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

the
one you will reward for my kindness and patience with a huge tip. At least
that’s the way it’s supposed to work.
    You might not think so, at least
at first, but waiting tables can be very exciting. It is a game of chance – you
are at the mercy of whatever dumbass (or genius) is doing the seating. You
never know who is going to land butt first in a chair or booth at your station.
It’s like Russian roulette, but without the bullets. At least you hope so. You
are the pawn and the opposing pieces are shadows. You can lose (no tip) or win
big, and the only control you have is your skill. You may be serving the dishes,
but ultimately you must take whatever the shadow, now before you in full color,
dishes out to you.
    I have waited on homeless people
with coupons, wannabe starlets with expired credit cards, and celebrities who
are so wealthy they have to try extra hard just to spend all their money. It
becomes a game to them.
    In Hollywood, having a fat wallet
trumps shirt, shoes, and civilized behavior for service.
    After reading that, I wanted the
job in Beverly Hills even more. If my life got any sadder, I’d have to switch
from rock to country songs. The good old boys do a much better job of wailing
the hell out of a guitar and singing about dogs, pickup trucks, and women with
big boobs and small hearts.
    Three
days later, I got a message from Aggie saying that they wanted me to come in
for a second round of interviews.  I must’ve listened to that message twenty
times to make sure it was my name she was saying and that I understood her
right.  When I called them back I was told to show up on a Wednesday again for
an interview with the Maître d’ and manager of the Cricket Room.  Holy crap!
    Have
I mentioned how famous the Cricket Room is?  It’s meet-cute central for all of
Hollywood’s A-list players.  It’s been featured in books and movies for decades
and is known around the world. Their logo is even featured on a famous
designer’s clothing. Fuck me, and they’re calling me back? Me?
    Maybe
the nurse with the white coat had dropped my piss test in the toilet or
shattered the vial on the cold marble floor.  I’m not sure what kind of divine
intervention was in place but it was definitely happening, because they would
never have called me back for a second interview if the test had been done
properly.  I was one-hundred percent sure of that. 
    Well
as it happened, the interview went very well.  The guy I met with had a very
strong Spanish accent and didn’t ask me too many questions; I think he was just
sizing me up. He kept staring deep into my eyes over his thick black-rimmed
glasses like he was trying to do some Hollywood version of a Vulcan mind meld.
    On
my way out, I was immediately scheduled for a third and final interview, again
on a Wednesday.  This time I would be interviewed by the Director of Food and
Beverage.  What was it with all these interviews?  I thought that they must
have had my title mixed up with someone else’s and that I’d wind up with a
position in upper management.  Who interviews a fucking bartender three times?
The Cricket Room, that’s who.
    The
following week when I met the Director, he was a bit stern, very formal in his
demeanor, but we got along pretty well and I established that I was in fact
only applying for the bartending job, not GM.   Apparently, there was never any
doubt in his mind, but I just couldn’t figure out why they had to summon the
Spanish Inquisition just to hire a bartender.  I guess in Beverly Hills they do
shit differently, at least on the outside.
    Two
days later I was called in to meet the real GM, which was just a formality, and
thank God, because I was hung over.  He did ask me more questions as if they
weren’t sure about hiring me yet, so I played his game.  He was a
strange-looking man, stiff as hell, in an expensive suit and tie. He reminded
me of a mannequin with dyed brown hair and ‘70s-style tinted reading