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.
