IN MEMORIAM: MY WEEKEND IN VEGAS WITH TONY CURTIS

Ah Vegas! Whatever happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, unless, you want to write a book about what happened in Vegas, which reminds me of the time I spent the weekend in Vegas with Tony Curtis. Now at this point, you might be thinking, “Sure this fly on the wall waited on all these legends, and stole all their wine, but surely he never crossed the threshold into actual dinner companion. Read on.

Tony Curtis was a super VIP Spago regular. He was fond of coming into the old Spago up on Sunset where he held court at the bar with his 24 year old platinum blonde Amazon girlfriend Jill, who, by the way, had a set of jugs, that could change your eyeglass prescription. His bartender of choice was Preston, who happened to be my buddy--for reals. Preston also had an uncanny resemblance to Don Knotts, which was a source of endless Mayberry mirth and merriment. Needless to say, Tony was quite fond of all of us: Preston, Gigi the French waiter, Me, the Maitre d’ Michael Wilde, Wolfgang, etc...

When Spago Beverly Hills opened in March of 1997, Tony and Jill migrated over there to follow Preston. One day Tony comes in alone and sits at the bar and says, “Preston, my dear man, Jill is celebrating her 26th birthday at the end of the month, and I’m taking her to Vegas.” “That’s wonderful Tony,” replies Preston ever so cordially. Tony continues, “Yeah, I want her to have a good time, but I don’t know too many young people like you, and I was wondering if you could round up a few of your friends, and meet us there. She really loves you guys.” “Wow, sure Tony,” replies a flabbergasted, Preston. “I’ll take care of it for you. That’s so great Tony. You’re very kind.” Tony is very pleased. “Great!” I’ll set you up at the MGM, we’ll have dinner at Spago Las Vegas. All you gotta do is pay your own airfare.” Preston is all smiles. “Sure Tony.” “Tony gets up to leave. “And Preston.” “Yes, Tony?” “Make sure you bring the Frog Gigi.

So Preston gets on the horn and tells Gigi, me, and a few others about the trip. As it turns out, our money grubbing waiter friends would rather make $500 over the weekend than get a chance to spend the weekend with Tony Curtis in Las Vegas! So it ends up being Preston, me, and Gigi. Michael Wilde agreed to come also, but didn’t want to soil his Versace on a Southwest seat cushion, so he drove instead.

I could barely contain my excitement. My wife was very excited too. She packed my nicest sport jacket and clothes, kissed me, and wished me a safe trip. I was soon pulling up at the Burbank airport where I met my friends at the departure gate. It was then, that two things became abundantly clear: a) Preston actually was Don Knotts and b) Gigi was a French Hillbilly. They looked like a couple of yahoos on their way to Vegas to a pencil shavings convention. God knows what they were spending their tips on, but it wasn’t wardrobe. But regardless, before you could say, “I’m Spartacus!” , we were on a Southwest Airlines flight to Las Vegas!

Anyway, we had a few drinks on the flight and landed in Vegas. We made our way to the MGM, and went to check in, but we were early, and our room was not ready so we were directed to the VIP check in lounge--courtesy of Tony Curtis! I had never been in a VIP section as a guest. It’s weird having someone else wait on you. It was amazing. There was a huge continental breakfast spread, complimentary coffee and champagne, cordial bellmen, and whores. HA! Just kidding. There were no bellmen. Anyway...we each grabbed a free drink, except Gigi, who grabbed two gin and tonics, and after a while we are given our room key cards so we bid the VIP lounge “Au revoir!”

On our way we stop to play a few slots and much to my surprise I hit a modest $50 jackpot on the quarter slots. Now I’ve got a plastic bucket brimming with quarters. We head upstairs to change. If you’ve never been there, the MGM is a monster hotel. I believe it was the first mega-casino in Vegas. We practically got lost, but finally find the room.

As we approach the door, we hear the television inside. “Probably the maid,” says Preston, but where there’s a maid there’s a housekeeping cart, and none could be seen. Now we are outside the door. Preston double checks the key number with the room number and slides the key. The light turns green, so we open the door a bit. Preston calls out, “Hello?” Suddenly the door opens wide and there before us stood the Great Tony Curtis...in his underwear--tightie whities.

“Fellas! Come on in!” Not sure what to do, we enter. Preston’s got his Amstel Light, Gigi has his two free gin and tonics, and me a with my bucket o’ quarters, all of us not saying a word, and not really sure what to make of what just happened. It’s not everyday you see a living legend in his undies. Not to mention in bed, in a silk nightie was the buxom Jill. She was so happy to see us. We kept our eyes glued to the floor lest her big boobies broke free and did things to us that would make us die happy yet blind.

Tony returned to the bed and sat Indian style on the edge of the bed like some Jewish Ghandi. “The front desk accidently duplicated the cards,” he explained. You guys are downstairs a floor. Preston clears his throat, and manages to squeak out an apology, which Tony summarily dismisses. “Not your fault, Fellas.” Meanwhile Jill rises up to pour herself more champagne, and we were all cured of any future impotence. “You guys want some bubbly?” We politely decline and continue studying the pattern of the carpet. “Well, I’m gonna hop in the shower and I’ll meet you guys downstairs.” We get up and shuffle out sheepishly like altar boys. As the door was about to close, I heard Tony’s distinct voice, “Adam, don’t forget your quarters.”

The age difference between Tony and Jill was what math word problems are made of. i.e. If Tony Curtis was 4 times Jills age and he departed from New York on a westbound train while at the exact same time Jill departed from Los Angeles on an eastbound train to rendezvous with him in a Chicago motel room, at what point would he be arrested for corrupting a minor. I have to admit, all smart ass remarks aside, Tony and Jill really loved each other. She apparently came from a well to do family so it’s not like she was gold digging, but come to think of it, how much gold did Tony Curtis really have, not counting what’s in his teeth?

We walked into Spago Las Vegas at Caesars and were welcomed like royalty. We were ushered to the best big table in the house. Jill and Tony are hard to miss, so it was real fun to have everybody stop eating and look to see a big star.

Of course, Preston and Gigi’s retarded wardrobe contrasted very nicely with my sport coat and Michael’s Versace, so in a snapshot Michael looked like Tony’s interior designer, I filled the shoes of Agent-Lawyer, and Preston and Gigi fit the bill as two kids from the Make A Wish Foundation, whose dying desire was to spend the weekend in Las Vegas with Tony Curtis.

Later we went to many casinos and Tony took many pictures with tourists. Michael excused himself at one point as he had an appointment to get fisted. Tony regaled us with many stories of the glory days of Vegas. “People used to get really messed up on cocaine and pills, and they would disappear. Back then there were no rehabs. And people would ask, “What ever happened to Johnny?” And someone else would say, “Oh Johnny’s in Paris. But Johnny wasn’t in Paris. He was wandering in the desert on the outskirts of town with no shoes on his feet.”

Meanwhile, Preston had hit a $600 dollar slot jackpot, and was rubbing it in our faces the whole night, especially when Gigi and I lost our last alloted gambling dimes that our wives had given us. Soon we were all drunk and passed out. About 4 AM I am awakened by the sound of Gigi rummaging around our room in his underwear. He’s cursing to himself in French. “Merde! Pweston, do you have a dollar? I am thirsty. I need to buy a soda. Please, Pweston, help me." "Sorry, Gigi, I only have hundreds. Oh how I wish I could break a hundred for you." “Merde! Damn you Pweston...”

Gigi had the funniest accent. We used to have a Thai chicken fettucinne with a spicy Peanut Sauce. Gigi was from the south of France outside of Marseille and spoke with a heavy accent so thick you could stick a fork in it and it would stand there.. The best he could muster was “We ‘av uh Tayee fettucinne with a spicy “penis sauce” Customers would howl. and he would get so pissed. It was like some Monty Python sketch.

More Pain Please

    I think I may have said this before, but it never ceases to amaze me at the high threshold of pain tolerance that the average Mexican worker has for injustice, either real, or perceived.  It’s downright stratospheric!  You see, the typical upscale waiter in Los Angeles is a college educated Caucasian.  Sure you have the usual smattering of asians, blacks, and latinos, but for the most part, it’s Whiteyville.  The dilemma that the educated servants have is as follows: How do I reconcile my vocational aspirations, to be a famous actor, musician, or model, all of which have stalled or failed to come to fruition, with my actual occupation as waiter?  There it is, staring us in the face: the apron.  We must accept the apron, and if we accept the apron, then surely it will allow us the opportunity to be happy. Yes?  Christ no! 
  

The intelligentsia of the service industry can’t stand that they have to wait on people, especially famous actors, musicians, and writers, all of whom have broken through, and make a comfortable living that their degrees from NYU and UCLA promised them.

I used to think the busboys at the Poison Ivy were stupid for putting up with all the bullshit.  Why didn’t they stand up for themselves when told to do something that was plainly illegal?  For instance, Blanche told us once that we had to be fully dressed upon entering the front of the restaurant.  We weren’t allowed in the back lest we steal something, but she had no problem having all of us enter and exit through the same front door that celebrities used as well as the general public.  Everyday there was a stinky parade of kitchen staff, with their soiled pants and stained Ivy t-shirts exiting the garden.  Right passed the paparazzi.  Absurd.  Anyway, Blanche wanted us dressed upon stepping foot on the premises.  Therefore most of would tuck in our shirts around the corner.  This worked until the dress shop owner got tired of us using his windows as mirrors to stuff our pink shirts into our tight white jeans, so Blanche put up a memo ordering us to be dressed from our cars until we got to the restaurant.  We weren’t paid “walking time” like assembly plant workers are paid.  Looking back I see the Mexicans were wise and us gringos were jackasses.  “It’s no big deal,” they would say, but us “edumacated” waiters would march upstairs and tell the GM, “This policy is illegal!”  And we would savor the victory, no matter how brief, as they would take down the memo the next day, and put up another one rescinding the order.  I’ve got a lot of respect for these guys who kept silent.  It’s hard.  Mark Twain said it best:

Better to be silent, and be thought a fool, than to speak and remove any doubt...

And I think it was Ernest Hemingway who said to a waiter,

Where’s my fucking cocktail?

    Seriously, how many hours did I waste pontificating about labor laws and staring at the California Employment Code posters that spell out our rights.  I have to laugh when they passed the whistle blower laws and put that 1-800 number on the wall.  We would debate whether making us enter dressed was illegal, and should we call the number and lodge a complaint. I can only imagine the operator chuckling as she writes up our complaint, and then files it next to the one detailing the the illegal dumping of hazardous waste from a rocket fuel plant, into the LA river.  What a bunch of jagoffs.

Comedians

One of my personal highlights as a waiter was the day I got to wait on John Cleese and his wife at the Poison Ivy.  They came in, and I greeted them.  When I asked her what she wanted to drink, she scribbled her order on a sheet of paper and handed it to me.  John Cleese then held up his menu to block her view and whispered, “She’s just had a procedure done over at Cedars, and can’t speak for a week,” and he leaned into me and chuckled, “I’m in Heaven!”  To which she promptly scribbled a note that said, “I CAN HEAR.”

Another great comedian story is the day I waited on Chris Rock and Rick Rubin.  It was Rubin’s reservation so traditionally he would get the check.  Any how, I drop the check in front of him and Rock grabs it and hands me his Amex. Rubin protests, “It’s my reservation so it’s my treat.  Chris Rock looks up at me--the white guy decked out in white jeans, pink shirt, and flowered florist gangster tie--and exclaims, “RUN NIGGA!”

He also left the Poison Ivy one day and was standing at the top of the stairs waiting for his car.  Well this little blonde haired girl approaches and asks sheepishly, “Mr.Rock, may I have your autograph?” To which he replies, “Sorry, sweetie, no white kids on Tuesdays.”  As she stared blankly at him he leaned in and signed her napkin, and whispered, “Okay, sure.  Here you go...don’t tell your parents.”
 
Steve Martin used to come to the Ivy quite often.  I always was excited.  I had seen him at Spago a few times but finally got to wait on him at the Ivy.  It was kind of uneventful.  He’s a private man.  He often wears a baseball cap or hat with brim pulled low.  He doesn’t like to be bothered by fans, especially those who still say, “Steve!  I’m a wild and crazy guy!  Excuuse meeee!”.  I heard he used to have business cards with his picture on it that said,

“This card entitles you to tell your friends that you met Steve Martin,
Though he was unable to give you an autograph, he wished you well.”

I never saw one, but if one existed I would give my left nut for it.

The closest I ever got to conversing with him was when he was at the Ivy and got up to use the restroom.  I followed him and when he entered the restroom I offered to hold his penis.  HA!  Actually, what happened was this.  The Ivy had two unisex restrooms and there was usually a line for both.  He entered the hallway, and saw the line, and I thought, “He’s not gonna want to wait there.” So I walked up and said, “Mr. Martin, we have a private bathroom upstairs.” He was surprised.  I showed him upstairs and he thanked me.

Over the years, I have been told countless times that I look like Steve Martin.  I have been told this by agents, casting directors, customers, and my best friend’s Dad when I was 12.  The only one who hasn’t told me that is Steve Martin.  Someday.  God willing.  Someday.

Calm Before the Storm

There are few places more serene than a restaurant in the morning prior to service.  At the time of this writing I work a few breakfast shifts at the Farm of Beverly Hills at LA Live (Man, that’s a mouthful!  Even Carol Channing couldn’t swallow it.)  Anyway...the tables have been reset from the night before.  The place is clean, and the kitchen is peaceful in its austere chrome magnificence.  The prep cooks are quietly going about their business.  An hour later it looks like a bomb has gone off.  Cooks are screaming, the printers are ticking a seemingly endless stream of orders, waiters are hustling to refill coffee and making up plausible explanations for why the toast hasn’t come out yet.

Maybe it’s my own personal Jesus complex, but my weakest skill is that of delegation.  I try to do it all.  Sometimes it works and the result is a semi-fluid auto pilot vibe.  Other times it becomes a first class cluster fuck.  I hate rejection of any kind, so I don’t ask the busser to bring coffee because if he says “No” then I will be angry.  Typical alkee doesn’t want to ask for help.  Of course it also depends on whether or not the busser is being tipped a high or low percentage.  Every restaurant is different.  The Ivy had a high tip out rates (24%) so I could play “Whack an Immigrant!” with my bussers there.  However, if they are not getting a high percentage based on idiotic house rules, then I feel guilty bossing them around.  I always tip the house percentages--no more no less.  Believe it or not, there are waiters who get to keep a large percentage, treat their bussers like TJ whores, and then on top of that, under tip.  Hell has a special place for these kinds of miscreants.

Juan Corona “King of the Chicken F#@%ers”

Another tale from the Poison Ivy.

Juan “The Chicken Fucker” Corona was a barrel chested, hard drinking, fudge packing maniac from Zacatecas.  He didn’t consider himself gay ‘cause he was a “pitcher”.  Catchers were gay.  I always wondered what Ray Fosse felt about this, but I digress.  Gotta love those Zacateño Mexicans.  Anyway Juan told someone--in confidence HA! HA!--that he used to fuck chickens on the rancho back home.  Legend has it his grandmother caught him and screamed, “Juan! I told you to go out to the hen house and PLUCK a chicken!”

Anyway he went out for drinks with a food runner named Juan “Implante” Infante.  Now Juan was a little light in his loafers, but got awful sore if one was to suggest that he was gay, but not as sore as he was after Corona was through with him.  You can’t say Juan didn’t warn him though.  In fact he told him straight up, “If you pass out, I’m gonna fuck you up the butt.”

This was back when free range chicken was all the rage.  FYI Free range is when chickens get to roam around the fields, pecking at corn and grain, and then they are hunted down and slaughtered.  As Wolfgang Puck always said, “Free range, but not out of range.”  My friend Nathan, when over hearing a guest tell how delicious our roast chicken was, would chime in, “All our chickens come pre-Corona-ed for easy stuffing.”  And they thought it was a culinary secret.

DADDY WARBUCKS

Marvin Davis had health problems, primarily diabetes. He didn’t heal quickly so when he got sick it really knocked him out. One time he was really sick and hadn’t been into Spago for a week, and we all missed him, especially our accountant. So I’m working my usual section on a Friday night and it’s busy, and I’m looking forward to an easy night without a slew of post it notes, and visits to Hell’s kitchen. Out of the blue one of the managers, Gigi, comes up to me and tells me Wolfgang needs me in the kitchen. I enter and go to the pass, which is jumping. Chef Lee is behind the line barking out pick ups and order-ins and fires. Plates are flying out of the kitchen. Wolfgang is in front of the pass examining plates. He sees me, and yells in that thick Austrian accent we all know and love,

“Adam, Marvin is sick. I need you to take food to Marvin. I saw Barbara at lunch and she says he misses us.” “Okay Chef,” I reply, eager to get back to my section before Karim, the Pakistani waiter-table thief, works his magic. “Tomorrow?” “No,” he yells, “Don’t be silly. Now!” Surprised, I manage to squeak out a mild protestation against the absurdity of it all. “But chef, what about my station?” He cuts me off. “I don’t care about your station. I care about Marvin! You go to Marvin right now...and take Lee with you.” I see Chef Lee with his mouth open, staring at Wolfgang in disbelief. Wolf looks at him. “Hurry! You two go to Marvin’s right now!” So Lee, who knows better than to argue with his boss, turns over the line and all thirty some odd tickets, to the sous chef Thomas. Thankfully Gigi takes over my station to keep the Indian fakir at bay.
Marvin lived in a huge mansion on a hill over looking Sunset. He resided in the old Doheny estate, most recently owned by Kenny Rogers. We didn’t talk much on the way over as Lee was furious at having been pulled off the line. We soon pulled up to the gate and were waved through. We ascended the drive way and passed the perfectly manicured lawns and trees. We were greeted by an enormous civil war cannon. Apparently Marvin had a huge collection of Civil War memorabilia, including a large collection of pistols and rifles. Why he never used one of them on his two obnoxious grandsons Jason and Brandon was always a mystery to me, but that’s another story.
We park in the middle of this huge roundabout and entered through the servants quarters. We are greeted by the butler and personal chef, who coincidentally had already made a spread of grub for Mr. D. It looked like a craft services spread for Teamsters. I’m thinking, “This is fucking overkill” as we had brought Cote du Beouf , Matzo Ball soup, pomme aligote ( a cheesey potato that come with a free ambulance ride to Cedars Sinai), white asparagus, and to top it off kaiserschmarren. Kaiserschmarren, which means “king of nonsense” was a strawberry souffle that Don Rickles affectionately called, “a second helping of diabetes”. Marvin’s chef just laughed at the abundance of it all. “I’ll plate it to look pretty, and then we’ll wait for the forklift to haul it upstairs.” We thank the staff and Chef Lee says to tell Marvin we said hello.
We are just about to exit when the butler comes in and says, “Mr. Davis would like to see you both...upstairs” We follow him to a grand staircase straight out of Little Orphan Annie. We begin to ascend and he comments quietly, “No one goes upstairs to the bedroom.” Just then that feeling of the surreal eclipsing the real begins to manifest itself. He opens the door to the Marvin’s bedroom, and all I can think of is Hotel California

“And in the master’s chambers, we gathered for the feast,
They stabbed it with their steely knives but they just can’t kill the beast!”.

Before us lay the biggest bed I have ever seen. In the middle of it, propped up on a mountain range of pillows was Mr. D in silk pajamas. At the far end of the room, was Mrs. Davis, playing solitaire on a little card table. “Hello boys,” she chirps. Lee replies, “Hello Mrs. Davis. Hi Mr. D. We brought you some supper. Your favorites.” Mr. Davis was really touched. I chimed in, “Mr. D, we miss you, and we hope you feel better real soon.” He picked at the buffet laid out before him, and we small talked. Eventually, he thanked us, and we bid him farewell. As I turned I heard his familiar gruff voice, “Adam, come here for a moment.” I approached the bed as he reached for a drawer on a night stand. Out of it he pulled a wad of hundred dollar bills with the band still attached. He popped the band and handed me five hundred dollars! It was all so unbelievable. I pondered, “Ten grand in a night stand!” He shook my hand. “Thank you for your trouble. See you soon.”

On the way back to Spago I offered Lee half the dough. “Chef, it was a to go order. Lee declined. “Take me back to the restaurant.” When we returned, I went to put on my apron. Chef Lee patted me on the back. Don’t go back to work.. Go home to your wife and kids. You made your money tonight. Lee really looked out for me.

I remember one afternoon in early 2002, I was stumbling back to the restaurant between shifts, and Lee saw me. He was driving his Porsche. the same Porsche that Wolfgang had given him after being forced to give it away by his then wife Barbara. Funny how Barbara theorized that Wolfgang’s midlife crisis could be cured by getting rid of the sports car. She was already onto him regarding his flirty behavior with a certain obnoxious hostess from Ethiopia, who would one day become his next wife. I swear he should have kept the car. Anyway...back to Lee. He flags me down and commands me to get in. I was self conscious because I had been drinking beer in my car and had spilled some on my pants. He glared at me. “Adam, you know, I can’t protect you forever. As long as I am physically here, no one can fire you, but Tracy doesn’t like your your temper and general lack of respect, and she’s the GM. If I leave town on business, and you fuck up, she can fire you. Your fucking employee file is thick with write ups. It was true. My file was fatter than a berkshire pig awaiting slaughter. He continued lecturing me. “ And your drinking again.” “Not much,” I meekly objected. “Why don’t you just stop?” I pondered that question. Lee knew a lot about cooking, but next to nothing when it came being marinated. Lee loved me--correction--he respected me. He knew what guys like me and Raffi, and Oscar, and Gigi, had to put up with on a daily basis was torturous, and more than often a blood sport for the rich and famous sadists that called Spago home.

Lee was also a stellar put down artist. He loved to haze waiters, and cooks. Our line ups involved tasting three or four specials of the day. He wanted to tell us what they were, method of cooking, origin of ingredients, and the recipe itself. Now, one thing that is somewhat interesting is the fact that Lee’s first job ever in a restaurant was at a Chinese joint in New Jersey. Lee told us repeatedly that that was the reason why he was very fond of Asian cuisine. One day yet again, he was telling about his first job at the Chinese place, and I was probably buzzed, and feeling cocky, so after he got done explaining the origins of Chinese ten spice, I inquired, “Chef, could you tell us how many miles of snow you had to walk through to get to the Chinatown Express?”

Everybody laughed, except Lee. He just stared at the table. He then looked up, and to no one in particular said, “If any of you have any questions about these dishes, ask the comedian.” And he stormed out. My comrades were so pissed at me because these dishes were complicated specials, and we couldn’t just bullshit our way through, especially Gigi, who was so terrified of mispronouncing an English word and end up describing a sexual act instead of something to eat. And as all of us “cunning linguists” know. It is a fine line indeed.