Malibu. There even was a light ash falling, giving you the feeling of snow. Because of the small bits of expensive and stylish homes drifting down onto our tables there was very little business. We had a few tables earlier in the morning and Sandy had beaten me to their orders, so I was getting more and more bothered by her behavior. I needed the money just as much as she did but she was definitely more driven to take it from me.
Sandy and I stood in our small waiter’s pantry; a closet like room that held extra dishes, beverages and condiments. Sandy was rambling on about the audition she had the afternoon before and how wonderful she was. Russell, the busboy and I stood bored, watching the ash drift softly onto the patio.
Glenn Close walked out onto the patio, with a child. They made their way to a table and sat down. Sandy abruptly interrupted her audition story and said, “Glenn Close, she’s mine!” Without missing a beat, she started out the sliding glass patio door to the table. I was fed up with her attitude; grabbing her by her apron strings, I dragged her back into the pantry. Russell, realizing I had been pushed too far, slipped out past us. “She’s mine,” I said, “You had the last two tables.” Sandy tried to fight to get away from me. “They weren’t tables -- they were French,” she hissed. I got in front of her and pushed her further back into the pantry. “You took them.” I replied. I was able to get position on her, so that I could step out of the pantry and slide the patio doors shut. “She’s mine!” Sandy yelled from behind the glass door. Desperately, I looked around and spotted a broom that Russell had used to sweep up the piling ash with. I jammed the broom in the door’s track and locked Sandy inside, leaving her pounding helplessly, behind the glass.
I smiled at her and said, “Glenn Close is mine!” I turned and calmly strolled over to Glenn Close and her child, ready to take their order. As I waited on Ms. Close, I would occasionally glance over at Sandy, still locked in the pantry and pounding on the window. Eventually, Russell came back and released her. But since I had started the table it was now mine.
I went over, very professional-like and asked Glenn Close and her child what they would like. Ms. Close gave me her order and then I said, “What can I get for your son?” Glenn looked at me with that Patti Hewes glare, from Damages. “That’s my daughter, Bill,” She said. I started to worry about a sexual defamation lawsuit -- when I realized that I was now the bimb-aiter … and I wasn’t even “hot” or …”cool.” Sorry, Ms. Close and daughter.
Warren Beatty Has Big Balls
O ne of the first restaurant gigs I had in New York was at an Upper Westside café, called Ruelles. I was a busboy in a very popular restaurant. One Sunday after an extremely busy brunch I was walking down Columbus Avenue with two fellow employees; Megan, a pretty red-headed waitress, with a peaches-and-cream type of complexion and some other waiter. The waiter and I were walking while Megan was riding an older bicycle. All three of us were looking tried, shirt tails pulled out of our pants, carrying backpacks and our dirty aprons.
The three of us were just walking home, talking, when a black town car turned into a side street and stopped abruptly in front of us. Warren Beatty bounded out of the backseat door and walked briskly to the three of us. Beatty smiled at Megan and held out his hand to her. “Hi, I’m Warren,” he said. The three of us stopped, he didn’t need to tell us who he was, I, for one, knew who he was… and there he was standing in front of us, still holding his hand out to Megan. Megan slowly extended her hand to Warren, who took it elegantly and shook it.
The waiter and I stood there staring dumbly, as Warren gave us a nod and turned back to Megan. “You are beautiful, did you know that?” Megan could only come up with a very weak, “Thank you.” Warren
Sandy and I stood in our small waiter’s pantry; a closet like room that held extra dishes, beverages and condiments. Sandy was rambling on about the audition she had the afternoon before and how wonderful she was. Russell, the busboy and I stood bored, watching the ash drift softly onto the patio.
Glenn Close walked out onto the patio, with a child. They made their way to a table and sat down. Sandy abruptly interrupted her audition story and said, “Glenn Close, she’s mine!” Without missing a beat, she started out the sliding glass patio door to the table. I was fed up with her attitude; grabbing her by her apron strings, I dragged her back into the pantry. Russell, realizing I had been pushed too far, slipped out past us. “She’s mine,” I said, “You had the last two tables.” Sandy tried to fight to get away from me. “They weren’t tables -- they were French,” she hissed. I got in front of her and pushed her further back into the pantry. “You took them.” I replied. I was able to get position on her, so that I could step out of the pantry and slide the patio doors shut. “She’s mine!” Sandy yelled from behind the glass door. Desperately, I looked around and spotted a broom that Russell had used to sweep up the piling ash with. I jammed the broom in the door’s track and locked Sandy inside, leaving her pounding helplessly, behind the glass.
I smiled at her and said, “Glenn Close is mine!” I turned and calmly strolled over to Glenn Close and her child, ready to take their order. As I waited on Ms. Close, I would occasionally glance over at Sandy, still locked in the pantry and pounding on the window. Eventually, Russell came back and released her. But since I had started the table it was now mine.
I went over, very professional-like and asked Glenn Close and her child what they would like. Ms. Close gave me her order and then I said, “What can I get for your son?” Glenn looked at me with that Patti Hewes glare, from Damages. “That’s my daughter, Bill,” She said. I started to worry about a sexual defamation lawsuit -- when I realized that I was now the bimb-aiter … and I wasn’t even “hot” or …”cool.” Sorry, Ms. Close and daughter.
Warren Beatty Has Big Balls
O ne of the first restaurant gigs I had in New York was at an Upper Westside café, called Ruelles. I was a busboy in a very popular restaurant. One Sunday after an extremely busy brunch I was walking down Columbus Avenue with two fellow employees; Megan, a pretty red-headed waitress, with a peaches-and-cream type of complexion and some other waiter. The waiter and I were walking while Megan was riding an older bicycle. All three of us were looking tried, shirt tails pulled out of our pants, carrying backpacks and our dirty aprons.
The three of us were just walking home, talking, when a black town car turned into a side street and stopped abruptly in front of us. Warren Beatty bounded out of the backseat door and walked briskly to the three of us. Beatty smiled at Megan and held out his hand to her. “Hi, I’m Warren,” he said. The three of us stopped, he didn’t need to tell us who he was, I, for one, knew who he was… and there he was standing in front of us, still holding his hand out to Megan. Megan slowly extended her hand to Warren, who took it elegantly and shook it.
The waiter and I stood there staring dumbly, as Warren gave us a nod and turned back to Megan. “You are beautiful, did you know that?” Megan could only come up with a very weak, “Thank you.” Warren
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