Waiter to the Rich and Shameless: Confessions of a Five-Star Beverly Hills Server (27 page)

A
string quartet welcomed everyone into the Chapel Room and as soon as they were
all seated, Nadia motioned for me to approach the altar.  Later on, watching
the video of the event, I could see I did so with a subtle Guido-ish gait.  I
greeted the priest and then turned around and glanced at all the smiling,
expectant faces that I hold so dear, all whispering to each other and waiting
in silent affirmation.  Inwardly I knew they were all cheering for me –
“There’s hope for Pauli! Who knew?”

In
the front row there was a framed picture of my late father and next to him was
a photo of Juliana’s late parents in a beautiful pewter frame.  Pachelbel’s
Canon started playing and that was my cue that my lovely bride was about to
enter the chapel. Instead of staying turned around to watch her approach, I nervously
faced the priest until she was standing right next to me.  I really had no idea
how to behave – I felt like laughing, I felt like crying, I felt like eating,
and I definitely felt like drinking.  Can you tell? I was a mess.

She
looked beautiful beside me and my heart swelled with love for her as we stood
in front of the small bespectacled priest who was chattering through his
scriptures in broken English. Through it all, I couldn’t help but notice how the
priest’s breath reeked of cigarettes and espresso.  Finally, it was my turn to
say my vows and I was still a mess: laugh-crying through the whole thing. As we
turned around to walk out of the chapel and face our friends and family as a
couple, now legally wed in the eyes of the law and of God, the string quartet
burst into a request I had secretly made earlier.

The
cello led the way, pumping out two bars of steady eight notes then the rest of
the violas broke into a string arrangement of “Starlight” by Muse. It couldn’t
have been more perfect if we had been married in Heaven, and as a matter of
fact it felt like sheer Heaven up there on the mountain, my wife’s hand in
mine, the music filling the chapel and my heart, and I can still feel it all
when I close my eyes today. 

The Francia Corta bottles were
popping at regular intervals at the bar and once again, the sun broke through
the persistent clouds, lighting up the rolling hills in the distance as if they
were Michelangelo’s own magically painted backdrop.  The golden lighting was
perfect for our photo session, and we watched as the late-setting Tuscan sun
gilded the entire city of Florence. No Hollywood producer could have created a
more perfect setting. I once heard that God has a particular affinity for
sinners, and that day I could totally buy it.

I finally did get my double Grey
Goose vodka as our guests were offered some amazing appetizers by haughty
white-gloved waiters.  There were:  salted almonds with parmesan flakes; hot
truffled dumplings; brioche with warm veal paté and rosemary; polenta cake with
red onion and gorgonzola; hot toasted bread with wild boar ragù and tiny
Tuscan mushrooms; whole meal bread with bull salami and smoked scamorza cheese;
tomato, avocado, shrimp or fresh basil mousse on toasted bread.   Incredibly,
we also served some fried delicacies that included parmigiano with sweet
cinnamon; pecorino fritters; calamari fritti; and crispy battered squash
blossoms.  I could see the appreciation on our guests’ faces as they bit into the
appetizers with delight.  Not for the first time, I was grateful for my intense
training and experience in the legendary Cricket Room, where I had learned the
fine art of food, beverages, and service. Along with my bride’s innate good
taste, it made for a great menu that all of our guests would remember for years
to come.

While we mingled
about the garden with our guests, it was great to hear how touched everyone had
been by the ceremony and the magical setting.  After about an hour and lots of
photo-taking, Nadia summoned us to a sit-down meal with wine parings of white
and red Tuscan IGT wines (a local high-quality designation) followed by many
ooohs and aaahs as our guests savored the luscious foods.  I have to say that
it was a superb culinary showcase and certainly the most delicious meal I’d
ever had in Italy – and that says a lot because the food in Italy is
tremendous.  In my opinion, it is more earthy, honest, and simplistic than in
France, for example, and therefore better. Italians have a way of taking the
simplest of ingredients and raising them to the level of art. The menu included
these four courses:

Fresh
pasta gemelli w/guanciale, broccoletti & Tuscan pecorino (shocking that we
had pasta, I know!)

Risotto
with “morellini” artichokes

Gilt-head
bream flambé with Armagnac, dusted with thyme and coriander, and vegetable
ratatouille

Chianina
beefsteak, flan of aubergines with truffle heart, and potato crisps

For dessert the chef prepared a traditional
Millefiori
(a thousand flowers) cake as we watched, layered with a
pastry crème so good that Thomas Keller only wishes he could serve it at his
famous Napa restaurant, French Laundry.  As every great chef knows, the secret
to the flavor of all food is largely in the origin of the produce and the
quality of ingredients used.  Italy takes great pride in utilizing mostly local
dairy and produce and when you travel there, you can taste the vast difference
in eating garden-fresh produce, handmade cheese, and so forth, as opposed to
products designed for long shelf life.

While
we all danced the night away, a chef stood by busily preparing fresh crepes
filled with hazelnut cream, or fresh fruit with whipped cream or melted
chocolate.  The bartender stayed quite busy as well, as my childhood friends from
Denmark really know how to enjoy a party. It was such a small gathering that
everyone had the chance to feel part of the celebration, which was intentional
on our part.  Finally, at around one-thirty, all the happy drunken and sated guests
were rounded up and bussed back to their hotels.  There was singing and joke-telling
on the busses, and I have a feeling my wife and I were not the only ones with
everlasting memories of that evening. 

The
next day we all met again as my new bride and I hosted a brunch at a Florentine
restaurant, Hostaria Del Bricco.  There were fifty of us, most of us a little
hung over, and we indulged again in a superb four-course brunch that was
home-cooked by the owner’s mother.  Hostaria Del Bricco had a very warm, rustic
medieval vibe and the dishes were especially good after a late night of
revelry.  Served with red table wine in a clay carafe were:

Crostini
misti:
 
warm bread with various toppings
of onions, peppers, liver, eggplant, mushrooms

Panzanella:
 
salad with home-baked Tuscan bread, tomato,
cucumber, onion, basil

Ribollita:
 
vegetable soup (they’re famous for this fabulous
rustic soup)

Farfalle
al fattore:
 
bowtie pasta with artichokes and ricotta

Maialino
in porchetta:
 
oven-roasted suckling pig with peas and fava beans

Cantucci
col Vin Santo (dessert):
 special biscotti to dip in Tuscan dessert wine

After
many hours of laughter, revelry and countless photographs, we bid our guests a
sentimental farewell with plenty of Italian hugs and kisses. 

The
next day Juliana and I took the train to Venice, which felt like it was a scene
straight out of a 1940’s European film.  No trip to Italy is complete without a
visit to Venice; I fear the city will disappear one day beneath the water as it
encroaches daily on the buildings’ foundations.

We
ordered lunch in the dining car (can you tell I’m kind of obsessed with Italian
food?), and the spaghetti marinara was better than anything I’ve tasted in the
finest American restaurants. As we watched the green rolling hills speed by, we
enjoyed a bottle of Masi Corvina blend and freshly baked bread along with side
dishes of sautéed string beans and mushrooms.  Our Italian waiter was a pervert
with his eyes fixated on my wife but I decided to take it as a compliment.

We
stayed in a quaint hotel for three nights in Venice and joined a fascinating
tour that outlined the history and geography of the city.  We learned about the
cisterns that each island keeps to catch rainwater and how St. Mark’s piazza
floods every year.  The tour guide showed us how most buildings have metal
ramps at their entrances that can be folded up to keep the water out.  That
relieved some of my anxiety, but I know I’m not alone in my concern for the
longevity of Venice.  It’s incredible to me that those ancient buildings can
stand in water for eons and not crumble.  

I
had long forgotten about the Cricket Room as Juliana and I toured the city,
beaming with huge, silly smiles on our faces.  I was happier than ever before,
spending my honeymoon with the love of my life in my ancestors’ homeland.  Was
it too good to be true?  Was I perhaps in the midst of
Pauli’s Magical
Adventure
and at any moment I could wake up and find out I’d been tricked
by a dream? Juliana’s sweet kisses answered that question pretty quickly.

We
took the train to Rome where we had rented a one-bedroom luxury apartment
opposite the Vatican.  We preferred an apartment to a hotel for our four-night
stay as we could shop for groceries and cook our own breakfasts, and not be
seen by any human eyes until we felt like it. This was also a great way to get
a feel for the lifestyle in Rome and really immerse ourselves in the culture.
Best of all was our tour guide who took us back in time as he led us through a
most memorable exploration of the Coliseum, Palatine Hill, and the Forum.  This
man had a gift of historical storytelling that would make even Gore Vidal
jealous.  I swear I could see the ancient Romans milling about the marketplace
or the age-old streets of Palatine Hill.  He brought it all to life right
before our eyes.  The Romans built a tremendous amount of infrastructure, like
roads and small footbridges that are still in use today. I can’t imagine much
of what’s being built today lasting as long as the Roman Empire’s creations.

Our
fifth day in Rome came much too quickly, and we took another train to a small
town in the legendary Cinque Terre (the Five Lands).  These tiny, jewel-toned,
terraced towns, snuggled along the cliffs of the Ligurian Coast since Roman
times, are connected by spectacular walking paths that wind through thick
forest and precarious rocky outcroppings.   We didn’t realize just how small these
towns are until we got there and stepped off the train in Corniglia. Tiny and picturesque;
everything seemed doll-sized to we Americans accustomed to wide streets and
large buildings.

The
road up the hill to Corniglia from the train station was very steep and the ancient
stone stairs were impossible with our luggage as they went on for several
hundred feet. Corniglia is the only town in the Cinque Terre that is not at sea
level; instead it is perched on a cliff at 330 feet elevation and parts of it
reach even higher as we would find out later.

We
took a taxi up the hill, which was less than a five-minute ride but a necessary
one nonetheless. We had been unable to connect with the person who had rented
me the apartment in which we were to live for seven nights, and I was getting
quite worried.  In the taxi I finally received a mysterious text from someone
whom I could only suspect was the apartment manager.  It instructed me to go to
Bar Matteo, so we got out of the cab at the tiny main piazza because the side
streets were not wide enough for automobiles. Since we are typical American
travelers, we totally over-packed compared to the hikers who voyage there to
rough-it for a week at a time bringing just a backpack.  Americans tend to make
a competitive sport out of over-packing and conspicuous consumption:  
Look
at me! I have more shit than you and I brought it all with me!

We
looked like we’d just come off the red carpet at the Grammys and were dropped
off in another era. My wife and I really had had no idea what to expect; to say
we were over-dressed is an understatement.  Our inappropriate shoes alone
should have landed us in an Italian jail for dumbasses.

On
two benches in the tiny square sat five grizzled elderly women of indeterminate
ages, who stopped talking when they saw us and just stared.  They all wore
colorful scarves on their heads, and their gnarled fingers spoke of ages of
hard work. Even a small child who peeked out from behind her mother’s skirt
stared at us in deafening and mocking silence.  I swear, even the birds stopped
chirping and dogs stopped barking. Aliens had just invaded their little town
and scrutiny by man and beast was required.

Mortified
and feeling like a serial killer whose face had been plastered all over town on
posters, I left Juliana there in the main town square, which was about the size
of two tennis courts, to try to find this Bar Matteo. For all I knew at this
point my carefully-made reservation had been handled on the Internet by some
random huckster in Nigeria, who was now living it up on my deposit money and
laughing his ass off.  Juliana sagged against an olive tree with our luggage
stacked around her like a protective barrier.

It
was my job to handle all the reservations and I could feel the tension building
as my dear wife gave me that look that only a woman knows how to give, that
“What in the hell is this?” kind of look with her hand on her hip. I knew I’d
better fix things quickly or there would for sure be trouble in Paradise.  I
had no desire to suffer from a lack-of-nookie headache on my freaking
honeymoon.