with steamed broccoli and truffle parsnip
puree, without the risotto base, garnished with lemon on the side. It looked
absolutely terrible without the risotto when it came out, but he said it was
“Wonderful!”  It seemed like it was missing something to me. In the end,
Furnish left me over 20% for a gratuity – one-thirty on a six-hundred buck tab.

I
remember that night quite clearly because I was also serving Gina Gershon and
writer-director Brooks Branch at the adjacent table.  She’s seriously cool – I
like her style, but she’s another Hollywoody who can’t leave well enough alone
and always makes up her own dishes. She has a sort of New York artsy air about
her, though she was brought up in Beverly Hills. Brooks directed and co-wrote a
Woody Allen-type movie titled
Multiple Sarcasms
starring Timothy
Hutton.  They enjoyed four Chopin vodkas with a dash of bitters and soda, and
Brooks took his with a lime. 

Big
Lips Gershon asked: “Can they make me a rigatoni Bolognese?” which is not on
the menu.  Brooks had the halibut special.  Brooks talked a lot about his trip
to China and his experiences there.  I assume that his next project will
reflect this.  They finished up with two fresh mint teas and another nice tip
for me.

Anyway,
my point at the beginning of this Cage/Furnish rant was that they both left me
good tips for good service during their previous visits.  So I’m going to have
to assume that on the night they didn’t tip their servers well, their service must
have sucked.  Well, that’s just too bad for Germaine and Daniel.  I guess we
all have bad nights, though I can’t say I’ve ever had one quite as bad as that.

When
you sign on to serve ruthless people, a/k/a the rich and shameless, you have to
take the bad with the bad.

Sometimes
the good does outweigh the bad.  Late one night around nine-thirty we got a
call letting us know that Russell Crowe and eight guests would be dining in the
garden. The manager asked me if I would handle the table even though it was not
in my section.  I complied and went outside with the busboys to set up the
table and prepare for a good time.  I love it when Crowe comes in -- it’s
amusing to watch him hold court as if he were a medieval king surrounded by his
courtiers.  Just like you’d expect from watching him portray a gladiator and
Robin Hood, he’s a very take-charge New Zealander and “owns the room.” I think
what really impressed me about him, though, was that he’s also a rocker. His
band is called Thirty Odd Foot of Grunts, a cool name but I’ve heard it also
has real meaning.  Apparently he had to re-record some dialogue for a movie
scene in which his character is beaten up and kicked down an alleyway for
thirty feet. 

At
this point in time Beverly Hills, as in much of the country, didn’t allow
smoking anywhere near a dining area, but if you’re Russell Crowe we’d bend the
rules. A lot.  I prepared fifteen polished ashtrays and placed several on the
table, with the rest set aside for backup.  It was a cold night and no one else
was sitting outside.  So we turned on the heaters and I set the table with a
thick vinyl liner under double tablecloths to cushion the cheap glass-top
table, two candles, two courses of silverware and white and red wine glasses (yes,
there’s a difference).

By
the time bad boy Crowe showed up an hour later at ten-thirty, all of my other
tables had cashed out and gone home.  I grabbed Vino and said:  “I’ve got a
feeling he’s really gonna be worth our time tonight; let’s make his night a
memorable one!  For us!” 

“Ha!
You got it, buddy,” says Vino. 
Woo hoo
– Crowe was in town and his
hangers-on had been summoned!  Forget
Entourage
– this was the real
thing.  He was flying solo with no wife, Danielle, and no kids on this trip. 
It was party time! 

Crowe
sat at the head of the table, of course, and his eight acolytes showed up a
minute later. Red, his main yes-man, was there with his hot girlfriend whom
Crowe was eyeing big time – she was the only girl in the company of eight men
and must have felt like a minnow in a shark tank.  There was a lot of loud
chatter at the table, most of it coming from Red, whom I frankly couldn’t
stand.  This guy was so impressed with Crowe that he probably signed on to lick
his underwear clean and spit-shine his shoes every morning.  Crowe eats it all
up as if he’s the Messiah and these young admirers are all his disciples who
will carry on his great prophecies one day.  Sycophants should be spelled
sick-o-fants.

I
approach the table. “Good evening, Mr. Crowe, it’s nice to see you again. 
Welcome back.” 

Red,
who sat nearest to Crowe, chuckled and mimicked me, “Good evening, Mr. Crowe.”

Crowe
said quietly, “Shut up, Red.”  Then, to me, “Good evening to you, my friend,
bring us a round of Belvedere on the rocks with lemons.” 

“Nine,
then, Mr. Crowe?” 

“Yes,
nine.” 

As
always, excitable Vino showed up a little before his cue and jumped in with:
“Would you like me to bring out some wine for you, sir?” 

“Yes,
bring us three bottles of Cloudy Bay.” 

“Right
away, sir.”

Red
chuckled and said, “Oh, yes, right away Mr. Crowe, sir!”

“Shut
it, Red.” 

Red
had one of those high-pitched annoying voices and he often becomes quite
excitable  very quickly, which makes his voice even more unbearable.  Other
than his ability to suck up to Crowe like a turbo-charged Hoover, I don’t know
what Crowe sees in him

By
the time I’d brought their first round of drinks, they were already smoking
like a row of chimneys. Crowe downed his drink quickly and headed out to make a
call. My buddy Red called me over and ordered a new round for everyone, but he instructed
me to make sure to bring a glass of Grey Goose to Mr. Crowe, not Belvedere.
“We’re doing an experiment!” he said, chuckling again in his annoying voice.  I
did so and returned with the drinks and Mr. Crowe’s mystery vodka. The Crowe was
still out on a call.

I
put down clean ashtrays and noticed most of the cigarettes had been smoked
right down to the filter.  Crowe returned and I watched from a distance as he
made a toast with his wine and welcomed everyone.  I finally grasped the
obvious: Red and some of the guys were actors from the
Robin Hood
set.  I
could only hope the Robin Hood spirit would prevail when it came to paying the
check.

There
was more loud talking and they all listened intently as the king regaled his
minions with stories about football, music, rugby, the farm back home and his
kids. Red piped in every now and then, shouting (or squealing), “Russell!
Russell! Remember when we blah blah blah!”  Guess he was playing the part of
the court jester, he just didn’t know it.

Crowe
The Great smiled, obviously feeling important in this setting. He was the
center of attention as he always is when surrounded by his minions.  He lifted
his vodka glass.  I watched from a distance where I could have eye contact with
him without anyone at the table seeing my face.  Red, still chuckling in his
annoying way, said, “How is it?  Tell me if it’s Belvedere or something else!” 
I thought:
Judas is trying to discredit the boss.
Where I come from
people will bury you in a cement block and dump you in a river for that kind of
shit.  Hell, if this was
Goodfellas
, Joe Pesci would have shot that
screeching hyena a long time ago and put his bullet-ridden body in the trunk of
a Buick where it belonged.  Trouble with today’s cars is size; no room for a
body in the pathetic excuse for trunks anymore. Sad.

The
Great Crowe threw a serious look toward the glass, as if he’d been caught by
surprise.  He tasted the Grey Goose and looked around pensively.  Then he threw
me a quick glance and our eyes met.  I held his gaze for an instant and then
quickly, subtly, I shook my head, “No.”  It all took only about one second but
it had seemed like time stood still for at least a minute.  Everyone was dead
silent, except for Judas who was chuckling in a more nervous tone now.  He’s
probably realized that if Crowe got it wrong, he’d be revealed as the Betrayer,
having undermined the illustrious host of this sweet little party.  Oops. But
fortunately for Crowe, thanks to yours truly, he didn’t have to eat any.

Crowe
said, “I don’t know what this is but it’s not Belvedere, that’s for sure.” 

Red
Judas responded, “No way! How can you tell?” 

Crowe,
feeling quite sure of himself after my clue, said, “I just know my vodka,
that’s all.” 

Red
squawked: “Wow! No way!  You can’t!  Wow!  That’s amazing – you got it right,
man.  That’s amazing!  The waiter switched it out for a Grey Goose or
something.” 

The
Crowe shot me a look with a completely straight face.  I gave him a swift,
subtle nod.

Red
continued sheepishly, “Well, we told him to bring you something else.”

Someone
else at the table said, “Whaddaya mean ‘we?’ You told him to switch it out!” 

“Well
yeah, but we were all kind of in on it, right?”  No one answered.

Crowe
looked at Red, then said with a smile as he rubbed Red’s head and eyed his
girl, “You just don’t know who you’re dealing with here, Red, do you?” Everyone
laughed, following The Great One’s lead. 

Crowe
called me over. Taking charge and savoring his triumph, he looked like the
Master and Commander of the Cricket Room tables, having put down an
inconsequential mutiny.

“Yes,
Mr. Crowe?” 

“Why
don’t you bring us all a petit filet with mashed potatoes and some sautéed
spinach.”

“Would
you like me to bring a nice market green salad with a white balsamic dressing to
start you all off, sir?” 

“Yes.” 
He looked around the table with a powerful look of contentment on his strong,
handsome face, practically daring anyone to disagree. “That will be fine.” 

As
I went around the table to take cooking instructions, one person quietly asked
for a spaghetti pomodoro instead of steak.  He was probably a vegetarian or
vegan but wanted to keep it quiet.  You wouldn’t want to offend this meat-eating
man’s man, the mighty Crowe, the great Gladiator! 

Crowe:
“And you!  What’s your name?” he gestured with his regal head towards Vino. 

“My
name is Vincent but everybody calls me Vino.”

Red
chuckled. “Ha ha!  Vino!”

Crowe,
ignoring Red the Buffoon, said, “Well, I suppose that’s an appropriate name for
you, Vino.”  Everybody giggled at the table until his Majesty puts his fist
down, loudly commanding silence.  Crowe turned back towards Vino. “Bring us
three bottles of Hill of Grace, my friend.” 

Vino
responded nervously.  “I only have two bottles, sir, a ’98 and an ’04. ” 

Crowe:
“What? But it’s on your list!” 

Vino
flinched at the rebuke. “I can order more for your next visit, Mr. Crowe.” 

“The
Russians would have fun with you, my friend, they’d skin you alive,” Crowe said,
commanding great laughter from his audience.  He continued: “Order me a case – I’ll
drink it all next time I’m here. Now go ahead and bring us what you have and
we’ll figure it out from there, son.”  He must have had a deal go bad with some
Russian producers, I imagined.

Vino
nervously replied. “Yes, Mr. Crowe, sir, right away.” 

Red
chuckled at Vino’s awkwardness: “Yes, sir, Mr. Crowe, sir!”

I
myself am chuckling now at the whole thing.  The thing about Russell Crowe is
that you can’t be a pussy in his presence.  He’ll drive over you like a twenty-ton
bulldozer.  Several of the other waiters here don’t like him because they say
he doesn’t tip well, he’s rude to them, he’s bossy, etc.  They are a bunch of
pushovers who are afraid to look him in the eye and command their position.  If
you don’t have any confidence in who you are and your ability to give great
service to Mr. Crowe, he’ll run you like a dog and tip you like a bitch.  He
wants your undivided attention.  He wants good service, but he also wants to be
able to understand you and be understood without repeating himself. Is that too
much to ask?  No matter, he expects it and if you serve him, you had better
know it.

Paco
brought out the salads, which looked fresh, plump and perfectly tossed with
just the right amount of our house-made dressing. I assisted him in setting
them down and offering fresh ground pepper, the lady first then everyone else,
and the host, Mr. Crowe, last.

Man,
I can’t believe it, they’re smoking those ciggies right down to the filter
, I thought as I noticed the full
ashtrays.  I poured more bottled water and asked if anyone wanted more of the
Cloudy Bay.  There were a few takers.  Mr. Crowe ordered another cocktail
round.  I asked him if he wanted to order some dessert soufflé this evening. 

“Great
idea, mate, what do you have?”

“Chocolate
or raspberry tonight, sir.” 

“Thanks,
give us four and four.”

“Yes,
sir.” 

Vino
was finally on his way out with the Hill of Grace, a spectacular single
vineyard Aussie Shiraz, just over eleven-hundred a bottle on our list.  I
exchanged all the ashtrays for clean ones and walked to the bar to pick up Mr.
Crowe & Co.’s drink orders. 
Wow, these guys are smoke fiends
, I
thought,
who knew? 

I
delivered the drinks and by now, most of them were almost finished with their
salads.  I set up a large service tray to the side, out of sight, and started
clearing all the salad plates.  Then I made sure everyone had a proper fork and
steak knife, except for the guy who was having spaghetti – he got a spoon for
rolling his noodles. 

Carlos
picked up the tray full of dishes and took it to the kitchen, nearly colliding
with Paco who had nine plates with silver covers piled high on one very big
tray, rushing towards the Crowe table.  Each lid had the table position number
on it so that Paco could keep track of the differing meat temperatures.  The
plates looked beautiful with the steaks perfectly roasted on the outside and
the crème fraiche mashed potatoes lightly sprinkled with fresh chives as
garnish.  The spinach was sautéed with chopped, lightly roasted garlic and it
wasn’t too oily.

Wonderful
, I thought, as I was finally
serving Mr. Crowe, who had a bit of a humbled look in his eyes.  He gazed at me
like he wanted to say something, but he didn’t. 

Vino
quickly commanded his attention as he formally introduced the first taste of
the Hill Of Grace Shiraz to Mr. Crowe’s waiting glass.  Crowe turned away from
me and toward Vino.  He held up the glass, looked at the color, tasted it
quietly, and gave an approving nod. 

Red,
in his awkward, tasteless, chuckle-talking voice, asked Vino, “What? What? What
is he drinking?”