CHEZ PASCAL – 1983

5:49 pm

Ten minutes after family meal and I’m steaming wine glasses.

Vachon, the maître ‘d, approaches. He rarely speaks to me, so I’m expecting a dressing down. Instead, he says, “The King of Greece is coming tonight.”

I know this – it’s been the talk of the restaurant since the King’s peeps called for a reservation.

“The King will sit there,” Vachon says and points to a table.

Wait…is Vachon telling me I’ll be waiting on the King? I feel a quickening. I don’t get to wait on celebrities, let alone Royalty. I only got to wait on Sammy Cahn because he said I reminded him of a gentile Jerry Lewis. Should I borrow a tie from Francois? He has a stash upstairs. Wow…I, Ted the Waiter, am to attend royalty. This could lead to a knighthood, or a medal of freedom, or an invitation to accompany His Majesty around the world on his Greek Yacht. I feel the beginnings of a panic attack. I definitely need to borrow a tie.

Vachon says: “Calm yourself, pute stupide, and listen. While the King is here, do not go anywhere near his table or I will clean your ears with a butcher knife.”

I go back to steaming glasses.

8:05pm

The man Vachon claims is the King of Greece is sitting on the VIP banquette, wearing what appears to be a smoking jacket and velvet slippers embroidered with an unreadable royal monogram. The King is accompanied by two people-in-waiting. No Queen – which works out as Francois is waiting on him, and it’s always wise to keep the number of Queens per square foot to a minimum. There was a bit of a fuss – bowing and scraping and an unfortunate curtsy – when the King first arrived, but I don’t think he’s a real King. I mean, he’s a nice little fellow, comports himself with dignity, but he seems detached, defeated, not royal at all.

As it is an extraordinarily momentous occasion, Robey, the owner, all by himself delivers aperitifs to the royal table. He hovers, chatting amiably with the King.

Vachon has forbidden me to even look at the King, but…I’m all ears. Walking by the table I hear His Majesty invite Robey to dine with him; it’s a brilliant ploy. If Robey agrees, the King gets a free dinner, for Robey wouldn’t dare present His Royal Highness with a bill after breaking bread with him. If he politely excuses himself from dining with His excellency, Robey will undoubtedly pick up the check out of fear that he may have offended the King by declining a royal invitation. Either way, Majesty and his gilded entourage eat for free.

The evening presses on; we’re quite busy. I’ve been delegated to the front; Miguelito has the back, and Francois and Jorge attend to the middle, where the King is perched. I notice an unusual though vaguely familiar odor emanating from His Majesty’s table. I ask Francois about it in the kitchen. “Never mind,” he says, “Get to work.” I grab three salads and walk them through the dining room to my table. As I walk by Majesty’s table I kick something. I hear it Thwack! Whatever it is I kicked flies across the room, hitting Jorge in his ankle. Jorge, taking an order from a difficult three-top, annoyingly kicks the object away. Miguel looks down, and seeing what it is, kicks it back toward Majesty’s table. Having delivered and peppered the salads, I head back across the dining room, and accidentally kick the object against the wall. Francois reaches down, scoops up the object and runs it into the kitchen.

In the kitchen I find Francois, Miguelito, and Jorge, giggling like naughty boarding-school boys, for sitting on the counter propped up in a breadbasket is the object in question: His Majesty’s slipper. The left one. He must have casually slipped off his shoes during dinner.

“So that’s what I’ve been smelling.”

“Greek men have smelly feet,” Miguelito says knowingly.

After souffles, espressos, and digestives, His Majesty suppresses a yawn. Time to go. He motions to Robey for the check. Robey grunts in either French or mangled Greek, “No no no check, my sire.”

His majesty smiles. Mission accomplished, he slips on his right shoe and using his left foot as a divining rod, searches for its counterpart. He can’t find it. Francois volunteers Jorge – the bravest of us – to run to the kitchen, grab the slipper, approach His Majesty’s table, regale his Worship with accolades about what an honor it is to have His Royal Self in our humble restaurant, and when his Greekness humbly bows his head in faux humility, casually toss the errant slipper under the table where it will be easily found and slipped back on.

Jorge dashes to the kitchen, and returns a minute later, as white as a freshly laid tablecloth. His Majesty’s slipper is missing. Panicked chatter in three languages ensues. Accusations fly like spit at a boxing match. The King of Greece’s slipper would make a fabulous conversation piece…or planter. Who has it? The four of us merge into one large waiter with eight frantically waving arms and run to the kitchen. We search. No slipper. Francois decides that the best thing to do is to hide.

Most of our tables have finished, so we dash outside, and light up. The Royal entourage exits. We brace ourselves, but His Majesty’s mien registers calm. He doesn’t seem to realize that he’s wearing two different shoes: his Royal slipper and a grungy black loafer. The King waves goodbye as he gets into his limo.

Inside we find Goh-Goh, the busboy, sitting at a table, nursing a brandy, smoking; his left foot casually crossed over this right knee. On his foot is His Majesty’s Slipper.

We say nothing and go about re-setting the dining room.