Concierge Confidential by Michael Fazio Page B

be just half an hour or forty-five minutes.”
    I had money to give him, but I wasn’t sure when I should pass it along. Giving straight cash is always a tricky thing to gauge. It can be in anticipation of a favor or as gratitude, or you can mean it to be one but it’ll end up being perceived as the other. I went up to him when he stepped away from the podium. “Wow, you guys are so hot. It must be fun to work here. I bet everyone does what I do and are always bothering you. I hope you understand we concierges are on the frontlines. Everybody looks at us like we’re idiots because we can’t get them in here. I’m sorry to bother you but it’s my job.” I shook his hand and palmed him $200.
    He didn’t make a show of protesting, as most maître d’s in my experience tend to do before pocketing the cash. He pretended nothing had happened. But two seconds later, we were being seated at a table—and Hal Druiter was my new best friend, as nice as can be.
    Hoping to be seen, I did a quick scan of the other diners. Were we even in New York City, let alone downtown? It didn’t buzz like other places with that kind of hype. Where were all the alleged celebrities? The crowd was clearly a well-heeled bunch, but there were no air kisses. It felt a little bit like we were all guests at a wedding where we really didn’t know the family.
    The food itself was really, really good—just like at ten thousand other restaurants in New York. But the larger part of going to eat at a nice restaurant is the experience, and that’s where it fell flat.
    It’s engaging to let people in service know that you’re really enthusiastic about what you’re about to experience. It makes them want to make the experience even better for you—if they’re normal. But there didn’t seem to be any sense of excitement from the staff at The Trough .
    We got the menu and I looked it over. “It all seems so good. What’s your favorite thing to try?” I asked the waiter.
    He sighed with irritation. “Well, it depends on what you like. If you like fish, then this one is good.”
    After I left that night, I made sure to say good-bye to Hal. “Call me anytime,” he told me. “You’re the best. Let me give you our direct line.”
    Cool, I thought. I got the number!
    A couple of weeks later, a guest wanted a reservation for a table. I called the number—but it was the same as the regular one, except it bypassed the hold music. Some secret! “Sorry,” they told me on the phone. “We have nothing.”
    â€œWell, will you tell Hal that I called?
    He actually called me back. “What do you want?” he said. He wasn’t very warm and he wasn’t very cold; it was just very businesslike.
    â€œI’m so desperate,” I said.
    â€œWhat do you need?” he said.
    â€œCan I get a four-top in at eight?”
    â€œWhat’s the name?” he said, impatiently. He didn’t want to linger on the phone because he didn’t need to linger on the phone. I had a short, specific request, and it was granted. The guest got their table and I did my job. Everyone was happy. I’m so in now, I thought.
    Now I felt comfortable recommending The Trough to the guests of the hotel. The next time I called, I thought my old buddy Hal would be glad to speak to me. But it was my old buddy Hal—the one who didn’t know me from Adam—who was on the other end of the line.
    â€œHi, is Hal there?”
    â€œHold on,” the hostess said. “Who’s calling?”
    â€œIt’s Michael Fazio.”
    â€œLet me check.” They put me on hold, and I was forced to listen to opera music for a few minutes. “Yeah, he’s going to have to get back to you.”
    Crap. Crap, crap, crap!
    I went back there after work one night, about eleven o’clock. I sat at the bar and ordered a drink. Hal was there