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.

My Latest Search for Housing in Fresno

The first ad I clicked on....I hit the jackpot.

$350 Room mate wanted to share Country Home (Woodlake Foot hills)

You gotta read to the end....

$350.00 Per Month Plus Utilities.

To Share Country Home with 2 Acres in the Foothills outside of Woodlake.  Plenty of space to park horse trailer.

Also have 80 Acres to ride horses on, in the pasture next to residence.Full house privileges, which includes access to Internet via Clear Wire, Washer, Dryer, Full Kitchen. House is located in a quiet area with a crime free environment.  

So far so good...

Especailly in todays World. Safety should be considered when finding a place to reside, and rest your head at night.

You would be sharing this residence with a former United States Army Veteran with a decade of military service in combat arms.

Veterans and Preppers are welcome.

Outside pets ok.  No indoor pets unless it is a trained attack dog. 

If intrested please send me your Phone Number and I will call you to set up an appointment/interview. All other inquires will be treated as spam.

Must be clean.

Female preferred, but all applicants welcome.

If you can cook, and clean, I can lower rent (see above).

Thank you for your time.

I love this ad! It's crime free but then he wants a prepper with an attack dog....

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.

My 2nd Fresno Housing Trip or The Fresno Housing Forecast: Partly Cloudy with a High of 111 and a 75% Chance of Loonies.

Saturday morning I travelled to Fresno to secure graduate housing.  That very same evening I returned to reality to file this report.

The morning sun was already baking the landscape as I climbed the grapevine on my way to Fresno.  It was only 9 am yet the thermometer read 90.  The high in Fresno was supposed to be 111.  Imagine my disappointment when it was only 107. 

My first stop was to meet Cory.  She had a 3 BR/ 2 BA condo in Clovis.  I have not figured out yet what differentiates Clovis from Fresno.  It’s sort of like the blur between Los Angeles and Pasadena that some people call Glendale.  Anyhow, I was off to a good start.  Her condo was actually a condo (see below), and in great shape.  She was a renter, but it was her home.  The utilities were included along with high speed internet Wi-Fi.  It turns out she was a correctional officer in a federal prison in Mendota. 

I have a long history of service work in the jails of LA so we hit it off.  I was relieved that she was true to her word about NO DRUGS.  She joked, “The sketchy home hunters don’t usually want to live with a correctional officer.”  I thanked her for her time, and told her I would let her know either way.

My next visit was to Kelvin.  He advertised a 3 BR/ 2 BA “condo”.  I have learned quickly that “condo” is a term used very loosely in Fresno, and that easy freeway access, often equates to freeway adjacent, off ramp outside bedroom window.  Anyway, I turned down Fairmont Ave, which was true to the theory that the fancier the street name, the lower the class of the neighborhood.  The multiple cars on lawns bore this out.  I then pulled into Winery Circle, and called Kevin.  A middle aged African American man came out to greet me.  He had glasses and a Hawaiian shirt, sort of a Robin Williams meets Cedric the Entertainer.  He was jovial, and asked me in to his abode.  His apartment was classic black bachelor pad—not that I would know, as I grew up in a lily white suburb, and had only seen black people in National Geographic, Sports Illustrated, and the nightly news.

Like a flooding river, the muddy earth toned shag carpet swallowed everything in its path, including the ebony coffee table, lazy boy recliner, and then lapped up against the sides of the Naugahyde sofa.  Elephant candelabras adorned the walls along with African masks.  A Laurence Fishburne movie was paused on the direcTV.  I’ll chalk that up to coincidence.  He showed me the kitchen, which revealed it to be a well-appointed kitchen.  “Let me show you the patio,” he said.  He then pulled back a dented vertical blind to reveal the back yard, where I was told I “could relax and enjoy the fresh air.” What lay outside was a flea market horror show: a half raised EZ up shaded a card table with cigarette butts piled high, next to a carburetor, with a rusting oil drum BBQ smoker off to the side.  He chuckled, "Could use a little TLC." "Yeah," I thought, "Total Liquidation of Contents."

We then made our way upstairs.  I carefully made my way by one of those Z gallery wine racks that was a cut out of an elephant with inverted bottles of white zinfandel.

The bedroom had that comfortable feeling that one might expect in a “safe house”.   There was a futon that had seen better days, and a desk that appeared impossibly small.  I turned to Kelvin, and smiled, " I see the cable jacks, but do you have Wi-Fi?"

His blank expression would have made Marcel Marceau blink.  "Uh…no…I don’t have the internet. I..uh…had my ID stolen a while back and they used it to open an ATT and Comcast account.  I’m still straightening it out."

I thanked him profusely, and stepped back into the furnace that was Fresno.  I think the weather forecast was accurate.

My next stop was to meet Jesus of Fresno.  Now, this Jesus was not a carpenter.  He had higher sights.  He wanted to be a cop.  He was to start the LAPD academy in January.  Now he had told me this on the phone, which begged the question, “Who the hell am I going to live with?”, but I had agreed to meet him anyway.  His condo was a condo, which made me 2 for 3.  I finally located it, and parked—easily I might add, which is one bona fide plus Fresno offers the modern world.   

He met me outside and invited me in to see the joint, and to meet his girlfriend Bettina.  His girlfriend was frying something in the kitchen, and the greasy smell wafted out to greet my unsuspecting nostrils.  This, plus there appeared to have been a windstorm recently that centered its destruction solely within the confines of his apartment.  “Excuse the mess.  My roommate is in the process of moving.” 

“Yeah, right”, I thought.  I just couldn’t imagine the person who would live with these two, but I knew it wasn’t me.  I saw his computer and asked if they have Wi-Fi.

“No.  We get our internet from the neighbor whose connection is unprotected.”  On that note I thanked Jesus of Fresno, and bid Bettina farewell.

My final stop was with Dave and his semi-employed roommate Mark.  Dave was a Fresno Native who really wanted me to live with him.  He had called me twice to confirm my arrival time, as Mark wanted to meet me too.  I ended up being an hour later than planned.  Dave’s house was in NW Fresno.  I pulled up to an early 70's house that could have been the Brady house, that is if Mike Brady had been a Meth Chemist instead of an architect.  The yard was ill kept, and dusty.  I knocked and Dave answered.  “Hi Adam!” He was so excited to have me visit.  He let me in, and showed me into the kitchen where I met Mark.  Mark was one of those skinny white guys with the little beer belly.  He had bags under his eyes that were so big he’d have to check them before getting on a plane.  He looked up from his iPhone long enough to see he had a visitor.  He then rose and shook my hand.  “Hi.  Nice to meet you.”  And that was that.  The curtain descended, and he was gone.

Dave cheerfully showed me around.  “Mark and I are very clean.”  If you see anything dirty it was the previous tenant.  Well, the previous tenants had certainly been busy converting a house into something uninhabitable.  Dave led me outside to an enclosed patio that was about 150 degrees.  “This is Mark’s work area.”  I saw some carpentry tools, a half refinished chair, and beer cans….tons of beer cans. 

I thought to myself, “God bless the alkees that have the wherewithal to recycle.  It’s a form of unintentional full disclosure.

After the warm greeting, and the visit to the recycling center, it was time to see the bedrooms.  Stained carpets and dirty walls gave way to dusty closets and a filthy bathroom.  Dave wanted to sit and chat.  I begged off and wished him well. I even forgot to ask about Wi-Fi.

I ended up at a Starbucks.  By the way, they have Wi-Fi.  I quickly called Cory.  She was more than happy to rent to me.  She even pro-rated the rent.  After two iced coffees, I made my way to the 99 and headed to that town south of Bakersfield.

My 1st Call to Fresno Looking for Housing

$500 / 550ft² - stuidio (sic) on farm (in the country north of sanger)

** Italics= exasperated tone 

Phone rings.  A man answers with a slight country drawl.  “Hello?”

“Hi I was calling about the ad for the studio on Craigslist. (Long Pause) Hello….?” 

“I’m here…”

“Uh, I had emailed you.  You told me to call you.”

“Uh…yeah…”  Long pause.  The phone goes dead.  Strange.  I call again.

Phone rings.  He answers.  “Hello?”

“Sorry,” I say—Why am I apologizing?--“My phone must have cut out.”

“No,” he replies, “It was my phone.  It’s the heat.  It’s goddamn hot out here.” I laugh nervously.  The drawl rolls on.  “Okay…” His Okay begins to have what seems to be more than two syllables.  “Here we go.  You know where McKinley hits Clovis?”

“No, I’m new to Fresno.” .

“Okaaaay….here we go…again.  You know where the Airport is?” I scramble to click on Google Maps on my desktop. “Uh…yes…yes I do.”

“McKinley is south of the airport.  You got that?”

“Yes.” I imagine a wood chipper on his property out in the country.

“Go East on McKinley until you hit Clovis.  Now when you hit Clovis, I don’t care which way you go.  Left or right, don’t matter.”  Now I’m perplexed—no totally fricking confused, but I don’t dare interrupt  as he chugs along.  It’s clear that the train has left the station. “When you get to the next street on either side, go East.  Continue East for—I don’t know—awhile…til you get to…Temp-muf-ul-flug” OMG he just mumbled. He mumbled! I don’t know the cross street.  Jesus, what do I do?

“Sorry—another apology!—“I…uh… didn’t catch that.”

“Catch what?”

“The cross street” I definitely hear a sigh.

“TEMP-ER-ANCE.  Okaaaaaaay.  Turn onto Temperance…Then you’ll hit McKinley again.  Continue on McKinley for I don’t know how long, then pass Del Rey, and the property is on the right.  Look for the gravel road.”  Gravel road.  Of course it’s a gravel road.   I meekly summon the courage to inquire, “Let me see if I got this straight—“ He interrupts me.

“I just gave you directions…Questions?”

“Well, it’s just that,  I’m an incoming Graduate student, and all, you know,  in the Plant Sciences Department—Why in God’s name am I explaining myself?!  “I’m not that familiar with Fresno.”

“Everybody’s got issues…”

“I beg your pardon?”

“They used to call them…problems…you know what I mean?”

“No.”

“Divorce, alimony, kids…we all got’em…issues.”

Ok.  Thanks.  Well, anyway…” The drawl interjects,

You might like the place.  You might not.  I’m not you.   It’s quiet.  You can leave your doors unlocked.”

“NO I WON’T!” I insist to myself.  He continues.

“I was hopin’ to rent the house up front but now there’s just Nicole and Erica there.   Don’t know if you got a girlfriend, or nothing, but they’re there.”

Ok…thanks…anyway…my name is Adam. (Pause)  “What’s your name?”

“Darryl.” And the phone goes dead.

IN MEMORIAM: MY WEEKEND IN VEGAS WITH TONY CURTIS

Ah Vegas! Whatever happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, unless, you want to write a book about what happened in Vegas, which reminds me of the time I spent the weekend in Vegas with Tony Curtis. Now at this point, you might be thinking, “Sure this fly on the wall waited on all these legends, and stole all their wine, but surely he never crossed the threshold into actual dinner companion. Read on.

Tony Curtis was a super VIP Spago regular. He was fond of coming into the old Spago up on Sunset where he held court at the bar with his 24 year old platinum blonde Amazon girlfriend Jill, who, by the way, had a set of jugs, that could change your eyeglass prescription. His bartender of choice was Preston, who happened to be my buddy--for reals. Preston also had an uncanny resemblance to Don Knotts, which was a source of endless Mayberry mirth and merriment. Needless to say, Tony was quite fond of all of us: Preston, Gigi the French waiter, Me, the Maitre d’ Michael Wilde, Wolfgang, etc...

When Spago Beverly Hills opened in March of 1997, Tony and Jill migrated over there to follow Preston. One day Tony comes in alone and sits at the bar and says, “Preston, my dear man, Jill is celebrating her 26th birthday at the end of the month, and I’m taking her to Vegas.” “That’s wonderful Tony,” replies Preston ever so cordially. Tony continues, “Yeah, I want her to have a good time, but I don’t know too many young people like you, and I was wondering if you could round up a few of your friends, and meet us there. She really loves you guys.” “Wow, sure Tony,” replies a flabbergasted, Preston. “I’ll take care of it for you. That’s so great Tony. You’re very kind.” Tony is very pleased. “Great!” I’ll set you up at the MGM, we’ll have dinner at Spago Las Vegas. All you gotta do is pay your own airfare.” Preston is all smiles. “Sure Tony.” “Tony gets up to leave. “And Preston.” “Yes, Tony?” “Make sure you bring the Frog Gigi.

So Preston gets on the horn and tells Gigi, me, and a few others about the trip. As it turns out, our money grubbing waiter friends would rather make $500 over the weekend than get a chance to spend the weekend with Tony Curtis in Las Vegas! So it ends up being Preston, me, and Gigi. Michael Wilde agreed to come also, but didn’t want to soil his Versace on a Southwest seat cushion, so he drove instead.

I could barely contain my excitement. My wife was very excited too. She packed my nicest sport jacket and clothes, kissed me, and wished me a safe trip. I was soon pulling up at the Burbank airport where I met my friends at the departure gate. It was then, that two things became abundantly clear: a) Preston actually was Don Knotts and b) Gigi was a French Hillbilly. They looked like a couple of yahoos on their way to Vegas to a pencil shavings convention. God knows what they were spending their tips on, but it wasn’t wardrobe. But regardless, before you could say, “I’m Spartacus!” , we were on a Southwest Airlines flight to Las Vegas!

Anyway, we had a few drinks on the flight and landed in Vegas. We made our way to the MGM, and went to check in, but we were early, and our room was not ready so we were directed to the VIP check in lounge--courtesy of Tony Curtis! I had never been in a VIP section as a guest. It’s weird having someone else wait on you. It was amazing. There was a huge continental breakfast spread, complimentary coffee and champagne, cordial bellmen, and whores. HA! Just kidding. There were no bellmen. Anyway...we each grabbed a free drink, except Gigi, who grabbed two gin and tonics, and after a while we are given our room key cards so we bid the VIP lounge “Au revoir!”

On our way we stop to play a few slots and much to my surprise I hit a modest $50 jackpot on the quarter slots. Now I’ve got a plastic bucket brimming with quarters. We head upstairs to change. If you’ve never been there, the MGM is a monster hotel. I believe it was the first mega-casino in Vegas. We practically got lost, but finally find the room.

As we approach the door, we hear the television inside. “Probably the maid,” says Preston, but where there’s a maid there’s a housekeeping cart, and none could be seen. Now we are outside the door. Preston double checks the key number with the room number and slides the key. The light turns green, so we open the door a bit. Preston calls out, “Hello?” Suddenly the door opens wide and there before us stood the Great Tony Curtis...in his underwear--tightie whities.

“Fellas! Come on in!” Not sure what to do, we enter. Preston’s got his Amstel Light, Gigi has his two free gin and tonics, and me a with my bucket o’ quarters, all of us not saying a word, and not really sure what to make of what just happened. It’s not everyday you see a living legend in his undies. Not to mention in bed, in a silk nightie was the buxom Jill. She was so happy to see us. We kept our eyes glued to the floor lest her big boobies broke free and did things to us that would make us die happy yet blind.

Tony returned to the bed and sat Indian style on the edge of the bed like some Jewish Ghandi. “The front desk accidently duplicated the cards,” he explained. You guys are downstairs a floor. Preston clears his throat, and manages to squeak out an apology, which Tony summarily dismisses. “Not your fault, Fellas.” Meanwhile Jill rises up to pour herself more champagne, and we were all cured of any future impotence. “You guys want some bubbly?” We politely decline and continue studying the pattern of the carpet. “Well, I’m gonna hop in the shower and I’ll meet you guys downstairs.” We get up and shuffle out sheepishly like altar boys. As the door was about to close, I heard Tony’s distinct voice, “Adam, don’t forget your quarters.”

The age difference between Tony and Jill was what math word problems are made of. i.e. If Tony Curtis was 4 times Jills age and he departed from New York on a westbound train while at the exact same time Jill departed from Los Angeles on an eastbound train to rendezvous with him in a Chicago motel room, at what point would he be arrested for corrupting a minor. I have to admit, all smart ass remarks aside, Tony and Jill really loved each other. She apparently came from a well to do family so it’s not like she was gold digging, but come to think of it, how much gold did Tony Curtis really have, not counting what’s in his teeth?

We walked into Spago Las Vegas at Caesars and were welcomed like royalty. We were ushered to the best big table in the house. Jill and Tony are hard to miss, so it was real fun to have everybody stop eating and look to see a big star.

Of course, Preston and Gigi’s retarded wardrobe contrasted very nicely with my sport coat and Michael’s Versace, so in a snapshot Michael looked like Tony’s interior designer, I filled the shoes of Agent-Lawyer, and Preston and Gigi fit the bill as two kids from the Make A Wish Foundation, whose dying desire was to spend the weekend in Las Vegas with Tony Curtis.

Later we went to many casinos and Tony took many pictures with tourists. Michael excused himself at one point as he had an appointment to get fisted. Tony regaled us with many stories of the glory days of Vegas. “People used to get really messed up on cocaine and pills, and they would disappear. Back then there were no rehabs. And people would ask, “What ever happened to Johnny?” And someone else would say, “Oh Johnny’s in Paris. But Johnny wasn’t in Paris. He was wandering in the desert on the outskirts of town with no shoes on his feet.”

Meanwhile, Preston had hit a $600 dollar slot jackpot, and was rubbing it in our faces the whole night, especially when Gigi and I lost our last alloted gambling dimes that our wives had given us. Soon we were all drunk and passed out. About 4 AM I am awakened by the sound of Gigi rummaging around our room in his underwear. He’s cursing to himself in French. “Merde! Pweston, do you have a dollar? I am thirsty. I need to buy a soda. Please, Pweston, help me." "Sorry, Gigi, I only have hundreds. Oh how I wish I could break a hundred for you." “Merde! Damn you Pweston...”

Gigi had the funniest accent. We used to have a Thai chicken fettucinne with a spicy Peanut Sauce. Gigi was from the south of France outside of Marseille and spoke with a heavy accent so thick you could stick a fork in it and it would stand there.. The best he could muster was “We ‘av uh Tayee fettucinne with a spicy “penis sauce” Customers would howl. and he would get so pissed. It was like some Monty Python sketch.

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.