Waiter to the Rich and Shameless: Confessions of a Five-Star Beverly Hills Server (20 page)

I headed over to Seth and Paris to see if they were ready to
order.  Paris said, “Ah, yeah, I’ll have the steak tartare, no onions and not
too spicy, then I’ll take your chopped salad with no cheese, and no egg yolk
just egg white instead and turkey bacon.”  
If she eats like that all the
time, it’s obviously not brain food.

“All right, very well, and Mr. MacFarlane?”  

“I’ll have the Siberian Ossetra caviar, just one ounce, and then
the New York steak cooked medium rare.” 

I read back the order, they nodded, I thanked them, then offered
another round of drinks.  Paris asked for a fruit smoothie and Seth asked for a
Jack Daniels single barrel on the rocks.  
Normal, meet Not Normal. What is
she, twelve?

Paris excused herself to go to the restroom, but instead I saw her
frantically texting for about ten minutes outside the front door.  Their first
course arrived at that moment but I was not going to send it back for someone
who was just texting.  Besides, she’s a terrible actress and they both ordered
uncooked items anyway.  I placed the caviar down in front of Seth.  It sat in
the middle of a silver caviar server surrounded by finely chopped egg yolk, egg
white, red onion and crème fraiche, all in individual, attached silver cups.   It
made a nice presentation. Paris’ steak tartare was made with capers, raw egg
yolk, Dijon mustard, finely chopped red onions, Worcestershire sauce, and a dab
of Tabasco.  It was sprinkled with parsley and served with some micro greens
and tiny cornichons on the plate.  I also set down a basket of warm, fresh
toast points snuggled into a folded white linen napkin for them to share, and
some warm potato blinis for Seth.  Paris finally came back and as she sat down,
I cordially placed her napkin gently in her lap.  I noticed her soft smooth
legs.  There definitely is something very sexy and enticing about her.  She had
a few bites of the steak tartare then lost interest. What a surprise.  Seth
offered her some caviar but she declined.  Seth ate every bite of his caviar; I
could tell he enjoyed it immensely.  Good thing, because it was obvious that this
date – if it was a date – was not going to lead to bed.

In passing, I could see that Rod and Penny were fine.  I gestured
to Juan and gave him the silent signal to clear the Depp table.  Of course, I
assisted him with that so we could do it in one clean sweep.  José came by and “crumbed”
the table as Juan and I walked away with the dirty dishes.  I returned quickly,
poured the rest of their water and offered more wine.  Johnny put his hand up, indicating
that he doesn’t want any more wine.  Only someone shamelessly rich would just
slough off a grand worth of wine left sitting in the decanter. Someone was
about to have a nice after-shift drink.

I offered dessert menus and purposely suggested our most healthful
desserts – our fresh fruit plate, sorbet, or cheese plate.  I didn’t bother
describing our other desserts since I already knew their tastes. Ms. Paradis
was not about to feed her kids chocolate mousse. They ended up just having some
coffee and herbal tea.  The kids were fine and half asleep but well-behaved. 
The soufflé arrived at the assistants’ table and they shared it amongst the
three of them. 

Mr. Idon’tcarewhatyournameis asked me to combine the checks for
both tables.  I don’t recall the final total but I do remember the tip because
it was a new record-breaker for me.  Johnny Depp left me a twenty-five hundred
dollar tip.  Yes – you read that right. Twenty-five hundred bucks. Man, do I
love that guy!  Of course, I didn’t keep everything I made - I shared 35% with
the rest of the staff including Vino. We all bowed graciously and thanked Mr.
Depp and his family as they got up to leave. Johnny carried his sleepy son out
the door, as every woman in the room swooned.

“Please visit us again soon,” I said. Depp is a man of
intelligence and substance, nothing like the crazy characters he plays. Guess
that’s the definition of acting, but don’t we all, to one extent or another,
expect stars to be just like we’ve come to know them on the screen? My job had
taught me that was anything but true.  At the time he seemed happy and
comfortable in his family role as a caring father.  If I hadn’t known who he
was, I would’ve admired him for that alone.

But fandom faded fast. He was barely out the door before Vino and
I practically wrestled at his table for the crystal decanter with the remaining
‘89 Haut-Brion.  We decided to share the remnants, just had to make sure we
stayed clear of the house cameras and were not seen by anyone who might rat us
out, like Lola, who now despised me with a fierce, hot hate. I was just glad
that she’d turned her anger toward me into perfection for my guests. I made the
big tip; she didn’t. So fuck her and her broom. 

We ended up settling into a hallway in between the small banquet
room and the service area. This is where I often went to eat my steaks and faux
Kobe hamburgers. There’s a small table there pushed up against a wall that is
used to pile up plates and supplies during a banquet. It’s kind of cool ‘cause
you can’t be seen there and it’s just light enough without turning on the
hallway light. We each filled a coffee cup with the remaining 1/3 of the bottle
and sat on the table leaning our backs against the wall.  Wow! That wine was
heavenly.  Vino told me that it’s rated 100 points by Robert Parker.  With each
sip, we compared tasting notes.  

Vino:  “I taste
cassis, earth.”

Me: “Yes! Cuban cigar, slight black truffle.” 

Vino:  “Ripe plums, tobacco smoke.” 

Me:  “Hint of tar and mocha nose.”

Vino: “Fruit, powerful, refined and elegant.” 

Me:  “Oh yeah, a seamless finish, pure as silk and velvety.” 

Suddenly we were starring in a remake of the movie
Sideways
.

The sensuous flavors sent me into a reverie and my imagination
took off on a flight to a sunny Bordeaux vista. I’m strolling down an unpaved
country road lined with lush, mature oak trees, tall grass and tiny colorful
flowers.  I count the little puffy clouds that slowly change shape against the crisp
blue sky.  I hear the leaves whisper as the wind tickles them in fluttering
waves.  I come to a crossing at a small wooden bridge that spans a babbling
creek and there, just up ahead in the distance, I see an immaculately well-kept
large French farmhouse.  I take a deep breath and my spirit inflates, my heart
fills with the sweet sound of birdsong and the scent of wildflowers and
vine-ripened grapes. Oh! What a joy... 

“Hey, man, are you all right?”  A waiter’s voice rudely inserted
itself into my reverie.  It was Matt.  How had he found me?
Shit!

“Huh?”  I mumbled brilliantly, still trying to recapture my
French visions.

“Rod Stewart wants his check! He looks kinda pissed.”

“Oh shit, yeah, fuck, okay, wow! I’m coming.”  Articulate,
right? Wakie wakie!

“Are you okay, dude?” Matt asked, looking at me askance and
chuckling.

“Yeah, yeah I’m fine, thanks.”  

Vino was gone; his cup sat empty next to mine. I printed up
Rod’s check and brought it out with some unimpressive petite fours that Patzo
the Clown, our pastry chef, had prepared for us two days prior.  They were
about as fresh as Paris Hilton’s repartee.

“Mr. and Mrs. Stewart, it’s been a pleasure serving you again
this evening, thank you so very much for coming in to visit us.”  Rod handed me
his black American Express card without looking at the check.  He was probably
not impressed that he’d had to ask another waiter for his check, or maybe it was
just me imagining that because his table looked crumbed and clean. 
He’s 
probably just ready to go, that’s all,
I told myself. 
He never eats
dessert anyway and he doesn’t seem to like hanging around for too long after he
finishes his meal.
  I processed his card and brought back the folder.  I stayed
close by for a few seconds to make sure he didn’t choke on the price again.  He
seemed fine this time, and no surprises.  I hoped Matt was just jerking my
chain, telling me he looked pissed.

I glanced toward Seth and Paris as the busboy was walking away
with their dirty appetizer plates. I quickly set Mr. MacFarlane with a steak knife
and made sure they were equipped for their main courses.  I asked if they needed
anything else to drink, and Seth ordered his third Jack rocks, regular Jack
this time.  As I was ringing in the drink, their main course arrived.  I watched
Paco set down the plates in the proper order, in front of Paris then Seth, and
everything looked good.  I picked up Seth’s Jack rocks at the bar and by the
time I delivered it, they’d both already started eating. 

“Ms. Hilton, Mr. MacFarlane, how is your dinner tonight?  Is
everything as you like it?”

They both nodded and grunted.  I’m not sure if I consciously
time this inquiry for the exact moment that the guests’ mouths are full, but
the truth is, they’re much less likely to complain.  I looked at Seth’s NY
steak and noticed that it was cooked to perfection, a nice juicy medium rare,
served with sautéed beech mushrooms, glazed Nantes carrots, and Madeira onion
soubise. 

“Good,” I said, “I’ll check back with you in a short while.”  Seth’s
eyes said, “Okay, no problem.” Paris couldn’t be bothered to express a notion
of contentment or anything else. Her world apparently doesn’t extend much
beyond her nose.

Rod stood up from his table and approached our musician, saying,
“I was watching you play the harmonica and I was wondering
about something.  Back in the
early days I used to play the harp but now I can’t seem to find the right
tuning for the song.” 

The
musician asked jokingly, “When was that, back when you were a one-man band?”

Rod
laughed and said, “Yeah, I guess you could say that.” 

I
secretly wished he had asked me since I knew the answer and would have loved
the opportunity to get to know Rod on a more personal and musical level.  The
musician told him that when you play the blues harp you have to draw in the air
quite forcefully to get that classic bend in the notes like on all the old
blues songs.  He also said that the harp has to be a 5
^th
up in order
to be in tune with the song.  “For example,” he said, “if the song is in the
key of E you would have to have an A-tuned harp because A is five half-steps up
the scale from E, you know what I mean?” The musician then demonstrated this
for Rod on his guitar. 

“Ah
yeah,” said Rod, “I remember it being something like that.  That’s right,
thanks, mate. You sounded great tonight, by the way.  I always like coming here
and listening to you and the other fellow. Cheers then, good night.” 

Wow
– the guy who was playing that night is an awesome musician, and now he could
brag that he just gave Rod Stewart a music lesson. 

Rod
left me just over a 20% tip but what’s more than that, he once again left me
with the pleasure of having served a musical icon.  It had been an honor. The
Cricket Room was such a unique place to work; there really is no other place
quite like it in the world.  I swear, if it weren’t for all the corporate
bullshit and idiots who think they know how to run that room, I would work
fourteen shifts a week. Hell, I’d even sleep here on a booth or something.  I
love this place -- the dining room is my home away from home and I know that many
of our guests feel that way too, though probably much more so in the past than under
recent management. 

Rod and Penny exited right past Mr. Ron Tutor who was walking on
air that night.  Ron “Miramax” Tutor, the seven hundred million-dollar man, was
escorted to his table by the one and only Ariella, LA’s most glamorous hostess.
 Her curvy body wiggled and bounced ahead, directing Mr. Tutor to his table. 
Ariella had probably already dated him despite his age – I wouldn’t put it past
her.  He is in his late 60’s, balding, and short but you wouldn’t notice that
at first since he always projects a very confident, winning aura.  Ariella seated
Mr. Tutor at a large table and shortly thereafter, ten other guests joined him.
They all crammed together, making it nearly impossible to serve them properly. 
Tutor ordered five bottles of Cristal champagne at nearly $400 each.  He was
hosting a special celebration because he’d been named “Disney’s Man of the Year.”
 His date was a 10, a statuesque blonde bombshell about thirty years his junior,
probably one of the best looking dates he’d ever brought along.  Mr. Tutor
always entertained a different girl; I really don’t know how he kept track of
them all.  Rarely did I see any repeat performances.  Mr. Tutor always seemed
to get some.  How do I know?  Because he displayed it to the entire dining room
– by the end of dinner he’s always engaged in some immodest, deep French
kissing at his table.  We always wondered why he’s not more discreet about it. 
Given his age, I suppose it’s impressive that he’s still got game.  But then
again considering his wealth, his immodesty isn’t surprising, especially in
this town. If money can’t buy happiness in this town, nothing can. Hollywood is
the ultimate power palace and power is built on money.

Mr. Tutor made his money in the construction and property
development business, and had recently become the proud new owner of the
Miramax films library, which Disney had to sell on account of Miramax going out
of business.  The deal was whisked away from the Weinstein Brothers who founded
the company in ‘77 but were not bidding high enough for Disney.  Tutor and his
investors snagged it for $673 million.  I have a funny feeling the Weinsteins
are still part owners but it’s a complicated deal.  I remember a specific
meeting they had soon after the deal was announced.