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.

See LA the John Gailey Way

Artwork: Behnan Shabbir

                John Gailey was a legend.  He was a waiter’s waiter.  He had worked for Richard and Lynn for years.  He was a Gangly Mulatto Homo--his own description—which phonetically sounds like the Swahili word ganglimulatohomo, which roughly translates to “black man with dick in mouth.”  He stood 6’ 3” with size 13 feet and weighing in at 150 lbs soaking wet.  He was a total nut, and totally dishonest.  He would cheat his own Grandmother.   He was infamous.  He would train waiters and be vague about how many tables they had in their section, then steal those unattended tables. 

And he was cheap.  One time he was limping real bad.  “My foot is killing me. I bought these new shoes from a busboy at the Ivy by the Shore, whose brother got them when they fell off a truck.”  The bussers were famous for their “five finger discounts”

“One of them feels okay, but the other one is real tight.”  “Maybe they need to be broken in,” I said feigning concern. “Take them off and stretch them.” So he did and soon we heard him cursing to high heaven.  Apparently the busser’s brother had sold him 2 shoes. One size 13, the other, size 12.

Tom partied hard. He told this “I’m lucky to be alive!” story about being at a BBQ up in the Hollywood Hills, and being on a deck, tapping a keg, and he was laughing, and pumping the keg, and was chortling at someone else’s lame joke and went to lean on the deck rail, which would have been great if a rail existed.  And as he tumbled over backwards and fell into some gravel he realized that he was still holding the keg hose, and had managed to drag the keg to the edge of the deck. 

“I looked up and saw this keg of Coors Silver Bullet plummeting down at me, and I thought, ‘This kind of booze isn’t going to  kill John Gailey!’” He was right about that.  Another kind did the job later.

Photo: Batrachus

                Tom went to Las Vegas with me and some friends a few years later, and the highlight was him, as token gay man, threatening to drape is flaccid penis across the face of the first of us straight guys to pass out, and memorializing it with a polaroid photo.  I switched to club soda early that night.

I hadn’t seen John in weeks, and if you didn’t see someone for  awhile, but their name still appeared on the schedule, this meant they were either suspended, fired, or worse: scheduled to work at The Ivy at the Shore (aka Siberia by the Shore).  The Shore is to The Ivy as Khloe Kardashian is to Kim. 

The ugly sister who might still put out, but not like her ho-bag sister.  We were guaranteed to make money turning tricks at The Ivy.  The Shore was often just one big party of Europeans waiting to shove a five percent dildo up your keister. 

Turns out he was sick.  In a normal restaurant world employees are kept informed about other employees illnesses, or family tragedies.  Obviously privacy is paramount, but restaurants are a tribal system, and if someone is suffering, others help out.  I heard the Latinos would actually pool their tips and give them to their uninsured co-worker friends.  The Ivy wouldn’t allow us to post any non-Ivy notices on the bulletin board.  Our focus was always to be on “our important guests” and their needs.

John was not fired, suspended, or working at the Shore.  He was very sick.  And soon he was hospitalized.  In the end he was in a hospice wing at Cedars Sinai, which was just around the corner from The Ivy.  I went to visit him after the lunch shift.  Strangely, Roberston Blvd. was quiet that day.  I recall seeing a few open parking spaces.  I walked passed Chaya Brasserie, and entered the hospital.  I noted that I hadn’t stepped foot in Cedars since my own nervous breakdown in 2000.  I took the elevator up to ICU.  He was all alone in his own private room.  He would have been happy to make the list.  I entered, and waited for that vaguely warm yet dismissive greeting he was so famous for, “Hello, Stupido!”  coupled with his usual crazed, Jerry Lewis smile.  Instead I saw his eyes wide open, and unblinking.  He had a breathing tube, and his gangly legs poked out of his gown revealing his big feet.  Now I understood why he was in such pain that day when the busser sold him mismatched shoes.  I held his hand, and told him about my day.  I told him about the waiters, about Brenda crying about how she was being seated, and Marc cheating the busboy, and who got suspended this week, and the paparazzi being desperate for any kind of picture and having to settle for David Hasselhoff.  The whole time he just clutched my hand, despairing, unblinking, as if he was afraid that if he closed them for a second too long they would never open again.  I cried for John.  I wept like a soldier weeps for a fallen comrade.  We were waiters.  We were veterans.  I had served at Spago.  He had served at Wolfgang Puck’s Granita in Malibu.  I was sober.  He was dying.  I was glad I showed up for my “frienemy” John.  Soon, I said my final goodbye. I looked back, hoping that maybe he would say, “Adios Stupido!”.  He was staring at me, unblinking.  The next morning he died.  It was his final checkout.  I hope he kept all the tips.

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.

The "Lie" Styles of the Rich and Oblivious

Need I remind you, that the the Ivy manifests itself in the idea that the celebrity life is ideal and although not inevitable to the average toiling midget, it should nonetheless be pursued with a lemming like vengance.

What's not really known to the general public, is how the owners of the the Ivy--Dick and Blanche Dubois, perpetuate this lie. They own a home once owned by Hollywood Golden Age director George Cukor, and have had many articles written--actually concocted--by the likes of George Christy, which build up an ideal life of "swimming pools and movie stars." This is coupled with interior design articles that make ridiculous allusions comparing the over decorated bedroom of Poison Ivy owner, Blanche DuBois, to other romantic-tragic figures like those found in Camille. Am I the only one feeling acid reflux here?

Which leads me to the mob that's been picking on "poor" Gweneth Paltrow, over her foray into "lifestyle" branding.  http://www.nytimes.com/2009/02/22/fashion/22gwyneth.html

It appears we would all be better off if we just went to the same spas, restaurants, and gyms as Gweneth, but what never ceases to amaze me, is how we all have a part to play here. We got the movie star--check. We got the delusional general public--check. We got the "lifestyle media" with their Aikido like mastery of deflecting attention from the horrors that await us as the economy crumbles. It's like the guests at The Mask of the Red Death with Gweneth playing the part of Princess Prospero.

The whole thing makes me want to puke champagne and caviar.

[INSERT INSANE REQUEST HERE] Yes Sir! Right Away, Sir!

Yes, rich, famous people, have asked for insane things, and Spago-a-go-go, for instance would do everything to accommodate them.
We once went to buy french fries from In and Out, for someone, but also, once, this billionaire, Marvin Davis, wanted meatloaf, which you can't just whip up from scratch in fifteen minutes. Coincidentally, we had had meatloaf for staff meal, that same afternoon, so we heated up what was left, and served it to him. He loved it. It was certainly worth the $30 bucks we charged him.

The Poison Ivy would NEVER accommodate them--sort of reverse psychology, and they're psychos, so they should know.

Oh So Busy, We're So Busy, So Busy, So Busy, So Gay!

You gotta laugh. In La La Land things are mighty sucky in the high end dining world right now. Spago-a-go-go is off 30% and laying off waiters. Others are off about the same. But my spies at the Poison Ivy, told me of a staff meeting where Dick and Blanche Du Bois commanded their minions to do the following: If a guest asks how business has been, tell them it's been GREAT! If they inquire about the fact that half the seats are empty at one in the afternoon, just refresh their $5.75 ice tea.
Or, if they keep seeing the same faces, and they ask where the other waiters are, don't tell them that there are only 12 waiters on the entire schedule at Siberia By the Shore, when there used to be 25.

Kudos to the Poison Ivy for constructing yet another nest of lies to add to their ever expanding labyrinth of lies!

It's Vagina Town Jake

I saw in the LA Times that Roman Polanski wants to come back to America after fleeing sentencing for the rape of a 13 year old girl in 1978. Let me be the first to tell Roman that the Poison Ivy has a patio table reserved for him and Jack Nicholson, with 3 gimlets ready and a couple of roofies, and if the Hannah Montana look a likes find him disgusting and mothbally, then he can slip one to one of the Oaxacan bussers and rape one of them if he wants.
--Blanche DuBois
Owner of the Poison Ivy

Beckham Shoots...He Gyps!!!!!!!!!!!

Beckham once tipped me at the Poison Ivy with a wad of cash, in handshake fashion. I was over joyed, only to find $30 in 1s and 5s! It was still 20% but come on! I had to work real hard! I had to compose myself around Victoria as she kept pitchin woo at me.

"Homemade" Crab Cakes!

Brought to you by Saltines, a cracker so good, you’d swear they were “homemade!”

Once upon a time at the Poison Ivy, I waited on a little old lady and she just loved the crab cakes, and she asked me how the crab cakes got their texture. My immediate thought was to say, “Shit Spackle,” but instead I replied, “Cracker”. She then asked me if we used eggs and I said “I can’t discuss preparations." Now this isn’t because the recipes are so complicated. Nothing could be further from the truth. In fact, our employee manual--about as long as the Warren Commission report--specifically mentions that we serve “simply grilled meats and fishes, with homemade bread and pastas.” What I should have said is “homemade bread crumbs”--another lie in the labyrinth of lies that is the Poison Ivy.

How can I say this? Blanche Du Bois, the owner of the Poison Ivy, is a liar. Pathological and so nested in her fantasy, the Poison Ivy is a labyrinth of lies so convoluted that Theseus himself would have to leave a trail of “homemade bread crumbs" to find his way out. The Poison Ivy is the biggest lie in a town filled with liars. She and her chimp of a husband, cook Dick, who calls himself a “chef” and “master baker”, have pulled the wool over the eyes of Hollywood for too long. In fact this resume fraud has been perpetuated by the great bullshit artist himself, George Christy, formerly of the Hollywood Reporter. George called Dick a “master baker”!

George Christy, “the Queen of the Run-On Sentence,” almost single handedly made Spago-a-go-go and Poison Ivy what they are today: overrated. If one ever wondered what the world would look like if “periods” ever went on strike, then look no further than one of George Christy’s Things You Should Know columns from the 1980s. The only thing dustier than some of the reviews hanging on the walls of the Poison Ivy, are the slices of “fresh” raspberry pie languishing in the dessert fridge since last week.

Master Baker Dick uses the cheapest ingredients available while forcing his staff to convey to guests that “everything is fresh and homemade” I ask you Dick, does that include the saltines we use as filler in our crab cakes, that you pass off as "home made bread crumbs"? Man, you pull that cracker shit in New Orleans, they kick yo’ po’boy ass. Speaking of New Orleans, how about the canister of actual chef Paul Prudhomme’s Seafood Magic, that the Poison Ivy uses in their Fried Chicken, grilled Vegetable salad, and other dishes? Or the frozen scallops? But I digress...

Back to Granny...Well, what harm could come from mentioning Saltines, you ask? A lot. Granny here, looks at her coffee cup, filled, by the way, with cheap coffee from a wholesale roaster in Santa Ana--and asks where she can buy “these lovely dishes”. Without thinking, I chirp, “Next door at our shop Hepatitis Seas.”

I can’t make this shit up. A waiter at Poison Ivy at the Shore--our sister restaurant in Santa Monica, otherwise known as Siberia by the Sea--was fired for showing a guest the coffee bag. Now, the guest actually liked the coffee, and the waiter was merely being hospitable. They fired him for discussing our purveyors. Blanche and her monkey boy Dick want the public to believe--and believe me, the public believes it like lemmings believe in cliffs--that our ingredients are so special, so unique, that we must be secretive, lest someone copy our recipes. The reality is that the Poison Ivy uses the cheapest ingredients available: De Cecco pasta at the Poison Ivy at the Shore, fruits and veggies from the Central Market downtown. There is no quality difference between the Poison Ivy and Andre’s Italian Cafeteria at 3rd and Fairfax. Now I love Andres, but they charge $6.75 for their lasagna, not $26.75!

Back to granny...

Fast forward 30 minutes. I’m in the middle of lunch. I get called to the front. It’s the GM on the phone. “Oh dear, sorry to bother you, but can you come upstairs?” It’s the worst thing for a single dad with two kids to support to hear. Getting called upstairs at the Poison Ivy can age you a year or two in ten minutes.

I was being sent home. Why? Discussing Poison Ivy recipes. "Oh shit," I thought, "Granny was a plant." Turned out she wasn’t. She had merely followed my suggestion and went next door, to Hepatitis Seas where she was greeted by a mysterious woman (Blanche) who inquired how her lunch was. The little old lady exclaimed what a wonderful lunch she had had, and how fluffy the crab cakes were, because of those “crackers”! Blanche, quizzed her politely. “Oh, really? Who, pray tell, told you that?”
“The waiter.”
“What was his name?”
“INSERT DOOMED WAITER HERE. He’s wonderful.”

Anyhow...I narrowly escaped being fired. I survived because Blanche and Dick still viewed me as a loyal employee due to my help with the Lindsay Lohan lawsuit. But that’s another story. ;-)

FACT: The Poison Ivy sells their cheaply made plates at outrageous prices, covering up the fact that they are made for pennies in Peru, not Santa Barbara CA, as Blanche would have you believe. She has the audacity to sign the plates with Santa Barbara--obviously trying to make an allusion to the California Pottery movement. Another lie.

Blanche and Dick use the cheapest glasses and silverware from Sysco, not because of the rustic setting, but because of their price. Flowers? Our handbook says we are to tell folks--another colloquial phrase to make us seem old fashioned. BARF!--that the flowers come from the garden of the owners! Can you fucking believe this shit? I can’t make this up.

The flowers come from the flower mart downtown. It’s the place people buy flowers. I swear, if the Poison Ivy could say their Mexican slaves came from their garden they would. I can just see Blanche tilling the soil and harvesting a new crop of Central American busboys locating them with the help of specially trained pigs, just like they do in Alba with truffles.

BRB I’ve got to apply some Preparation H, as the mere act of writing this shit makes my ass itch.

Some Thoughts on Foreigners Tipping

I was reading one of my favorite blogs: http://waiterrant.net/ and a waiter had written an open letter to Prime Minister Gordon Brown demanding that Brits be educated on proper tipping.

I commented on the site but thought I'd pass them on to my infant blog audience. ;-) More on this at a later date.

"I love tourists from foreign countries. They often order nice wines, and are adventurous eaters. Many tip very nicely. If they don’t it’s a lack of understanding of our custom of hiring bitter, underachieving failed actors and actresses, who actually think the world owes them something.

20% of waiters do 80% hospitality, leaving the other 80% to stink up the joint with their pissy attitudes.

--VIP Waiter

Snoop Dogg Visits the Poison Ivy

Life in LA and especially life at the Poison Ivy can be surreal with all the celebrities and paparazzi, but what happened one Friday afternoon in July a few years back, just takes the cake.

Jay-Z--a big east coast rapper--was having lunch on the garden patio with his ‘posse’. LL Cool J invented ‘posse’ to replace ‘entourage’. Now, I’m just a white boy from the ‘burbs, but I know enough about the rap scene to know that there is a true rivalry between East and West coast rappers which transcends music and settles into good old fashioned street violence. Tupac and Biggie could testify to that but they're both dead.

Anyway, it goes without saying that Jay-Z has heavy professional security, that literally stand out in front of the restaurant like the secret service does for dignitaries. These are serious dudes-definitely packin’--you can always tell ‘cause they don’t tuck in their shirts.

Everything went fine. He’s actually a nice guy. Jay-Z and the posse had a good time. They paid, tipped big and left. End of story? Read on...

10 minutes after they left, a large flat bed truck pulls up right in front of the patio. It has a ‘jail cell’ set on back, complete with iron bars, beds, and black people--you know the typical stuff you’d see in jail. And there’s this band! Guitar, bass, and drums, with sexy girls, and big black bouncer types. And they have their own posse of guerrilla videographers that jump out of a few cars.

And their hammering out some catchy R&B/rap tune live. At first I thought, “Oh, this is some unsigned band trying to get attention. Maybe they knew Jay-Z was gonna be here and they’re trying to get his attention...but no!

Out from behind one of the big dudes comes Snoop Dogg himself, all tall and wiry with wacked out buckwheat hair. And he’s singing,

Your fooling yourself,
your fooling yourself,
your fooling yourself!

And then launches into a bitchin’ rap. This went on for at least 5 minutes, then abruptly ends with Snoop Dogg slamming the jail doors shut with a BANG, taking a bow, and the truck speeds off.

We were floored, and the restaurant was still pretty busy and the customers couldn’t believe it. Now my head started spinning. Was this a coincidence? Was Snoop Dogg, who, by the way hails from Long Beach, doing a video, or was he sending a message to Jay-Z, who had just left? Was he saying, “You may act like this bad ass hoodlum, but you’re eatin’ at whitest, richest place on earth. Of course, as the lyrics were kinda spooky in a “We’re comin to get ya’ kind of way...” we pondered if this was gonna end up being some video that mocks the rich clientele in general.

We speculated on this for a while, but then had to serve another $30.00 salad. After all, it was just another day at the Poison Ivy.

10/30/08
PS--thanks to Penny C @ Universal Music Publishing for the Rapper Spell Check

Some Thoughts on Projectile Vomit.

A friend of mine worked at Bastide, and he told me of a man. This man was celebrating an anniversary with his wife, and upchucked at the end of dinner. He spewed everything: the amuse, and courses 1-7, including the truffles, and all the wine pairings. A fitting end to a $500 tasting menu. This reminded me of a story.

This story sticks in my mind just like the hemorrhoid cream that leaked through my pants the other day and left a smudge on the upholstery of my car. No matter how much I scrub it, the stain remains. (If you wait tables, you’re familiar with chafing).

Anyway...I remember this guy at the Poison Ivy who had too many Gimlets. The Poison Ivy Gimlets are these vodka mojito like drinks that are truly delicious. They are one of the few “authentic” menu items one could hope to find at such a fraud factory. But they’re strong. In fact, we say, “You’ll love the first two, and the third will start loving you.”

So, there's this guy drinking on the patio. Let’s call him Lurch. Suddenly, Lurch has to go to the bathroom, presumably to throw up, as he had knocked back like six gimlets! The only way to the bathroom is through one of the dining rooms called “the bakery”. Lurch makes his way quickly through the maze of patio tables as only the dying can, weaves past the host stand, enters the bakery, bumps in to the cake counter, then proceeds to pull a Linda Blair, Exorcist style. He projectile vomits all over a man having lunch at a nearby table. Ironically these bakery tables are where we seated “walk-ins”, thus making them feel special even though they didn’t “call ahead”.

BTW “walk in” is someone without a reservation, but Poison Ivy doesn’t use the bad-kitty word “Reservation”. They use “Call ahead.” “Call Ahead” is one of those asinine Poison Ivy double speak euphemisms where we try to be extra courteous, and pretend we are NOT in the business of serving food and drinks, at tables that you sit at, which are often, and actually in reality, RESERVED!

But wait...it gets better. The waiter and manager comfort the guest, while the busboy mops up the slop (some guys have the glory jobs!). His shirt is ruined, so the manager rushes next door where the owner’s have their trinket shop of over priced crap from India and Morocco. They also have Poison Ivy T-Shirts for sale. He tells the owner (aka Blanche du Bois), “We need a T-shirt to give to a guest.” Her ears perked up at the word Give, for Giving is not the same as Buying.
“Darling, why are we giving away a t-shirt. These cost us money.”
Flustered, the manager explains quickly, “A customer--”
“Guest, Darling. We have no customers. We only have guests.”
“Sorry...anyway...he has vomit all over his shirt.”
“Did he get sick on himself?”
“No, he was thrown up on by someone else.”
Intrigued, Blanche inquires, “Was it vomit from one of our employees or another guest?”
Exasperated, the manager squeaks, “Another guest.”
Blanche frowns then commands one of her minions to fetch a t-shirt. “Well, find out what table the vomiter is sitting at and charge the t-shirt to him.”

Imagine the bakery “guest” telling his friends, “I got puked on at the Poison Ivy, and all I got was this stupid t-shirt.”

SOLD to the Highest Bidder...

...a mint condition copy of Looking Hard by Joel Grey, autographed by Joel Grey!

This story is just too rich! And one of the reasons I had to go through with this "cleansing" blog.
BTW the book was sold to a man from Florida.


AD COPY:
Mint condition First Edition copy of Looking Hard by Joel Grey, signed by Joel Grey!

When I was the Maitre 'd at the Poison Ivy Restaurant in 2006 I was given this as a "gift" from the owners. Mr. Grey is a regular guest and "friend" of the owners, Dick and Blanche Du Bois. Actually Mr. Grey is one of the few "friends" they have as they are evil, greedy, heartless reptiles with arctic cold blood flowing through their veins.

As much as I respect his artistry, I really have no use for the book, and perhaps one of his fans would appreciate it

Listed at $5.00 (no reserve)
Sold for $6.05
Shipping: $6.67!

Anyway...I felt bad so I contact buyer and tell him I'll look for cheaper shipping as it costs more than the book sold for.
He then writes back:

"A money order for $12.72 is in the mail and on its way to you. Its worth $12.72 just to keep reading your description of your boss(LMAO). The devil is alive and well and living in south Florida bosses too!"

Archetypes Vs. Stereotypes: a Disclaimer

Archetypes versus Stereotypes.
Disclaimer: this blog mentions ethnic backgrounds of subjects discussed. In no way is it implied that certain ethnic groups are inherently cheap, vulgar, etc..; however, there are archetypes of cheapskates, and Spago and the Poison Ivy have attracted a veritable rainbow coalition of cheap, uncouth, overly compensated, halitosized, smelly boobs that would make any fan of the legendary Italian miser Pantalone proud.

There's a fine line between being satirical and just being a whiny little bitch. So before you have the chance to do it yourself, allow me the self description: I am a disgruntled former employee, an axe grinder extraordinaire, and a resentful little twit.

Working as a VIP waiter in LA almost defies parody. Therefore, I have decided to tell the truth.

XOXO

The VIP Waiter
Los Angeles CA October, 2008