Waiter to the Rich and Shameless: Confessions of a Five-Star Beverly Hills Server (25 page)

Now
for tonight’s faux reality news: The lovely Mrs. Vanderpump, who’s about as
real a Real Housewife as I am a billionaire, came in with her husband, two
older guests, and NBC4 reporter Ron Kovacik. They were sitting in the bar area
squeezed into the booth nearest the bar itself, on table twenty-five. Some male
jackass who’d had too much to drink at the next table and was visibly
intoxicated, started harassing Mrs. Vanderpump loudly enough for everyone to
hear:

"I've
seen the show! You're wearing a lot more makeup now and your eyes are even
darker and sexier than they are on TV! What are you doing sitting with old
people?” 

He
then proceeded to stand up and approach the table, still ranting, when Mr.
Kovacik, the reporter, stood up and said, menacingly, “Stop harassing us.”

He
was answered with a swift and firm right-hand punch to the face thrown by the
drunken idiot. Er, I mean valued guest. Vanderpump’s husband Ken with the
pretty hair then stood up and was quickly shoved to the floor by the man. Wow –
Ms. Vanderpump can still drive a man into a lust-ridden frenzy.  It was surreal
to watch.  Security was on the scene in no time, and Beverly Hills cops,
without Eddie Murphy or
Judge Reinhold
unfortunately, were there in
minutes. The man was arrested though no charges were pressed at that time.  Later
there were several lawsuits filed.  Ron Kovacik was left with a split lip, and there
was blood splattered on the mirror behind their booth.  It looked like a crime
scene from
Seven
. He was taken to the Vanderpump home where he got
stitched up by Paul Nassif, the plastic surgeon who was married to Adrienne
Maloof, another so-called Real Housewife.  When you watch Kovacik reporting you
can see a visible scar on his upper lip.  Poor guy, he really didn’t deserve
that. Who knew keeping company with a housewife could be so dangerous.

Maybe
Kovacik didn’t quite say, “I Would Die 4 U” like the artist whose real name is
Prince Rogers Nelson, but he certainly took one for the team.  Around that
time, Prince walked, or rather glided, into the dining room on his own very
special day.  Formerly known as about twenty different things, including Joey
Coco, The Purple One,
,
Alexander Nevermind, Christopher, Jamie Starr, Prince, Prince Nelson, and The
Artist Formerly Known as Prince, even in his high-heeled boots, he stood no
more than a whopping five-six. His size, walk, and appearance were distinctly
feminine yet weirdly interesting. When he speaks, he’s as soft-spoken as the
late Michael Jackson.  But don’t let the voice fool you – his luscious girlfriends
are a clear testimonial to his deadly straight sexual preference.

That
particular night he was seated in our private dining room with a small
entourage to celebrate his birthday.  I tried to understand his delicate voice
but he ended up having to repeat himself three times before I got his order of
Far Niente Cabernet, a Seven-Up and a few fruit and cheese plates.  We’d been
specifically instructed ahead of time not to stare at him but it’s really hard
not to. I noticed that his head was very large and ill-fitting on his little
body; he may sound like Michael Jackson but he looks like a neo Little Richard.
That’s not a compliment.

I
boldly mentioned to him that I had heard a cut from his then-new album,
Lotus
Flower
on the radio.  He was startled and immediately asked me where I'd
heard it.  I said, “KCRW,” and when I described the song as his cover version
of “Crimson and Clover” he seemed relieved. I guess back then he had only
allowed that album preview to be played on “Jonesy's Jukebox,” hosted by the Sex
Pistols’ Steve Jones. It’s all very complicated, I’m sure, and unless you’re a
real music fan you wouldn’t give a shit. I love that stuff though.

I
saw him perform several times at Glam Slam, a nightclub he owned in downtown
Los Angeles. I would get a call from my friend who bartended there. “There’s
going to be an all-nighter here with Prince, do you want me to put you on the
list?”

“Ahh,
hell yeah!”

The
show was awesome and you had to envy anyone who was part of it. First, Carmen
Electra would come on stage and perform her Saturday night dance revue with
several undulating dancers, and then Prince would start up around 1:00 am and
go for however long he felt like it.  He usually lasted at least two to three
hours. He played his guitar with just his left hand, tapping the strings on the
guitar neck, and simultaneously harmonizing on the keyboard with his right hand. 
I knew he was good but discovered he was truly a performing genius. One night,
the crowd was so small and intimate that drummer Michael Bland handed me his
drumsticks at the end of one of their rehearsal shows for the
Love Symbol
tour.

Back
in the private dining room, Daniel proudly brought in a birthday cake with
candles on it. We, the staff, gathered to sing Happy Birthday.  The man
formerly known as a sign looked angry and disturbed.  In his ultra-soft voice
he exclaimed, “In my religion, the candle represents the Eternal Flame, why
would I want to blow out the Eternal Flame?” He seemed genuinely perplexed and
I also worried whether, if he did bend over to blow out the candles, his large
head would tip him over face-first into the cake. That would have been a great
photo, captioned “gluttony.”

Daniel’s
heart sank and we all felt terrible.  Why didn’t we know this? Who forgot to
tell us? Maybe some exec who took the call from his assistant and hated
Prince’s music was, at that moment, sitting on his sofa snickering away. We removed
the cake and candles, and Patzo fixed it up a bit, smoothing the icing.  We
returned the now non-offending cake, apologizing.  I think the guy’s a vegan
and probably doesn’t even eat cake, but he cut the first slice for his guests,
which was a gracious gesture.

The
celebrity sinning showdown continued as Johnny “Jackass” Knoxville sat at table
twelve near the piano, accompanied by a loud and silly entourage, while our
most awesome pianist was entertaining the room. Since it’s Johnny's “brand,”
maybe he feels obligated to act stupid at all times. That must be a burden.

In
contrast, Brad Pitt had just finished up a dinner meeting with a
Moneyball
producer and stood up to shake hands and say goodbye to him. Star-struck guests
walking by were trying to get a photo of him by pretending to photograph
themselves with him in the background, even though all they got is the back of
his head because he was facing the window. Brad ignored them and sat down again,
this time to join the rowdy Knoxville party. They all laughed and clowned around
for a while; Pitt really seemed to relax and enjoy himself but he didn't stay
long. A little jackass apparently goes a long way.

Knoxville,
in true jackass form, decided he would pull a seriously inappropriate joke on
one of his friends. He coyly and discreetly reached under the table while
holding court. He flicked his lighter awake and held it to his friend’s pant
leg.  Once it caught fire, he put the lighter back into his pocket. In less
than ten seconds, the flame is crawling up his friend’s pant leg. The friend
started screaming out in pain and Knoxville handed him cocktail napkins to put
out the fire but that only made it worse, giving the fire more fuel. Now there was
smoke rising – this could have gotten seriously bad, especially if it spread to
the table skirt or drapery.

Á
lvaro, the old waiter, reacted
out of instinct, grabbing a chair cover from one of the banquet chairs and
urgently diving under the table, wrapping and smothering the fire on the man’s
pant leg.  The poor guy, panicking by now, screamed out in pain again.  The
entire Knoxville party was in tears of laughter as the restaurant filled with
smoke and the smell of burned hair and skin. Hilarious.  There should be an 8th
deadly sin: stupidity.

The
staff dressed the man’s burns with ice and Neosporin. His injuries weren’t
terrible and I’m sure he got Johnny back at another time; that’s what they do
for a living – pranking.  Lucky for Pitt he’d left right before this childish and
potentially dangerous trick.
 In fact, we were all lucky the entire dining room didn’t burst into flames,
sprinklers coming on, and people being trampled. I’m always up for a good
prank, but this was just dumb. I couldn’t help but wonder what Frank Sinatra or
other classy entertainers of old would have thought. Sinatra probably would
have had one of his guys shoot him and then ordered another drink.

One
quiet evening Daniel asked me if I would take over one of his tables, which was
a party of three plus one child. Daniel forgot to mention who it was – he only
said, “They’ve been sitting there forever and they won’t acknowledge me.”

So
I approached the table with a certain assertive attitude thinking
I ’m going
to make these fucking people order right now.
I walked up, cleared my
throat very loudly, and firmly announced, “Excuse me.”

Tom
Cruise turned around to face me and boy, did I soften right up.  I couldn’t
tell it was him from behind.  At his table were a male guest, his then-wife
Katie, and their little daughter Suri.  They had seemed to be a regular family
out for dinner, maybe tourists. Oops.

“Good
evening, sir, madam, my name is Pauli, we’d like to welcome you back to the
Cricket Room. Is there anything I can get for you at the moment? Beverages,
perhaps?” 

Thanks,
Daniel, I almost made a perfect fool of myself, not something my pride is fond
of doing.
  They
proceeded to order, however, and I have to say that there were signs of trouble
in the relationship already back in those days. When Tom picked up baby Suri by
one limb and handed her to Katie like a ragdoll, Katie exclaimed, “That’s no
way to handle a child, Tom!” Her face flushed with anger and maternal
protectiveness.

“She’s
fine, don’t worry!” he said with a smile. Suri didn’t seem to mind but to an
outsider it didn’t look, shall we say, normal. He was manhandling the kid like
a sack of potatoes for no obvious reason, as though it were important to show
his manhood. That spells little-guy insecurity to me.

Simultaneously,
two tables over, I was serving Bruce Willis with his new wife Emma, and to my
surprise Demi and Ashton had joined them for the evening. But they were all so
quiet and reserved I found that Cruise was much more exciting to watch. Cruise
was gesturing passionately in his trademark couch-jumping style, jerking his
head and hands around with his hair bouncing in perfect rhythm. He said to his
guests, “When I go see a movie I want to be entertained! Not depressed
!”
Like a movie such as “Minority Report” isn’t depressing? I beg to differ, Tom.
In
spite of being handsome, he looks for all the world like the former seminary
student he was, or maybe a prep school rich kid, with a “IV” after his name
(which he has).

My
thoughts at that very moment were:
Not everybody is entertained by the same
things you are, Tom, that’s why there are different kinds of films… As a matter
of fact I hate half of all the films you make, for the very reason that all
they do is entertain then leave me feeling empty afterwards.

Later
on, it was odd when he got up and walked over to Demi’s and Bruce’s table – I
watched the clashing of the titans before me. Tom with his
ultra-clear-look-you-in-the-eye stare and very intentional conversation,
weighing up against Willis’s smug, crooked, introverted smile.  It was an odd
moment for everyone, I believe.  I didn’t get the feeling that Willis liked
Cruise or thought about him very much at all, while Cruise strove mightily to
always leave a powerful impression. These two giants of the movie industry collided
awkwardly:  Willis’ self-confident swagger vs. Cruise’s insecure macho bravado.

After
Cruise went back to his table, probably expecting applause, Willis asked me for
the check.  I handed it to him and he gave me back the folder asking for a pen.
I said. “May I have your credit card first, sir?”

“I
gave it to you earlier,” he said.  

“No,
sir, I’m afraid I did not get it.”  

Demi
and Ashton appeared to be getting a little uncomfortable and Demi started to
open her purse like she was used to this.  Bruce stopped her, dug out his
wallet, rummaged through it, and came up empty handed. He looked at me as if to
say
See? I told you I gave it to you.
As I stood there, watching this
very awkward situation unfold, it was starting to measure up to the discomfort
level of the time when Lisa Kudrow’s platinum card was denied and I had to ask
her for another one.