Waiter to the Rich and Shameless: Confessions of a Five-Star Beverly Hills Server (21 page)

Harvey Weinstein and his lawyer arrived first and took a private
table outside.  It was about six in the evening and there was no one else
sitting on the patio.  Mr. Weinstein was looking very uptight and pissed off
and said to his lawyer, “So should I just say…”

The lawyer replied, “No, don’t say it that way, be a bit more prudent.”

HW:  “Well then, let’s tell him…”  

Seconds after that, Mr. Tutor walked into the meeting as if it were
nothing special and handled it with superior poise and ease.  I can’t tell you
what they all said, because I couldn’t hear them clearly and I hadn’t known
about the deal at the time.  But the important thing is that now Mr. Tutor was
in the entertainment business, a much more glamorous business than his usual real
estate deals, and especially great for attracting young actresses who want their
chance at the silver screen.  It was a given that his sex life had just gotten
even better.  I’d been watching older guys like Tutor for a while and was amazed
at what Viagra and Cialis have done for them. They can spend more time on
business and the infamous casting couch, and less time worrying about erectile
dysfunction. Frickin’ cheaters!

I cleared Seth and Paris’s table because she no doubt had a Mensa
meeting to attend. I also crumbed it since the busboy was nowhere to be seen,
not an unusual thing around this time.  It was ten o’clock and they were
probably having a Mexican taco feast in the kitchen with the cooks.  I hoped
they would save some for me.

I brought back dessert menus and offered coffee and tea.  Seth
ordered another drink and Paris was too busy texting her Mensa buddies to even
acknowledge my existence.  She seemed over it – ready to go.  Seth asked for
the bill, so I delivered it with his drink and some petits fours which neither
one of them even sampled.  Seth signed and left me a $100 tip on a $418 tab,
more than enough to get a couple of stars in my book.  I bowed and bid them
farewell and invited them to come back soon. I wanted to advise Seth to bring a
better date, but of course resisted the temptation. Paris probably wouldn’t go
out with him again anyway, so he’d have to go back on the internet.

At ten thirty, Harrison Ford and Calista Flockhart were seated at
a large table with seven other guests in my section.  In another waiter’s
section near them is Bill Maher, whose bitingly outspoken political humor has made
him the spokesperson for the self-titled intellectual liberal Democrats of our
time.  The recently married Maher was joined by his wife and five of his
pseudo-beatnick friends and was engrossed in a discussion regarding
ex-presidents Ford and Nixon. 

I approached Harrison Ford who had a very urgent look on his face
– that same urgency he displayed in
Air Force One
and
Indiana Jones
and, well, actually in all of his movies.  Anyway, he handed me his platinum
American Express card as if he were giving me a top-secret microchip stolen
from the Iranians.  I asked if he wanted to keep the tab open. 

“Yes,” he whispered into my ear.  He continued to whisper in a
conspiratorial manner, as if telling me a high-level secret that was going to
change the world as we know it. “Make an imprint and hand it back to me. I’ll
sign it before we leave.”  What century was he living in?  No one takes
“imprints” anymore.  This is the digital age, Indiana!

He seemed terrified someone else would try to pay the bill. In my
experience, most of the Hollywood types were anything but aggressive about
grabbing the check.

“Yes, sir,” I said, and with that hot little card in my hand, I
hurried to the service area to quickly start a tab, but I didn’t get very far
before I realized that I should’ve taken their order first.  I returned to the
table immediately.  Ford was eyeing me suspiciously. I think he’s read too many
Tom Clancy novels and they have warped his mind.

“Ms. Flockhart,” I said, “What can I bring you to drink this
evening?” 

She smiled and said, “I’ll have a glass of the 2007 J.P. Napa
cabernet.”  I smiled, thinking that if we held her up to the light we could
probably watch the red wine enter her gossamer body. Even in maturity, she has
not gained weight but remains very beautiful, with flawless skin. Actually, she
looks like a fifty year-old teenager.

“Very well. Mr. Ford?” 

“I’ll have a double Grey Goose on the rocks, no fruit.” 

I gave him a knowing wink as if his secret were safe with me,
regarding the microchip that is.  At their table, there were also orders for a
Ketel One martini and a Sapphire martini both up with olives, a Beck’s beer,
two more 2007 J.P. Napa cabernets, a mojito, and a fruity tequila margarita
served up.  As I passed a few Colombian spies on the way to the kitchen, I
polished my decoder ring and said, “Okay, I need nine waters on table fifty
please, no bread, just some bar snacks, thank you.  Pronto, amigo!”  Silently:
…
before a bomb explodes somewhere or the evil narco traffickers attack! 

I served their drinks and returned Mr. Ford’s credit card, stealthily. 
Ssshhhhhh... we’re being watched.

I was struck by his resemblance to my late father.  Same nose, the
same lines near his mouth and on his forehead, the hair, just his facial
features in general, although my dad didn’t have the scars Ford has on his chin
and mouth that give him the rugged look women love.  It makes me nostalgic.  My
father had passed only a year prior, due to heart failure.  He'd had a close
call back in the late nineties after I had taken him to Roscoe’s Chicken and
Waffles for a late-night munch out. That time he was saved by a triple bypass.
We were estranged many times during my life, but I missed him and it was a
tough loss for our family. I thought about how I used to look up to my father
as a child and how he always looked so strong and seemed so brave, just like
Ford’s characters.  My father had a five speed Fiat 128 back then and was quite
a good driver.  He would always chauffeur me and my little brother Judas around
when we came to visit him from across the Atlantic.  He would wear his black
leather driving gloves, you know, the ones with the five small holes down the
length of the fingers and big holes for the knuckles?  We’d weave in and out of
traffic going through all the gears up and down, all the way down Route 9 in
Framingham, Massachusetts.  He used to play this cute game in which he was a
racecar driver and he would do his own commentary:  “Here comes Dolph in the
navy blue Fiat, racing around the corner, moving up on the Chevy Malibu and
nearing the finish line!  He passes the Malibu and wins, he wins!  The race is
over and Dolph in his 128 does it again, it’s incredible, it’s amazing, ladies
and gentlemen!”  The funny thing is, I was never scared.  I always felt safe,
‘cause he was my hero.  I couldn’t help but feel a little of that playfulness
with Mr. Ford, although he had no idea why I was winking at him. Maybe he
thought I was flirting with him; I’m sure that happened a lot.

I picked up a flyer off the floor near their table; I’d seen the
same flyer on Maher’s table.  Apparently, their late dinner was because they
were all coming from a fundraiser for the Peace Over Violence organization, for
which Flockhart is a national spokesperson.  POV is a non-profit headquartered
in Los Angeles focused on the prevention of sexual and domestic violence,
stalking, youth violence, and child abuse. 
So this is where they come
afterwards to have their political and intellectual after-parties.
  I heard
them say that POV was established in 1971 by pioneering feminists.  I don’t
know if Ford is a feminist or just going along with his wife for matrimonial
harmony, but it’s always nice to see celebrities using their fame to support
important causes.  

Speaking of child abuse, I better check to see what Tutor is up to
with his young date. She should be home by now; I’m sure she has homework to do
and it’s past her curfew.
 

As I returned to Tutor’s table, a toast was being made in his
honor, “Blah blah blah blah, Disney’s Man of the Year!”  Everybody clapped,
even some of the staff.  Tutor turned to me and asked me to bring some assorted
appetizers.  I recommended two margarita pizzas with melted fresh mozzarella,
thin slices of tomato and fresh basil garnish, three of our house-cured Balik
salmon plates, two jumbo white shrimp cocktails served with fresh avocado and
homemade cocktail sauce, and two orders of Kobe beef sliders with aged cheddar
cheese and skinny fries.

“Sounds great,” he said. “Whatever,” is more like what he was
thinking.  Luckily, Vino was keeping everyone’s champagne glasses full, but
half of them were dinking mixed drinks as well so I was constantly running drinks
out to their table.  I passed by Juan to ask for appetizer set-ups on Tutor’s
table.  He replied, “ ‘Ow many?” 

“Eleven,” I replied.  He gave me a look like,
you asshole
, which
was his general attitude anyway, but in this case he was pissed because he had
to place eleven settings at a table made to accommodate seven.  “It’s a party,
for God’s sake,” I told Juan. “This isn’t fine dining anymore, we’re past that
hour of the night.  This is party time for the rich, so just slap down the
settings the best you can and don’t worry about it too much, ‘cause they couldn’t
care less anyway.” 

At that particular table, the goal was just to make yourself
invisible and get the job done without being noticed too much, because it ain’t
about you, it’s about Ronnie-boy and he’s having his moment.  I mean who
wouldn’t be, with that gorgeous blonde next to him and being honored and all? 
Even a gay guy would be getting wood. 

I returned to Ford and Flockhart’s table, and Harrison sort of
flagged me down, as if I weren’t going there anyway.
Get a clue, Indiana
Jones. I’m coming right at you.
 He waved his finger around the table to
see who wanted what and then gave me his order last.  Basically, most of the guests
including himself and Flockhart, wanted another round.  As I looked at him
again, my father’s face flashed before me and I thought,
Okay, Dad, right
away.
 

A few minutes after I brought the drinks, some of their guests were
getting up to leave already.  Ford gave me the secret look to bring the secret
documents over to his side of the table so he could sign them in urgent
secrecy.  Ford left me a $100 tip on a $300 dollar tab.  I told him thank you
and that it was a pleasure serving him and Miss Flockhart, and that I wished
they would visit more often. 

“We will,” he assured me.  He thanked me and then instantly forgot
me. 
Good night, Dad. Drive carefully.
 

Tutor
didn’t actually pay the bill. I really can’t remember who did, but they sure
got socked with a hefty check.  We added the tip in since it was a large party,
and in these events if the payee is faceless to us, we just don’t take the
chance.  The manager okayed the gratuity charge, and the final total neared
twenty-eight-hundred bucks. The table was shared by a few of us so we split up
the tip.  Mr. Tutor rose to leave with his Amazon Barbie and I bowed slowly,
which allowed me to furtively soak up the luscious curves of his girl.  Then I
said, “Congratulations, Mr. Tutor, we look forward to seeing you again soon.”  But
I really meant
congratulations on that fine date of yours
.

Ariella
snarled with jealousy over his beyond-hot date.  “Goodnight, Mr. Tutor, thank
you (creep),” she whispered under her breath. 

“Thank
you,” Mr. Tutor said as he walked out with a big smile on his face and his girl
under his arm. 
That is one happy dude, and probably about to get even happier.
Money might or might not be able to buy happiness, but apparently it sure
can buy awesome sex.

And
so the night drew to an end.  It was eleven thirty, and we reset the dining
room for the next day’s lunch.  We also attended to our nightly sidework duties
of polishing glasses and folding hundreds of napkins, wiping down coffee
stations and refilling and cleaning salt- and peppershakers.  It’s at this time
of the night when most of us, with the exception of the two closers in the
front of the house, get a chance to talk about more personal stuff.  Talking is
a way of making the time and drudgery of the sidework speed past and also helps
us bond as a team.

I
felt that some of the other wait staff was envious of me for the good night I’d
had. They kept asking how my night was, as they knew it had been good but not
how good. I was not about to tell them.  I never kiss and tell.  In this case,
it was better to fib, so I told them, “I only wish Depp had tipped on the
total, then I could’ve bought myself that Taylor custom electric guitar I’ve
had my eye on!”  We all laughed, and everyone felt better, believing I’d made a
regular tip from Depp.  Now we all felt somewhat equal.  Only I was more equal,
they just didn’t know it. Never any point to creating a jealous work
environment.

When
I said goodnight to Mr. P, who knew my little secret, I handed him two crisp hundred-dollar
bills.  “I even ironed them for you in the back room.” 

He
laughed, and said, “Thanks, Polli!”  

I
asked if Depp had made another reservation.  

“No,
but I make chure you serve him when dey come back – they were very hoppy.  I
talk to dem on de way out.” 

I
gave him a friendly pat on the back and as I bid him a good night, he said, “Polli,
be careful wit Lola, jew know che’s got protection.” He pointed up, as in
upstairs.