Comedians

One of my personal highlights as a waiter was the day I got to wait on John Cleese and his wife at the Poison Ivy.  They came in, and I greeted them.  When I asked her what she wanted to drink, she scribbled her order on a sheet of paper and handed it to me.  John Cleese then held up his menu to block her view and whispered, “She’s just had a procedure done over at Cedars, and can’t speak for a week,” and he leaned into me and chuckled, “I’m in Heaven!”  To which she promptly scribbled a note that said, “I CAN HEAR.”

Another great comedian story is the day I waited on Chris Rock and Rick Rubin.  It was Rubin’s reservation so traditionally he would get the check.  Any how, I drop the check in front of him and Rock grabs it and hands me his Amex. Rubin protests, “It’s my reservation so it’s my treat.  Chris Rock looks up at me--the white guy decked out in white jeans, pink shirt, and flowered florist gangster tie--and exclaims, “RUN NIGGA!”

He also left the Poison Ivy one day and was standing at the top of the stairs waiting for his car.  Well this little blonde haired girl approaches and asks sheepishly, “Mr.Rock, may I have your autograph?” To which he replies, “Sorry, sweetie, no white kids on Tuesdays.”  As she stared blankly at him he leaned in and signed her napkin, and whispered, “Okay, sure.  Here you go...don’t tell your parents.”
 
Steve Martin used to come to the Ivy quite often.  I always was excited.  I had seen him at Spago a few times but finally got to wait on him at the Ivy.  It was kind of uneventful.  He’s a private man.  He often wears a baseball cap or hat with brim pulled low.  He doesn’t like to be bothered by fans, especially those who still say, “Steve!  I’m a wild and crazy guy!  Excuuse meeee!”.  I heard he used to have business cards with his picture on it that said,

“This card entitles you to tell your friends that you met Steve Martin,
Though he was unable to give you an autograph, he wished you well.”

I never saw one, but if one existed I would give my left nut for it.

The closest I ever got to conversing with him was when he was at the Ivy and got up to use the restroom.  I followed him and when he entered the restroom I offered to hold his penis.  HA!  Actually, what happened was this.  The Ivy had two unisex restrooms and there was usually a line for both.  He entered the hallway, and saw the line, and I thought, “He’s not gonna want to wait there.” So I walked up and said, “Mr. Martin, we have a private bathroom upstairs.” He was surprised.  I showed him upstairs and he thanked me.

Over the years, I have been told countless times that I look like Steve Martin.  I have been told this by agents, casting directors, customers, and my best friend’s Dad when I was 12.  The only one who hasn’t told me that is Steve Martin.  Someday.  God willing.  Someday.

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.

Juan Corona “King of the Chicken F#@%ers”

Another tale from the Poison Ivy.

Juan “The Chicken Fucker” Corona was a barrel chested, hard drinking, fudge packing maniac from Zacatecas.  He didn’t consider himself gay ‘cause he was a “pitcher”.  Catchers were gay.  I always wondered what Ray Fosse felt about this, but I digress.  Gotta love those Zacateño Mexicans.  Anyway Juan told someone--in confidence HA! HA!--that he used to fuck chickens on the rancho back home.  Legend has it his grandmother caught him and screamed, “Juan! I told you to go out to the hen house and PLUCK a chicken!”

Anyway he went out for drinks with a food runner named Juan “Implante” Infante.  Now Juan was a little light in his loafers, but got awful sore if one was to suggest that he was gay, but not as sore as he was after Corona was through with him.  You can’t say Juan didn’t warn him though.  In fact he told him straight up, “If you pass out, I’m gonna fuck you up the butt.”

This was back when free range chicken was all the rage.  FYI Free range is when chickens get to roam around the fields, pecking at corn and grain, and then they are hunted down and slaughtered.  As Wolfgang Puck always said, “Free range, but not out of range.”  My friend Nathan, when over hearing a guest tell how delicious our roast chicken was, would chime in, “All our chickens come pre-Corona-ed for easy stuffing.”  And they thought it was a culinary secret.

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.

"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.