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.