LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

terrible at it, but the restaurant was a way into this strange new world, composed of three primary layers: the staff, the customers, and my bosses.

      The staff was not your normal restaurant employees. They were all aspiring musicians, models, or actresses and most of them were actually very talented. The waiters were usually aspiring actors who treated their restaurant position simply as a role they were playing. I observed them as they got into character, put their ego aside, and became who they needed to be for the table: flirt, the frat boy, the confidant. The bartenders were usually musicians or models. The girls were sexy and glamorous, and they knew how to work a room. I studied their ability to be flirtatious and coy at the same time. I practiced doing my hair and makeup the way they did, and I took note of the sexy outfits they put together. I tried to make myself small, and take it all in.

      The customers were larger than life: celebrities, rock stars, CEO’s, finance wizards, actual princes; you never knew who would show up. Most of them had a pretty healthy sense of entitlement, and keeping them happy all the time was next to impossible. I learned little tricks, though, like speaking to the women first and primarily (for the date tables) or being efficient but invisible during business lunches. I was good at reading human behavior but terrible at food service. I was constantly dropping plates, forgetting to clear certain forks, and I was a disaster at opening wine in the ceremonious way the owners required.

      But to me, the most interesting characters of all were Reardon and his two partners.

      Reardon was brilliant, impatient, volatile, and impossible. He was the brains of the operation.

      Cam was the son of one of the richest men in the world. His monthly trust-fund checks were enough to buy a small island. He seemed to take little interest in the business and, as far as I could tell, spent his time womanizing, partying, gambling, and indulging in every hedonistic vice you could imagine. He was the money; his role was signing off as the guarantor.

      Sam had grown up with Cam. He had brilliant people skills. He was charming, hilarious, and he knew how to schmooze better than anybody I had ever seen. I guess he was the head of marketing and client relations.

      Watching the three of them interact was like observing a new species. They did not live in the same world I had known for the last twenty-some years. They were over the top, unfazed by consequence and had a total disregard for rules and structure.

      THE FORMULA AT THE RESTAURANT was the same as at any in Beverly Hills that hoped to survive—provide the discerning customer with the best of everything. The partners had spent a small fortune on Frette linens, Riedel glassware, and wines from the finest vineyards. The servers were attractive and professional, the chef was world-renowned, and the decor was beautiful.

      The inviting atmosphere that the staff created was part of our act. Our politeness was the curtain that concealed the frenzy that was always threatening to surface. You see, the bosses expected perfection and professionalism—that is, until they got a couple drinks in them and would easily forget their carefully laid plans.

      One Sunday morning, I went to open the restaurant for brunch, and discovered that Sam, a DJ, and a bunch of girls were still there partying. Sam had turned our fine dining restaurant into his very own seedy after-hours club. I tried explaining to him that I needed to open the large suede curtains and remove the makeshift DJ booth so that I could ready the restaurant for service. He replied in gibberish.

      “Dumb, dumb, dumb, dumb …” he garbled, and closed the curtains as quickly as I opened them.

      I called Reardon. “Sam is still here partying. He won’t leave and he won’t let me open the restaurant, what should I do?”

      “Goddammit! Fuck! Put Sam on the phone. I’m coming down there.”

      I handed Sam the phone.

      “Dumb dumb dumb dumb,” he continued to Reardon, and handed me back the phone.

      “Get him in a cab!!” yelled Reardon.

      I looked around the room, but Sam had disappeared.

      “Wait, I think he’s gone,” I said.

      Just then, I looked out the window. Sam, with his large-face gold Rolex, polished Prada shoes, and beige silk pants, was outside boarding a bus. I ran out to try to stop him. I started laughing into the phone.

      “What’s going on, what’s he doing?” Reardon demanded.

      “He’s getting on the bus to downtown L.A.”

      “As in public transportation?”

      “Yep,” I replied as a happy and obliterated Sam waved cheerfully to me from his seat on the bus.

      “Jesus.” Reardon sighed. “Tell the Hammer to pick him up.”

      The Hammer was the guys’ security slash limo driver slash money collector. I heard he had recently gotten out of jail for something, but no one would tell me what.

      I called the Hammer, who grumpily agreed to take the “sled,” which was what Sam had named the company limo, to find Sam somewhere in the streets of downtown. When I hung up and turned around, the DJ and the girls were just about to open a thousand-dollar bottle of Louis XIII champagne.

      I swooped in and grabbed the bottle.

      “No, no, no! Time to go home, guys,” I said. I turned off the music like a parent busting up a party and ushered them out onto the street.

      I managed to get the restaurant open in time for brunch and the Hammer eventually found Sam walking the streets of Compton with a bottle of Cristal champagne and some interesting friends. It seemed like every day at the restaurant was more absurd than the last, but it wasn’t ever boring.

       Chapter 3

      You’re the worst fucking waitress we’ve ever seen,” Reardon barked to me after a shift one day. I was aware of the limitations of my aptitude for servitude, but the worst ever? Really? My stomach plunged … Was I getting fired?

      “The worst,” he repeated. “But there’s something about you. Everybody likes you. People come back just to talk to you.”

      “Thanks?” I said tentatively.

      “Why don’t you come work for us?”

      I looked at him in confusion.

      “For our real-estate development fund. We just raised two hundred and fifty million dollars.”

      “What would I do?” I asked, treading carefully.

      “Don’t ask stupid questions. What do you care? It’s better than serving food and you’ll learn a lot.”

      I snorted under my breath, thinking of all the ridiculous shenanigans I had seen in the last couple months.

      “Oh, you think you’re smart? You’re not fucking smart. You don’t know anything about the way the world works.”

      It wasn’t a very gracious job offer, but I wasn’t getting fired either.

      So I said, “Okay, I’ll do it.”

      “No shit,” replied Reardon.

      WORKING AT THE REAL-ESTATE FUND eliminated the other layers from my life and it was all Reardon, Sam, and Cam, all the time. They were like their own fraternity. They had their own rules, they even had their own language. It goes without saying that they were from a completely different world than I was. What seemed like once-in-a-lifetime opportunities to me—Sundance, Oscar parties, yacht trips—were their casual weekend plans. Their friends were celebrities, famous athletes, billionaires, and socialites. I began to spend my days and nights doing various tasks for them, always watching from the sidelines, secretly hoping to be invited into their club.

      Reardon would come into my office at 8:30 P.M. on a Friday and say,

Скачать книгу