Some Thoughts on Wine: Tips for Fine Dining Waiters Part 2 of 2

Without getting too bogged down in details, the French have simply been growing grapes for centuries.  They know what grows well where and know their “terroir”.  That’s why they developed a system (AOC) to codify their tradition and experience into a legal framework.   In France, one cannot simply plant Chardonnay in Bordeaux, and Cabernet in Burgundy.  For one they don’t grow well outside their regions of origin, plus they have a strong centuries old tradition of grape cultivation and strong interest in protecting their reputations.

Burgundy: Chardonnay and Pinot Noir

Bordeaux: Cabernet and Merlot plus some others.

Northern Rhone Valley: Syrah

Southern Rhone Valley: Grenache plus others to create a signature blend.

In the New World where the wine industry only took off in the last 40 years, there are now legal guidelines that follow the AOC model.  They are called AVA’s (American Viticultural Area).  This offers growers and winemakers the same panache to protect and foster the emerging reputations of their wines.

In California we have regions described by geography and demarcation of physical-political boundaries. 

Example: Napa Valley is 3 things at once.

1)   a county

2)   a valley

3)   an American Viticultural Area.

There used to be a lot of Pinot Noir and Chardonnay grown in Napa Valley proper, but the results were mixed.  Succeeding generations of wine makers realized it need a cooler climate to thrive.  The reason behind this is simple.  Burgundy France, where Chardonnay and Pinot Noir are from, grow at a high latitude (47˚).  It’s cold.  FYI quality production of Pinot Noir has moved to Oregon.  Willamette Valley is the same latitude as Burgundy. 

So, if one wants to grow quality Chardonnay and Pinot noir grapes in California, one must find a cool climate.  That’s why you will see wines labeled Carneros, Sonoma coast, Santa Rita Hills.  These are all AVAs and they are all situated where the fog can roll in and cool the vineyard.

What’s interesting is that grapes grow well in many areas of California.  The soil and weather is simply fantastic.  The grapes ripen easily, but we know that it’s not just sunshine and soil.  If that was the case, all the quality production could be done in the San Joaquin Valley.  If it’s too hot the grapes have too much sugar, or they can get bruised from the sun.  That’s why they grow table grapes and raisins in the Central Valley.  The one notable exception is Zinfandel.  It loves hot weather so it grows well there. 

Not all grapes are the same.  There are red grapes and green/yellow grapes.  All grape juice runs clear.  Color is extracted by leaving the grapes in contact with each other so the clear juice starts to absorb color and tannin from the skins, seeds and stems.  Red wine is made from red grapes and white wine is made from green/yellow grapes.  Rose, or blush wine is made from red grapes that have been lightly crushed and/or not left in contact with the skins for a long time.

Some Thoughts on Wine: Tips for Fine Dining Waiters Part 1 of 2

Some Thoughts on Wine: Tips for Fine Dining Waiters

First and foremost wine is an agricultural product made from a crop called grapes.  Grapes grow in the ground in certain places in the world.  Some of these grapes grow better in certain environments.  Soil and weather play the biggest part.  The French call this “terroir”, which loosely translates to “a sense of place”.  Viticulture techniques judiciously applied, are naturally important; however, as we all know from perusing a wine list that wines are “from” somewhere.  California Cabernet. Argentine Malbec, French Bordeaux, Italian Barolo.  Do you notice something about the above mentioned wines?  They all mention where they come from; however, the first two mention the varietal (type of grape), whereas the third and fourth mention a region in their respective countries.  All wines from Europe are called Old World wines.  In the Old World (Europe) wines are described by their geographical origin.  The French call this Appellation Origine Controlee (AOC).  New World wines are from the US, South America, South Africa, and Australia.  These wines are made from cuttings originally brought by emigrants from Europe.

            Once these new world grapes were planted, they developed their own flavor profile.  For instance, Bordeaux France is where Cabernet Sauvignon and Merlot originated.  They are grown on the banks of the Gironde River.  It’s relatively cool and not too far from the Atlantic Ocean.  Contrast this with California Cabernet and Merlot, both widely planted in the warm Napa Valley a full 6 degrees latitude lower than Bordeaux.  The soil is rich volcanic soil and it is very hot in the summer.

So this terroir (sense of place) figures prominently in assessing a wine’s quality.  For example, Apples grow well in Washington.  It’s cold enough to give the fruit tree the requisite hours of chill necessary for optimum fruit production.  This cannot be said for Los Angeles.  There are pockets of micro-climates that will chill, but not like Washington, so one could assume that apples from Washington will be a higher quality apple.  For the sake of comparison, let’s assume farming methods are the same. 

            Think of a target with three concentric circles.  The outside circle is the big region.  The middle circle is the village.  The bull’s eye is the vineyard.  So we have

Burgundy = region = California

Chassagne Montrachet = village = Napa Valley

Montrachet = vineyard = Araujo Vineyard

Theoretically, if we had three white Burgundies (btw white wine from Burgundy is Chardonnay), and the first said Bourgogne Blanc, and the second said Chassagne Montrachet, and the 3rd said Montrachet, which one would be the highest quality?

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 5 of 5

An elegant white Burgundy from Pouilly-Fuissé precedes the agnolotti, and we waiters inform the guest that this postage stamp-sized ravioli are closely inspired by the Piedmontese model, filled with fresh sweet corn, a touch of Mascarpone and Reggiano, butter and caramelized corn kernels.  But when the manager steps up and presents a cutting board with a large summer truffle and begins shaving it into delicate slivers that float like rose petals onto the dish, the din of the crowd vanishes. A portal opens. Goodbye Earth.  I say this with no apologies for the summer truffle’s status as third tier truffle, behind the classic black truffle of late summer and the angelic white truffle d’Alba that graces us with her presence in November.  Tasting menus done on the scale of Spago allow for elevated culinary journeys that do not necessitate a credit check.

The truffles allow the next dish, roast suckling pig with last of the season morels and fava beans, to offer an experience of two great spring flavor combinations nearing the end of their availability.  The crispiness of the pork, coupled with the earthiness of the morels, lend themselves nicely to a classic California zinfandel, and Michael Bonaccorsi forces the guest to think outside the box by offering a Ravenswood “old vine” Zin from Lodi, California!  Educated wine lovers, with all this talk of terroir and AOC, might be perplexed to discover this superb wine originates from the heart of California’s central valley, a place famous for raisins and Gallo wine. But there is that zinfandel with its deep purple hue, its jammy nose, the pronounced black pepper on the palate and supple tannins, the Ravenswood “old vines” Zinfandel from Lodi tells us to forget our pretenses and to look for quality and value wherever it may reside, and despite his predilections, that ability is Bonaccorsi’s genius.

Traditionally, the final meat dish would be rack of lamb or Kobe beef; however, now and then a guest might request another kind of beef, one that happened to be on the regular menu.  Côte de Bœuf , which loosely translates as “hunk of cow,” is a bone in rib-eye, or cowboy steak.  Added to this incredible cut, seasoned with only kosher salt and fresh ground pepper, we served pommes aligot, for which there is no direct English translation, the closest being “cheesy potato heart attack.”  Rumor had it Chef Lee brought the recipe back from three-star Michel Bras in Laguiole, France—and the fact is, this was the only dish at Spago that came with directions to Cedars-Sinai hospital.  Such a dish demanded a wine with enough tannins to tame it, and fortunately we had many to choose from, from a young Bordeaux to a rich Syrah from Santa Barbara County—Bonaccorsi’s preference being Santa Barbara where ultimately he moved to make his own high quality Pinot Noir.

The dishes cleared, the table crumbed almost for the last time, the good waiter fades into the background, leaving a guest on her own for a while.  She might observe a smartly dressed man and beautiful young lady having a light dinner—wondering at that, though we knew that the man had earlier eaten dinner with his wife.   The sommelier returns with the cheese cart, displaying  Brillat-Savarin, a triple-cream from Normandy; Brin d'Amour, a Corsican raw sheep's milk cheese rolled in herbs; Stilton, the famous English blue cheese; Pont l'Eve^que, from Normandy; and Te^te de Moine (aka Monk's Head), a raw Swiss-made cheese shaved by a spinning shaving blade into flower-like ruffles.  Sometimes we offered a trio, sometimes all of one, and the wine pairing depended on the cheese.  Bleu cheeses call for ports; soft whites go well with sauterne, and the harder cheeses allow the guest to carry forward the Syrah from the last course.

Next came a phase that that often incited the ire of the pastry chef, Sherry Yard.  Often Chef Lee hit guests so hard, they raised the white flag at this juncture, fearing even eating a thin mint would cause an explosion like that of the gluttonous man in the Monty Python sketch.  Sorbet arrived to cleanse the stinky cheese breath palate, and on its heels came a light fruit-based offering, or perhaps something astonishing like a classic mille-fueille, “thousand leaves,” embellished with blood orange zest in pastry cream and with juice from the fruit in the crème anglaise.  As if the artistry of the presentation wasn’t enough, Sherry often served the dessert herself, flooring the guests, leaving them sated and grateful.

At last, from a perch on the cliffs of culinary bliss, warmed by the Spago sun, a guest might take in the look of the bustling place with a clarity she missed on arrival. As intimate as the meal felt and was, the dining room is huge, one that easily could seat 200 guests at once. Since the tasting experience stretched out over two seatings, over 300 meals were likely served over its course! 

The bill arrives, always a rock solid reminder that the guest has returned to earth. Indeed, a guest might wonder if he’s just eaten in a tourist trap.

The answer is yes. Spago is a tourist destination. But the food and service elevate it far above other tourist traps like Mann’s Chinese Theatre or the Hollywood Wax Museum.  Still, some social critics—and more than a few jealous restaurateurs have knocked Spago’s fame as indicative of undeserving Hollywood glitter. There have been whispers and worse—that the Spago scene swindles through culinary subterfuge; that it’s all smoke and mirrors, a false heaven. 

To that I always said, “Praise the Lord!  You’re cured!  You can walk again!”

The Taming of the Review--the Spago Tasting Menu Part 4

But back to our guest at the tasting menu table where the sommelier is describing the next wine, an Austrian white called Gruner Veltliner.  Within minutes the first course arrives in the form of white asparagus, prepared first as a salad with a Meyer lemon vinaigrette, and second as a warm gratin.  Asparagus challenges most wines for its naturally high levels of sulfurous methionine convert the taste of even the finest whites into something not unlike vegetal compost tea.  But then there is the Gruner Veltliner, a wine savory enough to cut through any resistance the asparagus mounts.  And the white asparagus itself, with its lack of chlorophyll--a result of sunlight never being allowed to touch it--diminishes the vegetal notes, thus aiding the wine, and everything is perfection, again.

By the time the guest has finished the two asparagus dishes, he might glance at the big man and see his table has already received a dozen dishes— as if the kitchen knew ahead of time what to prepare. The guest might ask and learn that the big man is Marvin Davis, and Spago values his business. Of course they knew ahead of time what to prepare. He eats here every day, twice a day.

 Plates are cleared efficiently, the silver replaced, another white wine glass added as the waiter arrives with a bottle of E. Guigal Condrieu.  When anyone asked, all we waiters knew how to answer. Condrieu is not a grape, it’s a place, and the history of Condrieu is built around one famous grape, Viognier, which makes a peachy but dry wine that lends itself nicely to Asian cuisine, particularly Thai.  A seafood curry arrives, featuring beautiful Santa Barbara spot prawns in red curry with raised octave notes of kaffir lime and Thai basil. The prawns' heads, tempura battered, lie on squares of white paper in the center of the table.  By now the guest can almost touch the moon.

The dishes begin to arrive in succession, and the keen-eyed guest will notice: They seem to come from everywhere around the globe.  Chef Lee Hefter commands a ship that sails the globe searching for the right ingredients, ingredients that, when synthesized, will elevate the diner to a vantage point high above the earth.  Oddly, wine pairings remain rooted in the old world since the master sommelier, Michael Bonaccorsi, believes that the “old world” set the bar by which the “new world” must be measured.  Many a wine enthusiast has embraced good wines from California and Chile and Australia, but the Europeans have been cooking and making wine for a long, long time.  There is a reason the Loire Valley is famous for its goat cheese so it’s no accident that the Sauvignon Blanc grown in the Valley is the right wine to accompany that cheese.  The French feel so strongly about these connections they have codified them into a system called Appellation d’Origine Contrôlée (AOC).

That said, the Turbot that arrives atop an eggplant nicoise may find a crisp Rose from Provence as its soul mate.  The sense of place, what the French call terroir, shines in the delicate texture and mellow flavor of the turbot, which only days earlier was fished off the Mediterranean coast of France and expressed overnight to Spago’s kitchen.  The crisp green beans, tomatoes, and delicate quail egg, comingle subtly with the interplay of fish and wine.

Next comes a straightforward sautéed Foie gras with a cherry reduction, but the wine accompaniment shows an understanding of the physiology of taste that would bring a smile to Brillat-Saverin’s face.  Jurancon Sec, the dry version of Jurancon, made from Gros Manseng,  and hailing from the Southwest of France,  integrates itself into the scene with its deep golden color, not unlike that found in Sauterne, but totally different.  Something miraculous is afoot.

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!

Taming of the Review--the Spago Tasting Menu Pt. 2

Immediately inside, standing attention at the host stand was the Maitre’d at Spago Beverly Hills, Jenny.  The time difference between a small delay and an hour-long wait could be subdivided by a simple twenty dollar bill while a hundred could send time reeling backwards.  Once past the portal, guests were escorted by cordial, and smartly dressed young ladies through the bustling, loud dining room, and seated at an elegant table with creme colored linen, and heavy teak chairs with the Flame of Life etched into their backs.  The pulling of the chairs for the guests was of utmost importance for no other reasons than, 1) it was polite, and 2) they weighed a fucking ton.   These custom made behemoths were a sight to behold.  They were unstackable, in yet another Barbara Lazaroff design triumph of form over function.  Their legs undulated, giving way to impossible curves that brought to mind Steve Martin’s Cruel Shoes.  I remember when the restaurant was new, and Barbara saw damage on these chairs, she went berserk, and you’d hear her and Wolf arguing in the hallway by the garden.  “Barbara, it’s a restaurant, not a museum!” he would lament.

When we knew a guest was planning to have  a tasting menu--or if the guest was a reviewer who had no choice but to eat whatever we served --the table was set simply, with a classic mis-en-place and a champagne flute.  Old school joints like Chasens began with an empty table, the waiter taking a cocktail or champagne order and serving up that order with oysters or their famous seafood platter and afterwards setting up the appropriate mis-en-place.  But by the time Spago Beverly Hills opened, times had changed. In the new era, even VIPs wanted bread right away, and Spago obliged serving an array of wonderful house baked breads like crispy Lavash, as well as olive, walnut, and sourdough from Nancy Silverton’s La Brea Bakery.  Spago couldn’t make everything in house, but if they went outside, they went for the best.  This also made sense as Nancy and her husband/partner, Mark Peel had both apprenticed at Spago in the 1980s.

So now the guest is seated, so let’s get started.  A true tasting menu always begins with champagne.  Cocktails at the table are bad-form.  Having a Negroni lingering on the sidelines like some vagrant on a piazza in Florence is absurd, but a wise waiter carefully navigates these waters.  You don’t want the guest juggling his cocktail, and Billecart-Salmon with his amuse bouche (its purpose to amuse the senses), miso cone with ahi tuna tartare.  The wise waiter proffers champagne with a small introduction.  “We are happy to offer a world renowned cuvee Bille-Cart Salmon Brut Rose,” making the 3 oz. pour in one pass. 

            The fine waiter pours the Billecart-Salmon and the iridescent bubbles that race to the top, dare him to twist the bottle back just before overflowing.  If all goes well, the table will be aglow with an effervescence that beckons the diner to a higher state of consciousness.  Something truly wonderful is about to reveal itself.  If the stars have led us towards a fusion of cultures, the sesame miso cone with Ahi tartare will manifest itself, or perhaps the strong pull of traditional European cuisine will be desired, and then the amuse bouche might be a potato gallette with crème fraiche, smoked sturgeon and black osetra caviar.  Either way, the champagne and crunch transport the diner into an astral plane; he is rising and flying, like a honeybee racing, towards the warmth of the sun.

Memory Lane: the Lazaroff "Spago" Collection Goes on the Block

Wow!  I saw Julien’s Auctions of Beverly Hills--The Auction House to the Stars!--plans to auction a sizable collection of works of art from the collection of Barbara Lazaroff. 

Wolfgang and Barbara back in the day.

What makes these works notable, is that they were all acquired to decorate the famous eateries owned by her and former husband Chef Wolfgang Puck. Spago recently went under the knife to reinvent itself.  Rumor has it his current wife, Gelila, oversaw this redesign, so if their marriage doesn’t work out—knock on wood!--maybe there will be another auction down the line.

Almost all the works are from the private dining rooms of the original Spago Beverly Hills.  In light of my recent musings on Spago from 1995-2002, and the fact that I spent almost that entire period intoxicated, this auction serves as a gift from God.  A veritable treasure trove of forgotten images, that when viewed in the sober light of day in 2014, awaken memory after memory. 

Who can forget drinking tequila in the banquet bar while debating the bartender whether Jim Lutes’ watercolor abstracts are really depicting penises and saggy boobs over out-of-focus portraits,

Jim Lute Abstract '96

or if the Mary Burns’ ornate ceramic urns that we hid our cocktails behind were really designed and put there in the likely event that if Milton Berle dropped dead while dining, we could just cremate him in our pizza oven, and pour him into anyone of the urns glued firmly to the shelves throughout the private dining room (PDR).  I recall we used them for paper wad “basketball” practice too.  Eventually they would overflow, and Hugo, the manager, would have to empty them, but he couldn’t tilt them because they were cemented in place!  I’ll never forget the disgusted look on his face as he would stand on a chair and reach in, never knowing for sure what might come out.

Ceramic Vase by Mary Burns

In the main private dining room, I would get dizzy studying Robert Motherwell’s “artist’s proof” lithographs of his Beau Geste Suite abstracts.  Every mother says their kid is precocious; Motherwell’s mom, I’m sure, was no exception, but sometimes the only difference between a piece of shit and a work of art, is a price tag.

Beau Geste Robert Motherwell

James Rosenquist’s Time Door Time d’Or dyed paper abstract depiction with lithographed appliques hung nearby the fabulously dizzy work of Motherwell, and the central artwork in the VIP dining room belonged to Jim Dine’s The Oil of Gladness [heliorelief and drypoint (printers proof)].  His reimagining of Venus di Milo sought to capture an age old depiction of beauty, and in my refocused recollection, it succeeded, especially when the scintillating rays of lamplight emerged from the hand blown Venetian glass chandeliers.

The Oil of Gladness Jim Dine

Time Door-Time d'Or Jim Rosenquist

Other works included Helen Frankenthaler’s The Grove color wood cut print on Awagami-Fujimori paper, and Roy Fairchild Woodard’s Only the Stars

The Grove  Helen Frankenthaler

Only the Stars Robert Fairchild Woodard

Also, perhaps on the cheesy side, but to me totally appropriate, she is auctioning all the furniture from Spago Beverly Hills.  A wave of disappointment crashed over me as Marvin Davis’s custom chair does not appear in the catalog.  I bet if you take a whiff of the upholstery, you can still smell the Cote de Bœuf he had just before his death.

I’ll be there on Thursday June 26^th at 200 pm.  ! http://www.juliensauctions.com/auctions/2014/fine-art/index.html

The Taming of the Review: the Spago Tasting Menu Part 1

All restaurants want good reviews, and Spago was no exception, but what Spago did to ensure a good review was nothing short of a culinary and service miracle. Indeed, the show Wolfgang Puck and our crew put on was on par with shows by the world’s greatest tent show faith healers.  We at the restaurant had a hive mind, all workers focused on one goal: We would win over the reviewer.  We knew their personality quirks.  Some, like Sunset Magazine, Los Angeles Magazine and run-of-the-mill travel guides were easy to impress.  House made angnolotti with shaved white truffles (trifola d’Alba) pretty much sends anyone over the moon; whereas a more world travelled restaurant professional would actually be able to compare this otherwise spectacular dish with the one they just had in Alba—last week!.  They know the real deal.  It was these heavy hitters that were in our sights.  Whether it was national reviewers, like Ruth Reichl from the New York Times, or S. Irene Virbilia of the LA Times, who served as conduits for our mission to reach the 1% of the 1%, or perhaps a historic wine maker like Henri Jayer, who revolutionized wine making in Burgundy, or Didier Dagueneau, the mystical, gravel worshiping vintner behind Pur Sang, the legendary Sauvignon Blanc, from Pouilly Fume.  These reviewers, even those posing as friends, required gastronomic jujitsu.  What I found remarkable as a participant in this culinary Olympics was Wolfgang’s unspoken battle cry: “Casual Elegance!”  The vibe in the front of the house was often comfortable—after all, he was “friends” with all these VIPs at least he was in the “Hello, he lied…” kind of way made famous by film producer Lynda Obst—but making a good impression was always the goal.  You are only as good as your last movie.  In the kitchen, it was a different story.  Chef Lee would bark at his sous chef, and line cook soldiers, and they would jump.  His gigantic pewter spoon, the one he always carried for tasting sauces, would ring like the bells of Notre Dame as he banged the counter, as he bellowed, PICK IT UP!  PICK IT UP!  PICK IT UP! For you see, we had no heat lamps.

The Spago journey always began on an earthly plane with the destination being the stars.  Upon pulling up outside the restaurant, a team of highly-trained valets greeted you.  The first sight as you stepped out of your car was the high garden wall and century-old olive trees offering the air of natural Mediterranean beauty and a guarantee of privacy from the prying cameras of the paparazzi.  If the valet manager recognized you—and it was his job to know people!--he instructed one of his men to serve as an impromptu doorman.  He swung open the heavy hardwood doors with the “Flame of Life” etched into the beveled glass, revealing a remarkable scene unfolding.  The long, narrow, wooden bar stretched out to the left while the French doors on the right opened up into the garden where olive trees bookended a fountain etched to look like a flame.

More Pain Please

    I think I may have said this before, but it never ceases to amaze me at the high threshold of pain tolerance that the average Mexican worker has for injustice, either real, or perceived.  It’s downright stratospheric!  You see, the typical upscale waiter in Los Angeles is a college educated Caucasian.  Sure you have the usual smattering of asians, blacks, and latinos, but for the most part, it’s Whiteyville.  The dilemma that the educated servants have is as follows: How do I reconcile my vocational aspirations, to be a famous actor, musician, or model, all of which have stalled or failed to come to fruition, with my actual occupation as waiter?  There it is, staring us in the face: the apron.  We must accept the apron, and if we accept the apron, then surely it will allow us the opportunity to be happy. Yes?  Christ no! 
  

The intelligentsia of the service industry can’t stand that they have to wait on people, especially famous actors, musicians, and writers, all of whom have broken through, and make a comfortable living that their degrees from NYU and UCLA promised them.

I used to think the busboys at the Poison Ivy were stupid for putting up with all the bullshit.  Why didn’t they stand up for themselves when told to do something that was plainly illegal?  For instance, Blanche told us once that we had to be fully dressed upon entering the front of the restaurant.  We weren’t allowed in the back lest we steal something, but she had no problem having all of us enter and exit through the same front door that celebrities used as well as the general public.  Everyday there was a stinky parade of kitchen staff, with their soiled pants and stained Ivy t-shirts exiting the garden.  Right passed the paparazzi.  Absurd.  Anyway, Blanche wanted us dressed upon stepping foot on the premises.  Therefore most of would tuck in our shirts around the corner.  This worked until the dress shop owner got tired of us using his windows as mirrors to stuff our pink shirts into our tight white jeans, so Blanche put up a memo ordering us to be dressed from our cars until we got to the restaurant.  We weren’t paid “walking time” like assembly plant workers are paid.  Looking back I see the Mexicans were wise and us gringos were jackasses.  “It’s no big deal,” they would say, but us “edumacated” waiters would march upstairs and tell the GM, “This policy is illegal!”  And we would savor the victory, no matter how brief, as they would take down the memo the next day, and put up another one rescinding the order.  I’ve got a lot of respect for these guys who kept silent.  It’s hard.  Mark Twain said it best:

Better to be silent, and be thought a fool, than to speak and remove any doubt...

And I think it was Ernest Hemingway who said to a waiter,

Where’s my fucking cocktail?

    Seriously, how many hours did I waste pontificating about labor laws and staring at the California Employment Code posters that spell out our rights.  I have to laugh when they passed the whistle blower laws and put that 1-800 number on the wall.  We would debate whether making us enter dressed was illegal, and should we call the number and lodge a complaint. I can only imagine the operator chuckling as she writes up our complaint, and then files it next to the one detailing the the illegal dumping of hazardous waste from a rocket fuel plant, into the LA river.  What a bunch of jagoffs.

Bea Arthur RIP

My friend David waited on her numerous times at Spago-a-go-go, and Johnnie, the Spago Director of Service, and a HUGE Golden Girls fan, always sent her a ton of free stuff--that she truly didn't want. One day David dropped off a truckload of desserts, and she said, "Honey, did Johnnie send this over?" He replied, "Yes Ms. Arthur." And she sniped, "Tell him not to be such a star fucker!"

That line's almost as classic as the time Suzanne Pleshette--who swore in a fashion that made sailors blush--asked me for a tomato pasta dish with no spice. I dutifully noted NO CHILE FLAKE on the order, only to have the English as a Second Language sous chef read it as EXTRA CHILE. She took one bite, and started gasping, "Waiter! Waiter, bring me a glass of milk! My f%#king ass is on fire!"

God Bless Bea Arthur and Suzanne Pleshette for that matter!

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.

"I'll have the Credit Line Special, with the Interest on the Side."

UGGH! It's so frustrating! Long story short of it, I have been grossly underemployed since September, when the Poison Ivy and I parted ways. Proof positive, that life goes on, January has marked a small reversal in my situation, but unfortunately, I have fallen behind on some cc's--first time in 7 years! Anyway, some of them have gone 90 days, and the calls have become irritatingly frequent--24 calls in 11 hours on my cell alone, not to mention the untold numbers on my unplugged home line.

Anyway...I usually just ignore them, but occasionally I take the bait, to explain, I got no $ right now. Well, what a difference 90 days make! The 90 day callers are real assholes, out of the gate, and it's a battle to see who controls the call, a battle gladly accepted by this masochist. I didn't work at Spago-a-go-go, and the Poison Ivy for 14 years total, to be pushed around by some scumbag from Bumfuck Arkansas.

For example, Juniper Visa called tonight. I didn't know it was them since my phone's ID said UNKNOWN. Anyway I answered and this woman starts asking all these "security" questions, before telling me who she is to begin with! Once I found out who it was, I asked them to hold as I checked my phone log of previous conversations. I saw that I had asked for them to put a settlement offer in writing on the 23rd of January. I requested the same settlement offer again, and reminded them that Citibank had done the same, and we had struck a deal.

Then, as a simple gesture of goodwill, I suggested that they identify themselves on their caller ID, like Citibank. She then inquired how I could afford caller ID but couldn’t afford to pay them. I then responded that her line of questioning was outside the scope of our discussion, but since she was getting personal, I now I would have to get personal and start referring to her as “Stupid Cunt”.

Anyway...just venting. It's humbling too, in that they are professionals, they have a script, while I just have my reactions to their insane inquiries.

[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!

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.

How to Get the Waiter Vote

Any candidate for President could win the service employee vote by a landslide, regardless of personal politics, if he did the simple act of rescinding the IRS's ability to tax gratuities. Contrary to what the IRS says, tips are not income. They are gifts for services rendered. It's really similar to when I was a paperboy and got paid per newspaper each month, but around Xmas I received a "gift" for a job well done from the customer.

It's a gift and at the very least the first $11,000 of a gift should be tax free. This is the amount the IRS says one can receive without being taxed.

Ask any waiter what they do with all their dough and they will say, as sure as Sarah Palin says, "You Betcha!", that they SPEND it! They pour it right back into the economy, often at bars and restaurants, which perpetuates the growth.

Of course this means states that pay less than minimum wage would have to start paying more, but I firmly believe this would help the over all economy more than a $800 stimulus check. I already get all the stimulus I need watching Sarah Palin bend over to pick up some notes that she dropped. :-0

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