Now by then I had
waited on hundreds of the rich and famous, but this moment was an epiphany.
This was Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous incarnate. I had heard that in the 1970s Marvin threw
lavish parties at his home in Palm Springs for the Annenbergs, Henry Kissinger,
Gerald Ford and their ilk. Attention fact checkers. I heard this from a person with first-hand
knowledge, who I trust. In fact I trust
this source with my most important worldly possession. His name is Pete, the mechanic. Pete, a Mexican-American cross between one of
the polite chipmunks from Warner Bros. cartoons and Mickey Rooney (minus the
asshole part), owns a successful repair shop in Highland Park. Pete bought his repair shop in an all cash
transaction, with funds acquired from the obscene tips he made in the 1970s as
the VIP waiter of Section 1 at Chasens.
Section 1 signified royalty at Chasens.
Think Frank Sinatra and 100% tips (i.e. $1000 tip on a $1000
bill!). These Palm Springs parties were catered
by Chasens, and if there were 500 guests, and the choice for main course was a
choice between steak, salmon, or chicken, Chasens prepared 500 of each dish,
always one step ahead of the whimsical change of mind, and always factored into
the final bill under Miscellaneous.
Still, this was astonishing. How on
earth could Greg, the chauffeur, have an extra potato on hand?
How? Greg explained it to me. He
always brought along two of everything, just in case “we got a bad potato.”
This wasn’t the last of Mrs. Davis’s
whims. A few weeks later I was waiting on Marvin and his symphony of
sycophants, Mrs. Davis finally agreed to try our Dover Sole. Just one thing.
She wanted that sole grilled, but she wanted no grill marks.
I wrote down the order without
blinking an eye though I knew that a piece of fish that is grilled but has no
grill marks is just about as easy and likely as a sunrise without sun. I
finally made my way to Marvin who thankfully ordered a simple Cote du Boeuf,
rare, and as I was about to make my way to the computer terminal--the same
terminal where fellow waiters greeted me with supportive words like, “Better
you than me,” or “You must have been evil in a previous life.”--Mrs. D grabbed
my arm with her bejeweled bony fingers, and said, “Adam, will the food be
coming soon, I’m starving.”
Never mind that I had just circled the
table, and written down insane requests from Sydney Poitier, in the same “They
call me Mr. Tibbs!” voice he was famous for.
Poitier wanted poussin—baby
chicken—pounded thin. Yeah, I’ll pull
one of those out of my ass right away!
Or one of the Davis girls telling me she’s allergic to salt. It makes up 0.9% of our blood volume! If you’re allergic, you’re dead! Regardless, in this Kafkaesque universe that
I call Spago, the customer is always right.
Par for the course, I had to enter
“SEE ME” under every item, and the “SEE ME” included a giant post-it note to
the chef about those grill marks, poussin
and salt allergies. And as I
sheepishly handed it to Cuko, the expediter, and ran from the line, I could
feel Chef Lee’s breath. I knew he was
glaring at me through the hockey glass that separated us, furious at this mad
request. “What am I supposed to do,” he
bellowed, “levitate the sole?!”
But unlike a Kafka bed time story,
ours ends happily. Lee grills the sole
on a bed of carrots—they took the grill marks for the team. Sydney Poitier got his poussin, although his poussin
was little more than a slice of free range “adult” chicken pounded thin,
and the salt allergy lady received a salt free dish that she promptly returned
for being tasteless.
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