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 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.

Why Adam Does What He Does...

Sometimes people ask me, "Adam, how in the world did you go from waiter to beekeeping plant scientist?

I thought an explanation was due.

Mark Twain once said, “Everybody talks about the weather, but nobody does anything about it.” Over the years, I have found myself being an armchair quarterback reading the Los Angeles Times, and complaining about policy decisions that were just being revealed but that had been maybe two years or more in the making. Like many citizens, my reactions were often emotional, devoid of any appreciation for the thoughtful analysis that had been so sagaciously applied to the problem at hand. It dawned on me that there is much more to life than merely having a point of view. With this in mind, it is my deep desire to be a useful, contributing member of society that propels my interest in agriculture and specifically plant science and its implications on California’s food supply.

My father was an analyst for the Rand Corporation in the 1950s, who then spent 35 years at IBM. He instilled in me an appreciation for, and, simultaneously, a healthy skepticism of statistics. I am reminded of comedian Steven Wright’s quote, “Forty-three percent of all statistics are made up on the spot,” but I digress. My father also taught me the power of big ideas, and how logic coupled with passion could transform society. He also taught me the computer programming concept of GIGO (Garbage In, Garbage Out). One gets out of a problem what one puts into the problem. Logic and emotion are strange bedfellows indeed! It’s a synthesis of classical and romantic paradigms similar to those outlined by the protagonist in Robert Pirsig’s Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. As there is more than one way to view a motorcycle (logic of engineering vs. emotion of riding one), there is also more than one approach to agriculture.

To risk a cliché, I want to be part of the panacea, not the problem. To live in the solution requires a commitment to optimism, as well as a rejection of the cynical notion that “the world is going to hell in a hand basket.” To live in the problem is easy. It’s right there staring at us. The solution is more elusive. Developing solution-oriented policies requires a multitude of approaches, but a few that come to mind are: a selfless commitment to the concept that “the whole is greater than the sum of its parts,” a cool determination to succeed where others have failed — especially in the face of passionate, and often ill informed, resistance — as well as stamina and more than a truckload of tolerance for those in disagreement, who fully deserve our empathy.

A Masters in Plant Science, with an emphasis on sustainable environmental practices in regards to honeybee health, will give me a solid foundation on which to build a house — a mansion, really — that has many doors, all of which lead to an exciting, solution-oriented future. By working with faculty and other aspiring farmers, I will gain a deep understanding of the food production techniques that help shape our society and how those ideas come to fruition and are implemented, hopefully for the common good. As a single father I strive to teach my two young children that love, patience, and tolerance are the lifeblood of personal happiness. Love of learning, patience in the face of demands for immediate change, and tolerance for divergent opinions, form a trinity that I hope to utilize on a daily basis as a professional farmer.

On a personal level, my children are growing up fast, and when they graduate from high school, I hope to relocate to Northern California where I have family. Being a professional farmer would be invaluable in my quest to positively affect California, and to help solve the environmental, economic, and societal challenges that have driven so many people away from farming in recent years.

Although the above-mentioned challenges of the politics of agriculture are pressing, my mind keeps returning to the one thing we cannot survive without: water and the food it grows.  Water dominates my thoughts. I guess I have “wet brain.” Ever since I was a kid, I have been fascinated by how California moves water around. Dams and reservoirs, the California Aqueduct, not to mention the rivers that feed them, totally enthrall me. Little did I know, at the time, how politically charged the issue was to California. I was less interested in the actual engineering — fascinating as it is — than in the massively important role it played in our prosperity.   For instance, the 1982 battle over the peripheral canal revealed the conflict between Northern California and Southern California. In fact my children’s mother is from Orange County and we used to argue over this issue, which shows how subtly our beliefs have been formed by our geographical references.

Many great books address this geographical conundrum.  Cadillac Desert by Marc Reisner shows the precariousness of our very existence.  Kevin Starr’s Material Dreams shows the cunning steps taken by Southern Californians like William Mulholland to secure water, as there was no future without it. More recently, California Public Policy Institute researcher Ellen Hanak has written many thoughtful articles on the subject of the health of the Delta. In fact, the concept of the delta serves as a fitting metaphor for the challenges facing California’s water future. There are many tributaries, and it is more than easy to get lost, for water policy addresses so many important issues: sustainability (agriculture, aquaculture, fisheries), environmental restoration of native plants and animals, safe drinking water, and preservation of farmland from poorly planned suburban sprawl.

And of course without water, there is no food.  Michael Pollan’s Food as a National Security Issue reveals the importance of having a food supply that originates within a few hundred miles of the markets. My years of experience in fine dining in Los Angeles as a waiter at Wolfgang Puck’s Spago exposed me to the vibrant world of organic farming and viticulture. The romance of the farmer’s market and the incredible wines we make in California reveal a legitimate and, dare I say, almost irrefutable truth. There is profit to be made in the preservation of farmland. This idea alone could be used to promote a reverse migration from urban to rural. California Farmlink, of which I am a member, has been addressing this challenge for over 10 years now, as it seeks to link retiring farmers who don’t want to sell to developers and young “beginner” farmers who seek a better quality of life.

As Rivers of Empire author Donald Worster puts it, “The social consequences that follow from the modern commitment to instrumental reason and the disenchantment of nature have been antidemocratic and antihuman.”  It is precisely this threat and my desire to remedy this injustice that propels me.   I believe the judicious application of sustainable farming practices serve as the foundation on which to build a better future, and I wish to be part of that indispensable team that helps build and improve the incredible home that we call California.  A Masters in Plant Science would assure that I have the tools to make a difference.

Chain of Fools

An excerpt from my memoir "We Got a Bad Potato!"

I’m a huge fan of independent restaurants.  My experience at Il Fornaio and a brief stint at a SF joint called Palomino in the 1990s, left a bad taste in my mouth for chains.  Corporate interests, like Restaurants Unlimited, and the Compass Group measure their success in units of onion blossoms sold and they create these highly detailed employee handbooks that reduce the human element to zero, but the one “bad service” aspect they can’t seem to eliminate is the manager “servicing” the hostess in the office after hours.  When chains aren’t hiring, and promoting sexual predators, they’re busy filling their proverbial butt cracks with fucking morons.  Case in point, in 2008, when the economy took a shit, I got desperate, and even considered suicide, but ended up doing something worse: I applied at Roy’s house of Hawaiian Fusion.  They’re so authentic.  They have seafood from all the great fish cities, like Phoenix and Chicago, and serve radical artful haute-cuisine like “pineapple upside down cake”.  Anyway, they had this elaborate psychological profile exam—you know how this is gonna end, right?-- and yet, they can still hire no-nothing managers with superiority complexes, or the flip side, obsequious taint lickers whose only job is to placate one star reviewers on Yelp. 

And on top of that, you go to these chains and get Stepford service or shitty service anyway.  I fucking hate chains like Roys.

Back to the interview/exam.  So on the skills section; I had to check a box on wine knowledge.  I checked “expert”.  I was trained by Michael Bonnacorsi for fuck’s sake.  The manager, this frumpy she-male, looked and said, “Oh, I see you are an expert on wine.” Yes I replied.  She then asked me the usual bullshit questions, “What are the major grapes of Burgundy?”  I answered one or two, thinking all the while, “Why did I check anything?”  I mean, for fuck’s sake, their list is heavy on California Johannisberg Riesling!  Then she asked me about the noble grapes of Bordeaux and I answered, “There are four: cabernet sauvignon, merlot, malbec, and cabernet franc.” She pounced, “You forgot Petit Verdot”  I acknowledged my omission, with the same emotional intensity one might have if you omitted Timothy Dalton from the list of actors who have portrayed James Bond, but as the words flowed from my mouth, all I could imagine was her blood flowing out of a severed neck artery into the cheap ass wine glass conveniently embedded in her neck. 

I didn’t get the job. 

Speaking of not getting hired, one time I was hired then fired in one interview.  This prick GM who, himself, had been fired by Wolfgang Puck's CUT, was overseeing the opening of an upscale Italian joint in downtown LA.  It was the real deal, with a killer wine list.  We hit it off well and he hired me on the spot.  I was so excited—I needed the job bad—so I asked a few follow up questions about parking and the holidays—and he did something wholly unexpected.  He said, in that comical accent that makes people hate Italians, “You-a ask-a too many-a questions…” and he put a big question mark through my application.  I was fired!  Something rare happened.  I was knocked off the horse!  I couldn’t respond.  He shocked me into a speechless stupor.  We were in an empty conference room on the 31st floor of an unoccupied skyscraper in downtown LA.  Thoroughly beaten I skulked out of the ad-hoc office space.  It wasn’t until I was in the elevator going down that I wished that I could have thrown him to his death.  Really. 

I hope the pharmacy is still open.

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.

Calm Before the Storm

There are few places more serene than a restaurant in the morning prior to service.  At the time of this writing I work a few breakfast shifts at the Farm of Beverly Hills at LA Live (Man, that’s a mouthful!  Even Carol Channing couldn’t swallow it.)  Anyway...the tables have been reset from the night before.  The place is clean, and the kitchen is peaceful in its austere chrome magnificence.  The prep cooks are quietly going about their business.  An hour later it looks like a bomb has gone off.  Cooks are screaming, the printers are ticking a seemingly endless stream of orders, waiters are hustling to refill coffee and making up plausible explanations for why the toast hasn’t come out yet.

Maybe it’s my own personal Jesus complex, but my weakest skill is that of delegation.  I try to do it all.  Sometimes it works and the result is a semi-fluid auto pilot vibe.  Other times it becomes a first class cluster fuck.  I hate rejection of any kind, so I don’t ask the busser to bring coffee because if he says “No” then I will be angry.  Typical alkee doesn’t want to ask for help.  Of course it also depends on whether or not the busser is being tipped a high or low percentage.  Every restaurant is different.  The Ivy had a high tip out rates (24%) so I could play “Whack an Immigrant!” with my bussers there.  However, if they are not getting a high percentage based on idiotic house rules, then I feel guilty bossing them around.  I always tip the house percentages--no more no less.  Believe it or not, there are waiters who get to keep a large percentage, treat their bussers like TJ whores, and then on top of that, under tip.  Hell has a special place for these kinds of miscreants.

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.

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.

[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!

Toga! Toga!

This has less to do with waiting, than it does with wild boozing, which has a lot to do with waiters.

Anyway, one of the dumbest things I ever did in high school was to throw a toga party at my house while my Mom and Dad were away and a friend fell down the stairs into our lobby and broke this mahogany hope chest. I attempted to fix it, and simultaneously crossed "finish carpentry" off my list of careers to consider.

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.

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