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

wobble-floated away.  He left an
herby-scented trail of Patchouli hippy perfume in his wake and a question mark
on my face. I felt as if someone should jump in and present me with a
certificate for interpreting a foreign language on the fly. But no matter how
bad Ozzy had fucked himself up, he was still the coolest dude on the planet. I
think he could have had a pile of shit on his head and people would have
thought it was cool.
    There
were two young guys at the bar who had just gotten two of their scripts signed
with National Lampoon Films and were celebrating. This kind of celebrity
encounter was just what they’d come in hoping for.
    “Wow,
dude, that was fucking surreal!” they said regarding Ozzy, and then they asked
how much per shot for the Louis XIII (a top shelf cognac by Remy).
    “A
hundred and fifty,” I said. 
    “Give
us one each.” 
    And
before I could lift the damn bottle Ozzy was back.  “Gimmia nu-uh dubulshod.” 
    So
we did it again, only this time I knew the drill, he gulped it down and as he
was leaving I asked, “Put these on your house account then, sir?”
    “Yepuputweypercentip.” 
    “Thank
you, Mr. Osbourne.”  He waved his hand and just wobble-floated on out again.  Everyone
in the bar was too mesmerized to speak or even attempt to approach him. He had
that effect. It was like seeing God. You didn’t run up and ask God for an
autograph. Well, Ozzy either.
    I
served the two scriptwriters their once-in-a-lifetime glass of Louis XIII,
which they had no idea how to drink but would brag about it to their grandkids
one day.  One of them shot it and the other one tried to sip it but really didn’t
like it at all so he shot his too.  They high-fived each other and giggled – a
funny sight.  Coupla lucky newbies with big dreams and more money than brains.
    I
went back to thinking about Ozzy. I thought: Isn’t Ozzy supposed to be clean
and sober ? According to the press at the time, he was on the wagon.  No
wonder he was in such a hurry. Sneaking shots behind Sharon’s back, eh?
    As
time went by, I had my share of attention from women who frequented the bar. 
I’m not a bad looking guy, but singers and bartenders have one thing in common:
women think they’re hot. One of my fans was nicknamed The Stalker by Ariella.  She
told me an elaborate story about how she was the ex-girlfriend of the actor Ed
O’Neill and also had dated Andrea Bocelli.  The Stalker would come in around
noon and sit there for four hours telling me her life stories and all about her
men and her “spiritual” relationships.  Most of her stories included some actor
or rich businessman with whom she had connected on the Internet and had managed,
with her good looks, to lure into a rendezvous.  The constant name-dropping was
just a bit too much at times but I had to listen with a smile. Her ego
translated my smiles into interest in her. I would serve her the same thing
every time:  chopped salad, no bacon or cheese, side of ranch dressing and a
diet Coke with lots of ice and a lemon wedge.  For someone so supposedly
“spiritual,” she ate like a typical faux-Zen Angelino obsessed with her weight
and appearance.
    She
was very pretty; tall with dark brown hair, a great body probably from Yoga, but
a small chest.  She never wore makeup, and she didn’t need it.  It didn’t take
a genius to determine that she was a time bomb so I kept things very
professional and never called her outside of work, even though she left me her
number on several occasions.  There was a direct phone line to the bar and she
somehow got the number and always called to make sure I was working before she’d
come in.  I heard that she never showed up when I wasn’t working.  She was
truly exhausting, always asking me what I thought about her relationships, etc.
 Who did she think I was, Dr. Phil?  If I had been, I would have advised her to
stop sitting in a bar for four hours a day and trying to seduce a bartender