Waiter to the Rich and Shameless: Confessions of a Five-Star Beverly Hills Server (32 page)

All
of this happens in the Cricket Room on an inflated scale around that time of
year, and it’s almost unbearable.  You have all the small-timers trying to hold
meetings in the front of the restaurant so they can be easily noticed.  They
also like to keep an eye on who is walking in so they can approach them at
their tables later.  Well-known, “important” people don’t work this way.  It’s
annoying to the waiters (and the regulars) since these unnamed and faceless people
have revolving meetings at the table as if it were an office, so a lot of the
time we give them lousy service in return for treating our restaurant as their
own personal workspace.  They turn the Cricket Room into a speed dating bar,
with a parade of losers who order almost nothing and tip like they think
they’re at the Waffle House.

One
time I even walked up to a guest who had been holding those kinds of meetings
in our restaurant for months and asked, “Is there anything else I can get you,
sir?  Stapler, pencil, whiteout, paperclips?”  I think he got the message
‘cause he handed me a Benjamin, asked me for a cup of herbal tea and told me to
keep the change. But I still didn’t like him.

So
in the midst of all the annual Hollywierd madness, all the executives from our
international corporate office in Europe decide to have a party, celebrating
themselves.  “Hello, I’m Omar, your boss. Aren’t I awesome? You may kiss my ass
if you like.”

They
used the newly remodeled lobby as their excuse to celebrate.  It is my opinion,
and the opinion of many of the regulars, that the lobby lost its rich, warm,
classic charm for a colder, more modern-looking theme, unsuitable to the
property. They erased Hollywood glam and replaced it with faux chic Euro-style
stone and glass. But some contractor convinced the top honchos that it was a
good idea, and since they had so much money to waste, well, why not?  Money, I
might add, that was saved by cutting hours, short staffing, and firing good
people with benefits.

Boy
did they spread it on thick for this party! It was a 1920s theme put on by
Tribute Productions.  It all started with the executives arriving in
automobiles from the 1920s, treating themselves like celebrities.  Once they
got out of the cars, they walked down a red carpet (obviously it had been their
wet dream to do that) leading to the lobby where they were met by fake photographers
with old-style cameras and flashes.  The “paparazzi actors” were dressed in
rumpled old suits like journalists from “The Daily Chronicle.”  Their
photographs were taken surrounded by lookalike actors dressed as Laurel and
Hardy, Greta Garbo, Clark Gable and many other old time “stars” who were
roaming about to greet the corporate execs.  Have you ever heard of anything so
fucking cheesy?

Meanwhile,
while we were running the Cricket Room short-staffed as usual, they all walked
through the restaurant to get to their private room in which we had a special
banquet staff to take care of them.  The real Cricket Room staff was told (threatened)
to be cordial, to greet them all and smile, so we were bowing and all that
bullshit, but I was trying to pick out which one of them was the asshole who
set our budgets.  I knew it was some executive from our stuffy headquarters in
London, but whether it was a man or a woman, I had no idea. I kept entertaining
thoughts of poison, accidentally “dropping” a knife in their chests, and other
creative ideas for mayhem.

As
I looked at these individuals walking through, I could see that they were
clueless as to the bigger picture.  Most of them were just performing duties as
described by the top execs – following orders like the Nazis. The CEO is a
white man from the continent of Africa; the COO is from France, nicknamed by
the previous GM as “Ding Dong,” and then next in the food chain is a female VP
of sales.  Their names are not important but their word was the law. No, more
than law – their word was Biblical scripture, to be followed on pain of death. It
might as well have been carved on stone tablets, but of course that would have
cost too much. They, along with thirteen other executives, run ten four- to
five-star properties including several restaurants and bars. Each one of those properties
has its own hierarchy of more junior executives as well.  I can just imagine
what kinds of salaries these people sauntering through this restaurant tonight
are making. Kissing ass must be a line item on their paychecks.

As
the night went on, I spied on them from our back area as they enjoyed
1920s-themed musical entertainment, amazing
hors d'oeuvres, and finally a sit-down dinner with
the finest meats and seafood. The kitchen was going crazy – all the executive
kitchen staff was there, each of them screaming out orders to their underlings.
It took forever to get a meal out to the regular diners in our main dining room
because the kitchen staff was putting this party on the VIP list and forgetting
about the rest of the routine dining room service.  It was all smoke and
mirrors, really, as it always is when any of the executives showed up to eat in
our restaurant.  If the executives enjoyed their service, they just assumed
that all the guests in the Cricket Room were getting great service too, and this
scenario repeated itself time and time again.  And on this particular night, it
was amplified twenty times over.  Pathetic, really. 

I
walked back into the kitchen to show Lola an over-cooked $38 burger that was
sent out to my table.  She took the plate out of my hands, screamed at the cook
again, then told me to get out, and that they would re-make the order. Ten
minutes later, I was waved down by the same guest and he showed me that the
burger was rare instead of medium rare and had the wrong cheese and no onions
on it.  I apologized once again to the guest, and he looked like he was not
having any more of it.  He asked for the check and as it turned out he had a
house account.  I didn’t recognize him at first but he’s a successful movie
producer with the last name of Pressman.  I had to get Mr. P to take something
off the check and he was nervous too and hard to find since the executive
committee was holding court.  I guess he figured his job relied upon a massive
amount of bending over.  Drop those shorts, Mr. P.

I
ran into the kitchen to show Lola the burger she’d sent out wrong again. Like
the customer, I’d fucking had it!

“Look
at this!” I screamed. “It’s bloody rare and has the wrong fucking cheese and no
fucking onions on it!  For the sake of all that’s fucking holy, Lola, why don’t
you look at the ticket before you send stuff out?  How can I make a living when
you guys don’t pay any attention?  The guest is a VIP and now he’s leaving,
still hungry, and mad as hell! He won’t leave a fucking tip either, like it’s
my fault you can’t do your job!” 

Lola
opened her mouth ready to scream back at me but right at that moment Paco was
bringing another dish into the kitchen that was being sent back from one of my
other tables – a no bacon chopped salad full of bacon.  Behind Paco was Jose
with a plate of rejected medium rare salmonella-laden chicken and limp vegetables. 
All of these orders just happened to be from my tables.  As usual, the whole
staff was so concerned with giving the corporate asses an unrealistic,
manufactured, perfect evening that they were letting our regular clientele
suffer.  It’s ridiculous how the staff is programmed to screw the ones who
matter in order to pretend the Emperor has no clothes.  And the Emperor remains
blissfully unaware.

I
felt the years of frustration and anger building up in my throat and suddenly I
really lost it.  I called Mr. P. into the kitchen with Paco and Jose standing
there helplessly and I let him and Lola have it.  I hardly remember what I
said, but the incompetence and misplaced priorities finally broke the
proverbial camel’s back. 

I
think my tirade went something like this: “You weak bastards never stand up for
what’s right in this place!  You’re so afraid of asking for anything or making
any improvements that you get stepped on and abused and that’s what you think
you deserve!  Shit rolls downhill through you two and you don’t do a thing
about it!  Look at these assholes in the other room!  Spending tens of
thousands on a party to celebrate the fact that they wasted a million dollars
on ruining our lobby – when a few dollars invested in the kitchen and floor
staff would improve EVERYONE’S experience!  And you’re too afraid to say anything,
so nothing ever changes!  What matters is the guests’ experience and that’s
what I’m here to protect, but I get no fucking backup from you guys or the oblivious
suits in the other room.  And how are they supposed to know what’s going on if
you don’t dare to communicate it to them!  Fuck all of you fuckers. I’ve had
it!” 

Everyone
in the kitchen stared at me – or this insane incarnation of me – in complete
silence.  I stormed out but after a moment, I ducked into a side hallway to
compose myself.  I wanted to set a nice bonfire of the vanities with my
uniform, but decided to rush back out into the dining room to minister first
aid to the suffering and abused guests, considering whether I should call in
the Red Cross. This was obviously inhumane and probably rose to the level of
restaurant war crimes. Salmonella is chemical warfare, right?  Back out on
floor, Mr. P gave me a strange look that stuck with me for a long time. 

At
first, I felt badly for wounding a compatriot, but I also understood what that look
meant.  He felt betrayed but he also knew I was right.  I had broken the code
of silence that had kept him alive for so long, and it scared him.  It was then
that I finally realized he had never really been on my side.  And I’m sorry to
say that I suddenly saw myself in him.  The way in which he sucked up to his
bosses with no sense of pride, and for which I resented him deeply, reminded me
of the way I was always sucking up to him and to our famous guests.  And losing
myself in the process. The parallel made me feel sick inside.

I’d
dreamt of quitting many times before this, but now that I was on the verge of
walking out, I just couldn’t leave my guests wondering what was going to happen
to their orders.  It certainly wasn’t their fault so why should they be
disrespected?  It’s not my style.  When I eventually left that night, I took a
good look around.  Everything looked different, but maybe I was seeing things
clearly for the first time in years.  With the house lights turned up, Mr. P’s
face looked paler and even more expressionless than ever.  I noticed how his
cheap suit had some unflattering permanent stains on it and how his red
medallion print tie didn’t seem to be of very good quality.  There was a time
when he took pride in his appearance but the corporate jocks had beaten the
pride right out of him.

I
also noticed the other employees’ blank faces and flat affect like frozen
cardboard figures. I looked at the shelves where we stored the polished glasses
and noticed how they were stained and needed wiping.  No one had time to do
that anymore. The carpet had been changed a year ago in the dining room and was
of course of a lesser quality than the previous carpet, so it was already fading
and showing signs of wear. In past years, only the best would do, but now only
the cheapest would.  When walking through the kitchen, I realized it was dirty
and the lighting was stark.  Shortened staff, longer hours, and lack of pride
had struck the kitchen as hard as it had the front.

Lola
sat in her office staring at her computer; the greenish light from the screen illuminating
her face in a hideous way.  I walked through the lobby beneath the spot where
the grand chandelier used to be and stepped across the echoing new floor.  As I
passed through, I thought about how the corporate death squad was planning to “upgrade”
the garden area as well as the Cricket Room interior to make it more
contemporary.  No more Hollywood luxurious glam; they were now going for
sterile, cold, angular, metal, glass, and plastic, and most of all, cheaper.

I
took the elevator down to the changing rooms, and walking through the
grocery-store lit hallway, I knew I’d never be coming back again.  The romance
was over.  Pauli and the Cricket Room were breaking up; there was no more love.
I had said what I needed to say and no one liked hearing it.  Too fucking bad. I
had unloaded ten years of accumulated insults, injuries, and opinions.  Whether
they were true or false perceptions didn’t matter; they were mine and I had to
stand by them. 

With
my credentials, I could work anywhere in this town.  But I no longer wanted to
work at the best place there is... or was.  That says a lot.  The fat paycheck,
the fancy clientele… none of it mattered much anymore.  I had loved my job. 
I’m good at it.  Very good at it.  I took pride in my work.  But the
incompetent, shortsighted management practices I was forced to follow ruined it
for me. 

Most
waiters do burn out eventually – they tend to regard the job as an interim, as
a temporary thing while they pursue other goals in their lives, and the
stresses eventually outweigh the benefits.  But I didn’t go down in flames in
the typical way.  While it’s true that I eventually did start pursuing my music
again, I never looked at this job as second-rate. I had approached it
wholeheartedly. Thanks to my early life in Europe, in which service is
considered an art and requires prestigious training, and thanks to Jens showing
me how to do it right and how to do it with flair, I took my work at the
Cricket Room very seriously.  If I had been given the tools I needed to do the
job I envisioned, I might still be there.  I never expected that my sense of
self, my core beliefs about what is important in life, would be so sorely
tested by a server job at the Cricket Room.  And in that fight, the job had to
lose.  As a consolation prize – or maybe it’s first prize – I learned a lot
about myself and my values, my dedication, my ability to deliver quality work
and maintain a high standard of professionalism. That’s a hard-won lesson that
I will always carry with me.  Was it worth the cost?  Yes.  Not only did I win
that first prize, I don’t fear or wonder about the Rich and Shameless anymore. 
I no longer even respect them very much.  I saw that they’re just successful
people (or heirs) who think they’re more important than anyone else. Well, I
beg to differ.