Waiter to the Rich and Shameless: Confessions of a Five-Star Beverly Hills Server by Paul Hartford
Authors: Paul Hartford
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of Tinseltown. Every
single day, I'd see famous producers or directors meeting with talent (onscreen
personalities), trying to woo them into working on their next project. Today’s
Cricket Room is no longer private and restricted like it once was, and just
about anyone can get in. Prestige has been traded for profit and bottom-line
numbers.
Yet
even by today’s standards, it’s still a totally unique culture – unlike any
other in the world. Thanks to its strict, highly responsive security team,
today’s Cricket Room is still exclusive, buzzing with even more of Hollywood’s
brightest movie icons. Its patrons are closely protected from paparazzi and looky-loos
hiding phone cameras in their shorts. When you’re called to a meeting at the
Cricket Room, you know you’ve really arrived.
The
glow left by the Cricket Room’s storied past helped get me through now and
then. When reality TV stars are whining, their fake boobs bursting out of
designer clothes they didn’t buy, and crotchety tycoons with over-whitened
teeth are hanging onto their youth, making fools of themselves with girls a
third their age, I close my eyes and imagine the whiners and perverts of the
good old days, and it warms my heart.
Chapter
6 Training Day
There
are a thousand versions of the old joke, “Waiter, there’s a fly in my soup!” Here’s
an old one I find hilarious, probably because at the Cricket Room, we’d never be allowed to respond to a guest in such a smartass manner:
5 February 1919, Ruthven (Iowa) Free Press , pg. 3, col. 1.
Lots of professional baseball players pride
themselves on their gift of repartee, but out on the road even the smartest of
them are beaten at that sort of game.
Ty Cobb, king of players in the business, smart
as he is, was tripped up by an ordinary waiter.
In a small New York hotel one day Ty loudly
called the attention of a waiter to a fly in his soup.
“Very true, my dear Mr. Cobb,” said the waiter,
“but why should you worry when there is not a chance in the world of your
catching it?”
More
than four years had passed and I was still the daytime bartender in the Cricket
Room. The glow of glory days gone by was still there. The stars still came and
went with regularity. Ghosts still haunted the premises, reluctant to leave
their famous “haunt.” But I was feeling kind of stagnant. I realize that might
sound ungrateful; I had really wanted this and now that I had it I was
grumbling. But the rock ‘n roll animal in me was growling, getting restless.
Bottling up all that stage energy was getting vexing, even with the partying.
The
pay was more than decent - fifteen bucks an hour plus tips and great benefits,
unheard of for a bar salary anywhere else. Tips from the big spenders could be
huge; big enough to really make a difference in my lifestyle. I had bought
myself a beautiful BMW that turned heads even in Hollywood. I took two long
vacations to Europe with my family, feeling more wealthy and successful than
many of my friends. This is what I had imagined rock ‘n roll success would
have given me if I had gotten my big break. Well, not quite, but compared to
where I was four years ago, this was the big time. Let’s just say that staff at
the Cricket Room was well compensated for our discretion. There are things I
will tell you here, but there are an equal number of secrets I won’t spill
because a bartender is the next best thing to a priest for confessing sins. I
take that seriously. Not much short of a subpoena will drag shit out of me
about my guests. And Mr. P? Imagine all the secrets he’s got bottled up in that
head of his!
I
visited New York City several times just for the change of scenery and to enjoy
the raucous nightlife you can only find there. The choice of things to do and
ways to spend money was massive, especially compared to the torpor of LA with
its lazy, slow beach vibe.
I
was debt-free, enjoying life, accumulating a sizeable bank
single day, I'd see famous producers or directors meeting with talent (onscreen
personalities), trying to woo them into working on their next project. Today’s
Cricket Room is no longer private and restricted like it once was, and just
about anyone can get in. Prestige has been traded for profit and bottom-line
numbers.
Yet
even by today’s standards, it’s still a totally unique culture – unlike any
other in the world. Thanks to its strict, highly responsive security team,
today’s Cricket Room is still exclusive, buzzing with even more of Hollywood’s
brightest movie icons. Its patrons are closely protected from paparazzi and looky-loos
hiding phone cameras in their shorts. When you’re called to a meeting at the
Cricket Room, you know you’ve really arrived.
The
glow left by the Cricket Room’s storied past helped get me through now and
then. When reality TV stars are whining, their fake boobs bursting out of
designer clothes they didn’t buy, and crotchety tycoons with over-whitened
teeth are hanging onto their youth, making fools of themselves with girls a
third their age, I close my eyes and imagine the whiners and perverts of the
good old days, and it warms my heart.
Chapter
6 Training Day
There
are a thousand versions of the old joke, “Waiter, there’s a fly in my soup!” Here’s
an old one I find hilarious, probably because at the Cricket Room, we’d never be allowed to respond to a guest in such a smartass manner:
5 February 1919, Ruthven (Iowa) Free Press , pg. 3, col. 1.
Lots of professional baseball players pride
themselves on their gift of repartee, but out on the road even the smartest of
them are beaten at that sort of game.
Ty Cobb, king of players in the business, smart
as he is, was tripped up by an ordinary waiter.
In a small New York hotel one day Ty loudly
called the attention of a waiter to a fly in his soup.
“Very true, my dear Mr. Cobb,” said the waiter,
“but why should you worry when there is not a chance in the world of your
catching it?”
More
than four years had passed and I was still the daytime bartender in the Cricket
Room. The glow of glory days gone by was still there. The stars still came and
went with regularity. Ghosts still haunted the premises, reluctant to leave
their famous “haunt.” But I was feeling kind of stagnant. I realize that might
sound ungrateful; I had really wanted this and now that I had it I was
grumbling. But the rock ‘n roll animal in me was growling, getting restless.
Bottling up all that stage energy was getting vexing, even with the partying.
The
pay was more than decent - fifteen bucks an hour plus tips and great benefits,
unheard of for a bar salary anywhere else. Tips from the big spenders could be
huge; big enough to really make a difference in my lifestyle. I had bought
myself a beautiful BMW that turned heads even in Hollywood. I took two long
vacations to Europe with my family, feeling more wealthy and successful than
many of my friends. This is what I had imagined rock ‘n roll success would
have given me if I had gotten my big break. Well, not quite, but compared to
where I was four years ago, this was the big time. Let’s just say that staff at
the Cricket Room was well compensated for our discretion. There are things I
will tell you here, but there are an equal number of secrets I won’t spill
because a bartender is the next best thing to a priest for confessing sins. I
take that seriously. Not much short of a subpoena will drag shit out of me
about my guests. And Mr. P? Imagine all the secrets he’s got bottled up in that
head of his!
I
visited New York City several times just for the change of scenery and to enjoy
the raucous nightlife you can only find there. The choice of things to do and
ways to spend money was massive, especially compared to the torpor of LA with
its lazy, slow beach vibe.
I
was debt-free, enjoying life, accumulating a sizeable bank
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