Waiter to the Rich and Shameless: Confessions of a Five-Star Beverly Hills Server Read Online Free PDF Page A

snacks, which are accompanied
by a small linen napkin neatly folded in quarters.  The whole presentation of
even the simplest drink was one of elegance, class, and sophistication.
    The
night bartender, Don, had been there for years.  He was the grandfatherly patron
of the Cricket Room and looked the part.  There was also a swing shift
bartender named Mary who covered our days off.  She was a fat, aging version of
Pat Benatar from the wild frizzy hair and lots of makeup era.  Mary worked two
night and two day shifts and still had full benefits.  She liked it that way
because if she didn’t she would have changed it.  Mary was forceful,
strong-minded and pushy as hell but we got along well because I did everything
just the way she taught me.  Otherwise, I’m sure there would have been a
problem. I also treated her respectfully and never flirted with her - you’d be
surprised how many guys would, just because they thought she would help them.
This was a dream job and I sure as hell didn’t want to fuck it up by being a
smartass.
    Mary
was instrumental in helping me pass my ninety-day review.  If she hadn’t wanted
me to pass, it wouldn’t have happened. She was that trusted.  She gave me
detailed instructions on how to maintain the bar, polish the brass, dust the
bottles, stock the glasses, wipe down shelves, and accomplish many more
required tasks with near military precision.  Every morning there was an hour
of new side-work to be done and I paid close attention.  It seemed that the
night crew didn’t do any of this. They probably figured they were the “A” Team
and us day peons could do the grunt work. That was okay with me, at least for a
while, but I had ambitions to move up, even as a probationary employee. I was
inside those magical walls now and I wanted to take full advantage.
    The
ninety-day review marked the end of my trial period, and it entailed a strict
grading of my grooming, product knowledge, punctuality, and attitude.  If I
hadn’t done well, I would’ve been let go.  I’d never heard of this kind of
thing at any of my previous employers’ establishments.  I was taken aback at
how “by the book” the place was run.  But by then, I was rocking and rolling
and my review was pretty much just a formality.   There I was, finally on my
own, and I could call myself the bartender of the Cricket Room.  That was a
status not many achieved and I was damn proud of myself. 
    During
those ninety days, I had already gotten to know most of the local Beverly Hills
regulars.  My shift ran from eleven in the morning to seven at night, so I
didn’t see much of the legendary late-night craziness.   But there were plenty
of early birds who liked to drink their lunch from a martini glass, treating
the olive as a salad.  
    One
of Michael Jackson’s many doctors enjoyed expensive chardonnay by the
glassful.  A local tycoon who bought and sold bankrupt businesses always carried
at least five grand in hundred dollar bills rolled up in a rubber band.  He
liked black cherry vodka with a squeeze of lime and a bottle of club soda on
the side. A female Beverly Hills court clerk poured out her sorrows into her
Ketel One martinis.  She drank them dirty so her tears wouldn’t ruin the
taste.   Frequent customers included a couple of middle-aged trust fund
slackers who claimed they had tour-managed for the Rolling Stones, which I
later found out was a crock.   Then there was the famous lawyer who would never
look me in the eye.  Mr. Rubin had lost all his money in a big legal scandal
but he still had enough left to eat and drink well at the Cricket Room. 
Another interesting repeat customer was the congenial owner of a private jet
company. Marcus drank about four martinis in an hour’s time and got aggressive
enough to start arguments with random women every time he visited. I think he
was mad at his mother.  Of course, there were always one or two looky-loos,
tourists or writers from out of