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

who
didn’t give a flying crap about her, but I’m not and I didn’t. My job is to
listen, not opine.
    This
went on for a whole year and I’d be lying if I said that the thought of going
over to her apartment in Hollywood and having hot sex with her hadn’t entered
my mind.  But I knew that with this one, it would be a big mistake.  I actually
eventually grew so incredibly tired of her stories that I could feel my mind go
into hibernation within a few minutes of her arrival. She was the intense kind
of woman who I could see boiling somebody’s pet rabbit or hiding a huge chef’s
knife under the bed. No thanks. There were too many easier ways to get laid
without risking body parts or pets.
    During
that same time period there was a divorcee from Mulholland Estates in Bel Air
who began showing up.  She would come to my bar and pour her heart out about
how lonely she was.  She tried to lure me in by describing how quiet it was up
there in her big house all alone and how she wanted to cook for me and serve me
a candlelit dinner.  She dropped me her number but I kept stalling, mainly
because she had that fake plastic surgery face and the boob implants so common
in Hollywood.  She was a nice enough woman, but to top it all off she was
actually kind of heavy and I couldn’t get past her plastic-looking Planet of
the Apes face. To me, almost everyone who has had that amount of plastic
surgery ends up looking strange, like a certain new breed of people that live
mostly in LA.  Do they all go to the same doctor?  I just couldn’t see being
with her.  What would Mom say? Probably something like, “She looks like there
might be big clips in the back of her head holding it all together.” Sex on
demand or not, she was just too creepy and I was scared to see her naked.
    Just
as I had wished, every day started surprising me with something out of the
ordinary. The tourists and regulars kept coming, but Paul McCartney came in one
evening with his then-wife Heather and ordered a couple of margaritas with salt
and lime squeezed into them.  I was truly honored to have the world’s best
songwriter of our time at my bar.  He looked great and his wife wasn’t bad to
look at either.  I shook his hand and told him that I was a huge fan and that
it was my greatest pleasure ever to have him at my bar.  He was very humble and
thanked me in his trademark Scouse accent, but was much more interested in
regular everyday chitchat with his wife than chatting with me. They weren’t
able to sit too long before other people noticed them so they had to be moved
to a private table.  I was sad to see him leave but psyched that I had had the
brief opportunity to meet him.  I never charged for the drinks – are you
kidding me?  (Mr. P signed off on it.)  It’s a Beetle for God’s sake!  How many
people can say they served a drink to a Beetle and his wife?
    I
served Donald, his ex, Ivana, and their daughter, Ivanka Trump, but all at
separate times.  Ivanka is absolutely a real quality woman. She’s beautiful and
very classy; she’s a real pearl in the classical sense.  Ivana used to come in
with her Italian tennis-playing boy-toy Rossano who was at least twenty years
her junior.  She was always sweet and very courteous.  She always ordered a Goose
Martini and Rossano would have an espresso.  I’ve got to admit I could see what
the guy saw in her – she definitely had something special in addition to the
obvious, even with the huge age difference. Maybe she was his homeroom teacher
and he was her teacher’s pet? I almost asked if he had a note from his mother,
but of course didn’t. 
    Months
later, Trump himself came in with his then-fiancée Melania.  Grey Goose Martini
for him and a Goose Cosmo for her.  She was definitely impressive-looking.
Trump left without paying, meaning no tip for me, so I had to transfer the
check to his table.  What a jerk, but that’s already written all over his face
anyway – you don’t