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.

The Taming of the Review--the Spago Tasting Menu Part 3

            As soon as Spago Beverly Hills opened, an amuse bouche—often the miso cone—became a tradition. A trio of amuse bouche arrived in quick succession, season specific, for Spago’s menus always followed the seasons. You’d never find blueberries from Chile in December.  Truthfully, the billionaire Marvin Davis could get out-of-season fruit whenever he wanted since he didn’t believe in winter, summer, fall or spring; he lived only in Marvin time and assumed others did too.  Once Mr. D, as we called him, travelled to Houston in the morning to check on his oil company and returned to L.A. that evening just in time for dinner.  I’d heard Houston was struck by severe thunderstorms that day, so I asked, “Mr. D., how was the weather?”

             “What’s weather?” he replied, and it struck me then: Of course he had no sense of weather. He moved from air conditioned house to garage to air conditioned limo, to private plane in private hangar, to Houston hangar, to new air conditioned limo, to garage to air conditioned office.  Mark Twain once famously said, “Everybody talks about the weather, but no one ever does anything about it, but I realized in that moment that Marvin Davis had indeed done something about it.

            At any rate, back to the table. In early summer, the amuse bouche might be a delicate mini tart, filled with the first of the season’s Junecrest peaches from the Masumoto family farm just south of Fresno, topped with a dollop of mousse de foie gras marinated in sweet Moscato. This would be followed by a confit of pork belly tucked inside a pâte feuilletée.  Once the guest had peeled himself off the ceiling and floated back to the table, he was greeted by a petite tasse brimming with Santa Barbara sea urchin pot de creme illuminated by a wasabi cream and osetra caviar.  Sometimes I watched a guest and imagined he must be wondering if he ought to eat it or sell it to the highest bidder at Sotheby’s for the dish is that beautiful, and the very moment the urchin touches tongue, . The taste rockets the taste buds to the fourth dimension where time stands still and Cher looks young.

            As the guest comes to, waiter, sommelier, assistant sommelier and manager are staging glasses for the first course of the evening.  Sometimes a guest’s eyes might wander to glance at the big star who just entered the restaurant or to gaze at Wolfgang Puck standing just across the room despite having appeared live that very morning on Good Morning America. .  “How the hell did he get back in time for dinner?” a guest might ask herself. “He was in New York this morning and now he’s signing a stack of cookbooks for one large table, posing for a photo with another.  

And then, seemingly out of nowhere, Barbara Lazaroff, designer and partner (soon to be Puck's estranged wife), appears and works her way around the room.  She’s directing busboys who carry a huge, booth-like chair into the main dining room and set it at a large, round table.  From a side door an enormous man enters; he’s accompanied by two burly men and a petite lady, obviously the man’s his wife dressed to the nines in a fabulous St. John knit.  At that moment Sydney Poitier appears around the corner, joined by Jackie Collins and Bob Newhart!  Barbara embraces them all.  And as I watched I always heard the Spago refrain playing in my mind: Live! Love! Eat!

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.

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!

Words of Wisdom from Wolfgang

Hi!
It's been crazy this November, sorry for the lack of posts. I'll be up to speed asap.

Here's a good one from Wolfgang Puck, that would make Yogi Berra proud.

Upon seeing a group of idle waiters chatting, Wolfgang barks out, "I never want to see more than one waiter together at the same time!"

"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

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