“Remain hopeful and keep your pecker up.”

John Cheever

(Part I)

“Avant le déluge”

(5:01 pm – 7:59 pm)

NBC Studios/Burbank, California

The Tonight Show starring Johnny Carson.

Coming back from a commercial, Johnny, at his desk, taps his pencil to the musical beat.

Music FADES OUT.

CARSON: Welcome back. My first guess was recently voted the most famous waiter in the world. He’s waited on pretty much everyone on the planet, from Napoleon to Madonna, from Jackie O to Malcolm X, from the Pope to Adolf Hitler. Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome, Ted the Waiter.

(APPLAUSE)

The Tonight Show Band plays, “Wait ‘till the Sun Shines, Nellie,” as Ted, wearing all black and a long white bistro apron festooned with sequins, strolls on. He greets Johnny with a hetero-hug, takes a seat.

CARSON: Good to see you, Ted the Waiter.

TED: Nice to be seen, Johnny.

CARSON: First thing—is it true you once waited on Death?

TED: Yeah. Funny story. He was on a blind date with Emily Dickinson. She kept saying crap like, “I’m going to die. I’m going to die.” So Death says, “I know. Try the shrimp.”

(CARSON CACKLES)

CARSON: That’s almost as funny as the Great Depression. Speaking of which, did you ever wait on FDR?

TED: Sure. Cranky fellow. He once asked me for sex.

(OOHS)

CARSON: FDR asked you for sex?

TED: He asked me if I knew how to dismantle a wheelchair. I can take a hint.

(LAUGHTER)

CARSON: Allez! Allez! Allez!

TED: I’m sorry, what was that, Johnny?

LANCEL: Johnny? Who is this Johnny, you crazy idiot? Remove your head from your ass and take Madame’s drink order.

I remove my head from my ass and get to work.

5:01 pm – Le Provençale

Lady McFart Face

Corner table

Waiting for her companion

Lancel warns me…

“Don’t get too close. She is a du Pont. They bite.”

I’m at her table

She’s gotta be 104

“Good evening, Madam. Welcome to Le Provencal.”

She tries to bore a hole through me with what used to be her left eye.

“Who are you?”

“I’m Ted, your waiter.”

“No, you’re not. Where’s Lancel?”

“He’s temporarily occupied. He asked me to take your drink order.”

She inhales impatience. Exhales disgust

“Verre d’eau.”

“What?”

“Verre d’eau!!!”

“I’m sorry, I don’t speak Fren–”

“Water! Water!! I want a glass of Waaaater!!!”

“Okay, okay…I mean, Oui oui.”

Lancel arrives table side with a water pitcher

“Go and clean something, Tedee.”

“Gladly…I mean oui.”

5:05 pm – Chez Pascal

Francois, Miguel, and I stand in the back near the faux antique étagère, casually cleaning our fingernails with our wine keys.

Francois and Miguel jabber in Spanish

I don’t speak Spanish

But

I know they’re talking about me

I keep hearing the word “putana”

Robaire in a panic calls us to the front desk.

He can’t get the newfangled automatic telephone answering machine to work.

Robaire’s face is as red raw as the little blinking light. He pokes at the machine.

“C’est impossible!!!”

“Oh, per l’amor de…”

Francois impatiently reaches across Robaire and pushes a button

A second or so of throat-clearing, then a bellowing voice…very British…very posh…

“Robaaaaaaaire, this is Sarah…”

– there’s a significant pause, as if she’s trying to figure out what comes next –

“…Churchill. I wish to change my reservation for this evening. Instead of four, we shall be eleven. My husband was discharged early from hospital, and he’s bringing his nurse and other necessary friends. Thank you.”

The answering machine sputters electronic phlegm then dies.

We are booked solid. Francois leans in to me and Miguel.

“I hope she does not mind sitting in the kitchen.

5:07 pm – Rusty’s

Dawn and I arrive together, mumble tense “hellos,” hang our coats in the vestibule closet, purchase cigarettes from the over-priced cigarette machine, and hurry into the restaurant.

The dining room is festooned with twinkle lights, plastic holly wreaths, and 500 nutcrackers.

I’m finding it hard to breath. My fellow waiters have been stuffing me with wild tales of Christmas Eve chaos since I started working here three months ago.

“Busier than Mother’s Day and New Year’s Eve combined.”

“Kitchen usually crashes around 7:00.”

“Bathrooms almost always back-up.”

“Never enough wine glasses.”

“Worse than Vietnam.”

Dawn opens the reservation book, begins counting. She closes the book and turns to me with soothing words of encouragement:

“We’re screwed. 180 people due in between 6:00 and 6:30. Then we fill up again at 8:00.”

The telephone RINGS, chortles really, like it’s laughing at us.

Katie walking by, answers...

“Rusty’s. Merry Christmas. How may I…oh, hi, Debbie…yes, we’re all here.”

She looks around…does a roll call…

“Me, Dawn, Maggie, Barbie, Mike, Bow-Wow, and Ted. Stephanie and Titicaca are no-shows. How many what? Oh…about 35. Okay, I’ll tell them…see you in a few…”

Katie hangs up. Dawn is incredulous.

“You told her we only have 35 reservations?”

“No, I told her we only have 35 wine glasses.”

“What did she say?”

“She wants the bathrooms cleaned.”

5:13 pm – Fiorella’s

Gaff and I light cigarettes, lean on the bar, and await customers.

Ironclad Bitch clacks by.

“You need something to do? Wipe down the bar.”

Gaff:

“You got it.”

Gaff taps my shoulder, leads me to the other end of the bar. He picks up a bar rag, indicates for me to to likewise.

I do likewise.

Together we start wiping the brass rail that circles the bar.

Satisfied, Ironclad clacks off.

Gaff and I drop the bar rags, saunter into the kitchen, light cigarettes, and await customers.

5:17 pm – Metropolitan Cafe

I’m in the kitchen.

Standing at the 86 & Special Board.

The 86s outnumber the Specials.

It’s going to be that kind of night.

Fellow waiter, Joyce, walks by, tying her apron.

Her anorexia has reached a crucial stage; she breaks a bone whenever she blinks.

She stands before me, which is uncomfortable as she hasn’t spoken to me in a year.

“I need to talk to you.”

“Why? You haven’t spoken to me in a year.”

“I’m working on my Ninth step.”

“Which one is that?”

“Making amends. The reason I haven’t spoken to you in a year is because you did something that annoyed me.”

“What did I do?”

“I can’t remember. My sponsor says it’s not my job to take your inventory. Just to tell you I forgive you your shortcomings.”

“My shortcomings?”

“Well, they’re not mine.”

Joyce turns abruptly to her left and breaks an ankle.

I crave a marijuana stick.

5:23 pm – Jack’s

In the bathroom Parker lights a joint, takes a hit, hands it to me.

We’re overbooked…again. Getting stoned is the best and only way to handle it.

Chucky barges in, looking for us. Parker shoves the lit joint in his apron.

“C’mon. You both have tables.”

He lifts his patrician nose and sniffs.

“What is that smell?”

We look.

Parker’s apron in on fire.

5:27 pm – Paddy’s

The owner emerges from his office, dressed like a sofa. He nods to me, smiles, coughs, ties his tie, adjusts his pillows.

My first shift, and Paddy is the only person other than the kitchen staff I’ve seen since we opened at 5:00.

“You look terrified. Are you ready for this?”

I need to say something that will assure Paddy that I am ready and able to deal with anything.

“Am I the only waiter?”

“Yes. Don’t worry. Only one reservation. Party of seven. I’ll help you.”

I relax. This was how I like to start a new job. Slow and Steady

All cheered up, I ask:

“What time are they due in?”

“Soon, I think. Eddie took the reservation.”

He calls out:

“Eddie!”

Eddie, the chef, saunters in from the kitchen. He hasn’t been to bed for a couple of days. I can tell because his nostrils are dusted white, his eyes are bleeding, and his hair looks like he combed it in front of a 747.

“What?”

“What time is that reservation due in?”

“Now. Why aren’t you guys set up?”

Paddy points to a gleaming seven-top.

“We’re ready,”

“It’s not a table for seven, pal. It’s for seventy.”

“You specifically said seven.”

“I was drunk.”

Eddie looks at me.

“Buddy, you sick or something?”

I don’t respond. I’m looking out through the massive plate-glass windows. Two Peter Pan buses pull up to the curb, hissing hydraulic brakes. Seventy women with holiness hairdos pour out of the buses and into the vestibule. They reek of diesel and Shalimar.

5:31 pm – Charlie’s

Pre-theater.

I’m at table 303

Two Old Queens

The younger old queen is the table spokeswoman…

“We’ve been sitting here with nothing to drink for twenty minutes.”

They’ve been sitting a mere five minutes, but irritated queens tend to exaggerate.

“I’m so sorry.”

“We have tickets for Torch Song Trilogy. We have to be out in an hour.”

“But Torch Song’s curtain is at 8:00. You have plenty of time.”

Queen gets fierce.

“I said we have to be out in an hour and that means we have to be out in an hour!”

“I’ll do my best. In the meantime, may I get you something from the bar?”

“Can we see the manager?”

“Why? Is everything all right?”

“We don’t like you.”

“I’ll get the manager.”

NBC Studios/Burbank, California.

CARSON: So, you waited on Hitler? Was this in Germany?

TED: No. Vienna. A beer garden off Friedrichstrasse street. He was a starving artist back then. Ordered a bowl of schnitzel and a cup of decafe every afternoon.

CARSON: Decafe?

TED: My idea. In fact I insisted on it. He was a nervous little fellow.

CARSON: He was a regular?

TED: For about a year. Then one day I’m telling him a joke that had been going around Waiter Town, you know, the one about the Catholic Nun and the Polish Zookeeper? I get to the punchline, where the Zookeeper tricks the Nun into holding his peacock, and instead of screaming with laughter, like most of my other customers, Adolf gets this funny look in his eyes, tosses his napkin, says he won’t be in for a few days, and runs out without paying his bill. Next day he invades Poland. Never saw him again. Little shite owes me thirty thousand Reichsmarks.

(BOOS)

CARSON: Thirty-thousand Reichsmarks? That’s about…

TED: Forty-even cents.

5:41pm – Perrettis

Miss Richly seats me a table.

As she passes, she leans in and whispers,

“Be careful. The guys in a mood.”

I peek. It’s a three-top: a couple of affluent Upper West Siders with a squiggly seven-year old daughter.

Mommy and Daddy are mid-forties, late to the parent game.

At the table, I offer my greetings. Daddy interrupts:

“Before you take our order, we have a question. We used to come here all the time.”

I don’t say:

“You’re lying. I’ve been here six years and this is the first time I ever laid eyes on you.”

Instead, I say:

“Why yes, I remember you.”

“We have an issue with one of your so-called ‘waiters’.”

That so-called “waiter” is me.

About a year ago I was interviewed for a book about waiters. The writer of the book (also a waiter) named categories, “Chefs,” “Romance on the job,” “Tipping,” etc, and I was obliged to tell a story, offer an opinion. I was one of a dozen or so waiters being interviewed so to make sure I made it into the book, I really, really, and I mean, really exaggerated my answers. When he asked about “Children,” I said I was good at waiting on them (I am), but sometimes, when they misbehaved, I wanted to take them outside and give them a good spanking, or whipping…or something like that. I, of course, had no desire to hurt children, but I said it, and it made it into the book. Once published, the book was reviewed by New York Daily News Sunday edition, with the headline:

“THIS WAITER WANT TO MURDER YOUR CHILDREN.”

Or something like that. I received a couple of death threats. One of the death threats was from this man who is currently sitting in my section. I recognize his voice. He is semi-famous. He’s on mid-morning television.

“Is that waiter who wants to murder my child still working here?”

“Oh, no. He was fired. I heard he’s in prison.”

“Good.”

The guy’s daughter throws a water glass on the floor, and starts screaming. It’s the kind of scream that would bring down a Russian MIG. I think it would be amusing if I offered to take the little girl out back and teach her a lesson, but instead I mop up the water, and begin taking their order.

5:43 pm – Jack’s

I approach my second table…

Colleen Dewhurst and friend.

I want to tell her that I enjoyed her performance in “Moon for the Misbegotten,” but I didn’t see it. Instead, I stare at the bald spot on the top of her head. It’s vast, like the Great Plains after a prairie fire…

Without looking at me, she says,

“Is there something up there that interests you?”

“Actually, no there isn’t. May I take your order?”

5:51 pm – Perrettis

Flynn and I in the wait station, smoking, waiting for customers.

A guy walks in. He’s alone.

Flynn stubs out her cigarette, walks over, and happily greets him.

She takes one look, suddenly breaks away, and runs past me…

“I can’t! I can’t! I can’t!”

I walk over to him. His back is to me.

“Good evening, sir…may I help…?”

He turns and looks at me. I gasp inwardly.

He’s a burn victim.

A seriously severe burn victim.

Two small holes where his nose used to be. No ears. No lips. His skin is the color and texture of rock. His eyes are fierce, penetrating, blue. He sports a jaunty raincoat and fedora. A torched Sam Spade.

He looks directly at me, defiant.

“All I want is a bowl of pasta.”

“Sure. Come this way.

I walk him to my section, all the while promising myself to look him in his eyes and nowhere else.

“What was up with that waitress?”

“She frightens easily.”

He sits. He’s understandably pissed off.

“Do I frighten you?”

He takes off his hat, revealing three long hairs on the top of his scorched skull.

“No, but next time you need a haircut, don’t use a blow torch.”

I couldn’t help myself. It just came flying out.

In the pause that follows, I envision losing my job. I see myself getting beaten up by an army of burn victims.

But the guy laughs…deep and hearty.

“Touché. What kind of beer do you have?”

When I return with the beer…the guy’s still laughing.

6:07 pm – Metropolitan Opera Club

A deluge of laughter from the celebrity-packed table in the center of the dining room.

Mike Nichols just told an hilarious story about Maria Callas.

Not to be topped, maestro Jimmy Levine adds, “I guess she was hoping for a standing ovation. What she got was a kneeling raspberry.”

Silence.

Mike Nichols doesn’t know where to look. Leonard Bernstein shoves a forkful of beef into his mouth. Jackie O’ smiles uncomfortably.

I lean in, remove Levine’s wine glass, and say:

“Okay, that’ll be enough of that.”

The table erupts in laughter.

With the same hand he conducts Götterdämmerung, Maestro Levine clandestinely reaches under my apron and gives my raspberries a squeeze.

I yelp.

Edward Townsend, President of the Opera Club, rises from the table, grabs my arm, and drags me off.

I didn’t know this, but apparently it’s a sin to yelp in the Metropolitan Opera Club.

6:31 pm – Rusty’s

201 is gone. Great. There are three parties waiting for that table.

I pick up the check holder.

The bill was $220.00 dollars.

Guy left me $5.00…and a note written on the Amex slip:

“Merry Christmas. You Suck!”

6:35 pm – Chez Pascal

Francois summons me, points to table 12.

A youngish couple

Bridge & Tunnel

First time in a French restaurant

The man had ordered the artichoke special.

He’s chewing on an artichoke leaf.

Been chewing on it for ten minutes.

Francois says:

“Tedee, go and help him. They are your people. Basura blanca from deep America. If he continues to eat his artichaut like that, he will die.”

I approach

I hold a napkin in front of the man’s chin

Instruct him to spit out the leaf

He’s shocked, but he spits.

I silently demonstrate the proper way to eat an artichoke: Remove a leaf from the choke, dip the bottom of the leaf into Chef Bernard’s delectable vinaigrette at the bottom of the artichoke cavity, gently scrape off the tender bits by pulling it through the teeth, then discard the spiny leaf on the accompanying l’assiette.

I walk away.

He calls Francois to his table.

Complains about me.

I hear Francois say:

“That is Tedee. He is insane. Ignore him and eat your artichoke any way you wish.”

Francois, Miguel, and I gather across the restaurant and watch as the guy chews and chews and chews on another leaf.

The guy’s wife reaches over and wipes a spittle of blood from the side of his mouth.

Miguel says:

“Should we call the ambulance?”

“No. It is his own fault. Why do American men find it so difficult to listen?”

6:39 pm – Canyon Road

“Will someone please listen to me?”

I approach table four. Man and Wife. She’s in a panic.

“My husband is choking on something.”

His hands are clenched around his throat.

“Well, maybe if he stopped trying to strangle himself…”

“Do something!!!”

Humor didn’t work, so I walk into the kitchen to check the Heimlich poster. It offers insightful details on how to administer the life-saving maneuver.

But it’s confusing.

I remember there’s a nurse in my section. A regular. I approach her table. She’s got a burrito hanging out of her mouth.

“Nurse Connie?”

“Yes?”

“How’s your burrito?”

“Soggy.”

“I’m sorry. Can you do the Heimlich Maneuver?”

“Honey, the burrito sucks, but I don’t need the Heimlich.”

“Not you. That customer over there could probably use one.”

Nurse Connie looks to her left. The ER nurse in her takes charge. She rises, STAT-walks to the table, stands behind the guy, wraps her arms around his waist, makes a fist with her right hand, grabs that fist with her left hand, and in one violent gesture, thrusts her balled fists inward and upward.

The guy’s half-chewed enchilada takes flight and lands on his wife’s plate with a soft clank.

Nurse Connie goes back to her table, resets her napkin, and continues to eat her wretched burrito.

I attend to the couple. The guy is slowly recovering.

I clear their plates.

“Okay, that’s done. In the mood for dessert?”

“My husband almost died and you’re offering dessert?

“It’s on the house.”

“Oh, okay.”

“I’ll be right back with a menu.”

6:43 pm – Perretti’s

I’m at the front desk, grabbing menus for my six-top.

Jill breezes by…

“Table 45 just asked my name.”

“Fuck. I hate that. What did you say?”

“I gave them my code name.”

“Good.”

“So call me ‘Nadia’ until they leave.”

“’Nadia?’ I thought your code name was ‘Bonnie’”

“I got bored with Bonnie. ‘Nadia’ sounds…I don’t know…more famous.”

A booming voice from Jill’s station:

“NADIA!!!”

6:49 pm – Museum Cafe

I recognize him the moment he enters.

Famous actor Danny Street.

He walks right by me, pretending he doesn’t know who I am even though we dated for a week ten years ago.

We ended our relationship after Danny broke my big toe with a sledge hammer. We were on a date in the Stonewall Inn on Halloween. Danny was dressed as Thor; I was dressed as Loki. Danny tried to kiss me. He was polluted. His breath smelled like an overripe melon that’s been laying in the sun for a week. I turned away. And the hammer of Thor came crashing down.

Danny’s sober these days.

He’s in DeeDee’s section.

I anonymously send a full carafe of red wine to his table.

6:53 pm – Perretti’s

Fay and Abner Goldberg walk in.

Fay and Abner are Scary’s, er, Linda’s regulars.

I’m walking by the front door, so I greet them. They’re ancient; they have about twenty-minutes of life left, but a lovely couple.

“Ah, the Goldbergs. How are you tonight?”

“We are well. And hungry.”

“Give me a sec, and I’ll see if there’s a table in Scary, er, Linda’s Section.”

“Did you just call her, ‘Scary?’”

“It’s a little nickname we made up for her.”

“We have a similar nickname. Please don’t seat us with her. We’d rather you took care of us.”

“But doesn’t Scary, er, Linda always take care of you?”

“Yes…and please don’t put us through that again.”

I seat the Goldberg’s in my section. Look up to see Scary, er, Linda, walking my way. She’s got a knife.

6:55 pm – Metropolitan Cafe

Jackie Mason calls me to his table. In front of him sits a mangled burger. He holds up his knife.

“You call this a knife? I couldn’t cut a fart with this.”

If Jackie Mason’s kvetching goes unheeded, it’ll go on for days.

I dash off in search of a steak knife.

7:05 – Le Provençale

I cut a warm baguette into six even slices, toss it into a basket, add a ramekin of herbed-butter, and serve it to the booth up front.

Table of three.

They are polished and sophisticated.

Two gals. One Guy. All in their 50s.

One of the gals is famous, I think. Probably television. Her hair is the color and shape of a basketball and she has a slight speech impediment.

“Does anyone require a cocktail?”

Probably famous gal orders first.

“A Stowi martini, up. Extra dwy. One owive.”

The others follow…

“I’ll take the same but with Smirnoff and a twist.”

“Make mine Absolut with an onion.”

I repeat the drinks order to Lancel who is behind the bar.

Lancel peers to his left and to his right. The coast clear, he reaches into the speed rack, grabs a bottle of Alexi vodka – the cheapest on the market – and begins making the martinis.

I correct him.

“Oh, no, Lancel, they want Stowi, I mean, Stoli, Smirnoff, and Absolut–”

“You crazy idiot, this is all we have.”

Lancel makes all three martinis with the Alexi. They’re stunning in there chilliness.

He points to them.

“This one’s the Stoli. This one’s the Smirmoff. And that one is…what did they ask for?

“Absolut.”

“Then that one is the Absolut.”

Panic grows in me like gas after a nuclear enchilada.

“But what if they can tell the difference?”

“First rule of this business, Tedee? The customer is never right. It’s our job to let them think they’re right. You tell the man this an Abolut martini…he will believe you. Now…garnish and go.”

I garnish and go.

7:09 pm – Rusty’s

I deliver two glasses of wine to the table in the window.

Two women; both wear Santa hats.

Sharon & Carole.

Debbie knows them. She nicknamed them the Church Lesbians, because they live together and play organ at St. Rocco’s.

Both would swear on a stack of bibles that they’re not lesbian.

Carole reads her menu in a tizzy…

“Oh, what’ll I eat?”

Sharon says:

“What I tell you to eat.”

I tell them the specials.

Sharon interrupts:

“You waited on us the last time we were here.”

I have no recollection of waiting on them.

“I remember. It was delightful. Are you ready to order?”

“We want to order another waiter.”

Carole is impressed.

“Oooh. Sharon in charge.”

“Shut-up.”

This is crazy.

I walk off.

Find Debbie.

Tell her the Church Lesbians want another waiter.

Preferably a woman.

Debbie informs me there are no other waiters available…female or not. I’ll have to take them.

“Sure.”

I put Sharon and Carole in the penalty box for the time being.

7:15 pm – Petrossian

Not a single customer at my bar.

But the dining room tables are slowly filling up.

I hate having nothing to do. I want to pitch in, but if I attempt to help without being asked, I get yelled at in three languages.

Francois zips by, stops…

“Tedee. You do nothing. Come from behind the bar and take table four’s drink order. Allez.”

Table Four is Tom Hackett and wife.

There is no one in the restaurant community who does not hate Tom Hackett.

Tom Hackett owns a restaurant guide, calls it the “Hackett Guide.”

The guide is famous; used by millions. He uses the guide to intimidate restaurateurs into doing his bidding.

I’m at his table

He refuses to look at me

I’m no one

A mere waiter

Before I take his drinks order, he starts…

“First of all, tell Francois to turn down the music. I despise canned music. I don’t want to hear it…at all.”

“Actually I don’t think Francois has any power over the music…It’s piped in from a satellite…”

“Why are you speaking? Tell Francois that if he doesn’t lower the music I shall remove this restaurant from the Hackett guide.”

I contemplate what a stint in jail would be like. If I make the right kind of friends, offer the occasional blow-job, I should survive.

So

I impatiently click my pen a couple of times; then I jam it into Tom Hackett’s left eye.

I pull out the pen.

Tommy’s eyeball hangs off the edge of the nib.

Little satisfying droplets of blood bounce on the tablecloth…plop plop plop..then spread like oil on sand…

Tommy says,

“It’s freezing in here. Turn up the heat to exactly 72 degrees.”

I stab his right eye with the same pen that holds his left eye.

I pull out the pen. Both eyes glare helplessly at me.

“And I want the lights lowered. This is a restaurant, not John’s Bargain Store.”

I ball my hand into a mighty angry fist and pound the top of his head until I hear his skull crack.

“My secretary had pre-ordered 500 grams of Beluga, which I assume will be complimentary as it is grossly late.”

I undo my wine opener, plunge the metal worm into his ear, and screw screw screw until wads of bloody snot blow out his nose.

“I want two bottles of Bollinger. Cold. Absolutely frigid. So cold it hurts to hold the bottle.

Tom’s wife pipes in…

“Tommy, tell him that the glasses, too, must be chilly. With no residual dampness.”

I whip out my penis and urinate on his wife.

“You may go. And tell Francois I wish to see him.”

I toddle off. Francois is at my side…

“What did his majesty want?”

“No music. Lower the lights. Turn up the heat. Two bottles of Bollinger, 500 grams of Beluga. And…he wants to see you.”

“Merde.”

“Here. He may need these.”

I hand Francois Tommy’s eye balls.

7:21 pm – Perretti’s

I’m attending John-John Kennedy in Station One. He’s with three buddies. They’ve been playing basketball around the corner, and are in need of a pitcher of beer and a pizza. The air around them reeks of Burberry and body odor.

Station One has a bank of windows overlooking Columbus Avenue.

A crowd has formed, watching me wait on John-John.

Among the crowd is Francois.

I’ve not seen him in six years.

He waves.

I excuse myself from John-John’s table, and run outside to greet him.

We share perfunctory hellos.

I point behind me and say:

“Look who I’m waiting on.”

“Never mind, Tedee. He is still too white for me.”

He asks me about my job here.

I tell him that Perretti’s is indeed that “good gig,” he once wished I could find.

He notes my confidence and says he’s pleased I have finally found a home, even though it’s just a cheesy pizza parlor that serves fried zucchini.

He does not look well.

Something is off.

Not as sharp.

Sweating a lot.

He exudes impatience, not Aramis.

It’s clear he’s eager to get away from me.

We say Goodbye.

Before we part he grabs my arm and says:

“Tedee, you will always be my favorite bohemian.”

7:27 pm – The Botel

A warm breeze washes over my section, as Roderick the hostess walks Tommy Tune and company to my eight-top.

Tommy Tune is nothing but legs, a preying mantis in tap shoes. It’s difficult for him to sit.

His entourage flank him, watching as he struggles to settle in.

Once Miss Tune is settled, I suggest a pitcher of Blue Whales. I do so with a great elan.

The table is stunned into silence by my magniloquence.

The hairy girl-boy sitting beside Miss Tune speaks up.

“Don’t you hate it when the waitstaff audition for you?”

“I wasn’t auditioning, Mary.”

I had no intention of adding “Mary” to my response, but there it was, loud and clear.

Hairy girl-boy rises like a diva who has just heard her cue.

“I’ll be right back.”

She wiggles over to the owner’s table, points my way, and begins squawking like a greatly perturbed magpie.

The owner, John Whyte, rises, with difficulty, because when he eats he folds his legs into a giant Girl Scout knot. He heads my way.

Mr. Whyte does his best to dress me down. He’s half in the bag, so when he slurs:

“You’re lucky I don’t fire you.”

I hear:

“You’re lucky I hired you,”

And I say:

“Thank you,”

And walk off, stage left.

7:59 pm – Chez Pascal

Lady Sarah Spencer-Churchill, the sister to the 11th Duke of Marlborough, enters Stage right…with her party of eleven.

Lady Sarah stands seven-feet tall; three of which is a heavily lacquered helmet of up-swept hair.

Her husband, Guy (rhymes with Wee), stands obediently behind her. He just checked out of the clinic on Park and 68^th after getting his eyes done.

Both eyes are still bandaged. He is accompanied by a seeing-eye-nurse.

Lady Sarah extends her hand to Francois.

“Robaire, it is wonderful to see you,”

Robaire walks over, takes Lady Sarah’s hands, and kisses her on both cheeks, muttering French bromides. Lady Sarah looks aghast.

“And you are?”

“Je suis Robaire.”

“Are you positive?”

“Oui, cest moi.”

She turns back to Francois.

“Then who are you?”

“I am Francois.”

“A chorus line of Frenchmen. Is this a musical play?”

Francois says:

“Not yet. This way, Madame.”

Francois walks Lady Sarah the three paces to the table that he had cobbled together for 11 across the front windows.

My section. Drafty and cramped.

We had no choice. Either this or the kitchen.

Lady Sarah studies the table.

“Is this to be my Waterloo?”

NBC Studios/Burbank, California.

CARSON: Ever wait on royalty?

TED: Sure. Queen Elizabeth and the Duke Duke Duke Duke of Earl came in one afternoon for tea.

CARSON: Good tippers?

TED: Absolutely not. The bill was nine-thousand dollars. Didn’t leave a farthing. When I complained, I was told the Queen never carries cash.

CARSON: Wait. What did they have that cost nine-thousand dollars?

TED: Thirty-two pounds of caviar. And a bagel.

CARSON: And not one shilling?

TED: No. But, she did knight me. You may refer to me as “Sir Ted” from now on.

CARSON: We’re going to take a break for a commercial now, which is perfect, Sir Ted, ‘cause you just got sat. Big time.

Johnny indicates for Ted to leave the dais. Ted is perplexed.

TED: But…I’ve got at least five minutes remaining for my segment.

CARSON: You’ve also got a section full of guests. Hungry guests. Allez. Allez. Allez…..

A dreadful funeral dirge plays Sir Ted off…

END PART ONE

Next Up:

SERVICE

(Part II)

“Le Déluge”

(8:01 pm – 10:00 pm)