Tuesday, August 12, 2014

Lauren Bacall and the Fava Bean Incident

"When the widow Bogart finally dies, they'll be able to hold the wake in a phone booth..." 


--Frank Sinatra


As I begin to cull the memories from the recesses of my mind, where only Jack Daniels and my therapist have tread, this one rises like a cystic acne boil--too deep to pop, too painful to ignore--from my days as a VIP waiter at Spago Beverly Hills late 1990's.

I can’t say I wasn’t warned. At the pre-shift line up my boss Tracy came close, leaned in, and spoke in an ominous English accented whisper, not unlike a conjurer working a Ouija board, or a BBC announcer revealing the high probability of a Blitzkrieg raining down any moment. “Adam, you have Lauren Bacall on Patio 1.  Be all over that table.  Ms.Bacall can be difficult.  I’ll have your back.” Still buzzed from the two beers I had thrown back in my car before walking in the door, I shrugged.  Of course, I knew of the movie star Lauren Bacall.  Little did I know Ms. Bacall was gonna have my ass with fava beans and a nice Chianti.

As predicted, Lauren Bacall entered Spago right on time.  As she crossed the patio, people looked up for she emanated stardom, a classic Hollywood beauty. Some actors have star power.  Others, like Keanu Reeves, are often mistaken for valets, or homeless people.  Refined in her manners and dress, Lauren Bacall oozed sophistication.  Tracy had told me the young woman with her was her daughter, but there was someone else, who I did not recognize, and in retrospect, probably had been convicted of a crime and had to choose between 300 hours of community service, or dining out with Lauren Bacall.

Anyway, the order was fairly straight forward. She gazed at me with those piercing eyes and inquired, "What does the grilled swordfish came with?" 

Cool as a cucumber, I replied, "Fava beans."

When the fish arrived I was not at the table, but went to check on her soon thereafter. As I approached I saw her catch my eye, and she began beckoning me with her index finger.. “Yes Ms. Bacall, how is everything?”

She then starts stabbing the fish with her fork quite aggressively. “What seems to be the problem?” I inquired somewhat timidly, as small beads of sweat appeared on my forehead and slid down my puffy, booze saturated cheek.

She glared at me. “What do you think is the problem? I don’t see any fava beans. You specifically told me the swordfish comes with fava beans." STAB STAB STAB. "Where are the fava beans?!”

I gestured to the filet and said, “They’re under the fish.”

Now, a little back story. Restaurants like Spago don’t use heat lamps so the plates are preheated so the food arrives warm. And they are fucking hot, so the chef puts vegetables down first with the fish on top so it doesn’t get scorched by the heat of the plate. Anyway...

She looks under the fish, and without even an inkling of acknowledgement that perhaps the problem has been resolved, she stabs the fava beans.  “This is a disaster. A total disaster.”

I love how the rich and famous throw around words like “disaster”. Now mind you this was pre 9/11 so I was thinking to myself, “If this is a “disaster”, then what the hell happened in Oklahoma city at the courthouse?”

Of course we bought her lunch.  That's how self-entitled shakedown celebrities operate.  I found out later from my friend Dave, a waiter at the legendary Bel Air hotel, that Lauren Bacall has abused waiters and hotel employees throughout her life, and more importantly takes perverse pleasure in it. In fact while being interviewed at the Bel Air Hotel for her autobiography, I’m a Cunt, she took the opportunity--during an interview!--to berate a waiter who had the nerve to bring her tea in a tea pot! 

And I imagine this waiter could only think to himself, "Lauren, honey, they might not have been invented during the Jurassic Age of your childhood, but that’s why we serve tea in special pots called “tea” pots, you stupid sack of soiled satin."  Anyway she dismissed the waiter with a sarcastic line, “This isn’t Denny’s. Bring me a decanter like they use in room service.” This, according to the article, “left the waiter flustered and speechless”.

“That was me!”, exclaimed David as he read the article, “That fucking bitch humiliated me.”

Last I heard the Beverly Hills Hotel had told her, in a polite manner, no doubt, that she was no longer welcome there. No proof of that, just a rumor from some waiters, which is just as good as the truth for me.

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