Concierge Confidential by Michael Fazio Page A

much I tried.
    In other words, she wasn’t The Trough.
    The Trough was, and still is, the most impossible restaurant to get into in New York City. It’s been that way for over fifteen years, and it’s kind of crazy. Other places are often very hard to get into—Per Se, Union Square Cafe, and Dorsia come to mind—but for it to go on for that long is kind of unprecedented. As the buzz trickled into their restaurant, the consequence became an air of total arrogance.
    The whole idea of getting in somewhere fancy and important is to feel fancy and important. But when you go to The Trough restaurant, they make you feel like you’re trespassing. You’re taking a tour of Graceland, but all of the rooms are roped off. You’re welcome to step inside—but you’re not welcomed. Any restaurant-review website is full of scathing attacks on The Trough, simply because of their attitude. I absolutely loathe their whole condescending philosophy—and I eat my heart out because it’s so impossible to get in.
    Part of gaining access to a hot restaurant is knowing people on an individual basis. But you can’t just call a restaurant of that caliber and ask who the manager is. It’ll be like, “Um, who’s calling? We can’t give that out but I’ll leave a message that you called.” It’s very much need-to-know information.
    I used to case the place because it’s not far from my house. The Trough seems like a pretty unassuming establishment from the outside, but the “no trespassing” energy it generates could not be any clearer. I was mastering the art of getting past the gate, but this place psyched everyone. One day, I saw an Italian Wine Merchants truck double-parked outside, delivering wine. I looked up their phone number and called them. “Hey, I was dining at The Trough and I think they mentioned that you do the wine? I love their wine list. If I wanted to get something from their list, how would I do it?”
    â€œThat’s no problem. Was there anything in particular you were looking for?”
    â€œYes, I was just in there talking to the manager. To … uh … oh, man. I’m totally blanking on his name.”
    â€œIt’s Hal.”
    â€œHal? Are you sure?”
    â€œYeah, it’s Hal Druiter.”
    I chuckled at my “forgetfulness.” “Of course,” I continued, scribbling down the name while it was fresh in my mind. “I just love him. I’m going to ask Hal for his favorites and then call you back. Thanks so much! You’ve been a big help.”
    Now that I had his name, I called the restaurant asking for him specifically. I called over and over—and left messages over and over. It was all for naught, but I still felt like I had gotten one step closer. I knew for a fact that The Trough had several tables specifically reserved for walk-ins. A lot of restaurants do hold literally a couple of tables for walk-ins (though not for reservations). They’re designated just for that purpose, and they’re usually at the bar or are side tables. If you put your ego in your pocket, walk in there, and say that you’ll be happy to wait for a half hour, you will get a table.
    One night I went into The Trough for dinner without a reservation, knowing that if I waited I’d get a table eventually—and get to meet Hal. When I saw him I was surprised, because he looked somewhat nondescript. He was about fifty years old, with a very precise blond hairstyle. But he was very charismatic and seemed like he recognized everyone. “Hi,” I said to him when I walked in. “I’m Michael Fazio. You’re so hard to get in touch with! You must see my name every day on your call list.”
    â€œOh, yeah,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
    â€œWe’re just going to try your walk-in policies tonight,” I told him, using the right lingo.
    â€œGreat. It’ll