SCHMISE-EN-PLACE

5:01 pm – The Grill Room – 2010

We’re hosting a Pop-Up for a renowned chef and his wife. They once owned and operated a three-star restaurant named after a Fungus. My boss, Mickey, was a regular. When the Fungus closed, he took pity on the couple and ordered us to do a Pop-Up for them so they wouldn’t feel left out of the restaurant game. None of us know exactly what a “Pop-Up” is, but we’re game. It would help things if the renowned chef and his wife showed an emotion — any emotion — other than a wretched disapproval of everything around them.

The Pop-Up is slated to begin at 6:00. My co-waiter Edison and I have just finished setting up the dining room. Madame walks by, inspects our handiwork.

“I don’t understand your mise-en-place,” she says through Jane-Hathaway clenched teeth.

“What don’t you understand?” I ask.

“How you can present something so…so…unattractive to our clientele.” She pronounces “clientele” like it was the name of a revered French movie star.

“What would you have me do?” I say.

She looks at me like I’m the dumbest child her in class. “Make it…attractive,” she whines like I should have known better.

“You bet,” I say.

She walks off. Edison and I grab a couple of coffees, sit, take five. Madame, darting by, holding two clipboards, spots us sitting, sipping coffee, relaxing. She approaches. It’s hard to tell, but I do believe she’s not happy.

“Did you do as I asked?”

“Sure did. Have a look.”

She inspects the tables. Absolutely nothing has been altered.

“Much better,” she says, “very attractive.” And she’s off.

UNANSWERED CELEBRITIES

5:40 – Le Provençale – 1981

Corner table. They sit side-by-side. She’s stiff and queenly, a breathtaking beauty in a black cashmere shift. He’s short and sapless, a prep-school boy in an old queen’s body. His blotchy skin seems to be the only thing preventing him from leaking all over the table. He wears an off-white trilby fedora he has yet to remove. She whispers something in his ear. He stands, helps pull her chair away from the table. She nods a thank-you and walks off. He waves me over.

“I ordered the Foi Gras and Madame ordered the Salade Niçoise.”

I am staggered by his voice, a creepily high-pitched Southern drawl; it’s almost insulting. I become suddenly bold.

“Yes, sir, I know. I took the order myself.”

“Well then, where is it? We don’t want it for breakfast.”

“Of course not, sir, it shouldn’t be much long–”

“Do you know who I am dining with?”

“Not really, but–

“But nothing. She’s the daughter of Hollywood’s most famous ventriloquist. She is used to getting what she wants. And she wants her food on the table the moment she returns from her velvet den.”

I think “velvet den” means the Ladies Room.

While I’m standing at the table, Pedro the runner delivers their food. I am beyond relieved. Old prep-school queen regards the plates.

“What’s this?”

“Your dinner.”

“I said I want the food delivered when Bergen returns from the restroom. No sooner. Take it back and keep it warm until then.”

“Yes, sir.”

I remove the plates. On the way to the kitchen I rearrange his Foie Gras.

THE SINGING SCHNOZZOLA

7:01 pm – Perretti’s Italian Cafȇ – 1989

Mother’s Day was three days ago. We were slammed. Once the mothers had been feted with flowers and food, their children’s guilt assuaged, there’s no longer a need to take Mommy out for dinner. We’re dead tonight.

Mona walks in. She looks tired. Her hair is slightly askew. I seat her, bring two wines to her table – one in a coffee cup for me, the other in an actual wine glass for Mona. We sip.

“My hair’s a wreck, isn’t it?”

“Sort of, but it doesn’t matter, because you’re famous,” I say as I adjust her snood.

“Nah, I ain’t famous.”

“Honey, you made Page Six.”

“Oh, that. That was nothing, really. Annoying, if you ask me. It happened on Mother’s Day. I don’t have no children. But I was thinking about my mother. It made me sad. I didn’t want to be alone. So I go to Isabella’s. I like to sit at the table next to the spiral staircase where no one can see me. I’m just an old lady with no kids and don’t want no one fussing over me. So, I’m sitting there, keeping to myself, watching all the mothers get celebrated, when this man, out of nowhere, kneels at my table and starts singing. At me. Loud! I didn’t ask him to sing. It was embarrassing. And what’s worse, I couldn’t tell what song he was singing. I don’t think he knew.”

“Mona, do you have any idea who it was who serenaded you?”

“My waitress told me it was some jerk named BonBon Bobi. What kind of name is that?”

“Darling, it was Jon Bon Jovi. He’s a famous singer.”

“He might be famous but he ain’t no singer. He had a really big nose. People with noses that big can’t sing. Someone should tell him that.”

“Next time I run into him I’ll let him know.”

DO YOU EAT IN THE NUDE?

8:31 – Perretti’s Italian Cafe – 1992

Rex Reed and guest have just finished dinner. I clear the plates, head for the dishwasher. Jill, always ravenous for celebrity gossip, stops me on my way back to my station.

“What the hell is happening on their table?”

“Rex Reed is ditching the Boy Toy.”

“They’re so loud about it.

“Boy Toy doesn’t want to go. They’ve been arguing all through dinner.”

“Can you blame him? Rex Reed lives in the Dakota. It’s where they filmed ‘Rosemary’s Baby.’ I wouldn’t want to leave either. See what you can find out.”

I reconnoiter Rex’s table. They are at the crest of their disputation.

“But you promised me,” Boy Toy pleads.

“I said you could stay ’til the end of the month. Not the rest of your life.”

“But I love you and you love me…you said so.”

“I never said that and I never will…to anyone,” Rex catches my eye and signals he wants the check. I write it up. Drop it. Boy Toy sits quietly fuming.

The bill is $36 even. Rex hands me $50. I make change – four ones, two fives – and deliver it. Rex leaves the four ones and a fiver on the table, presumably my tip. Rising, he faces his now ex-Boy Toy.

“You can collect your things tomorrow.”

Rex is out of here. Boy Toy fiddles with his napkin for a bit. Then he stands, puts on his coat, grabs my tip, and runs.

(Rest in Peace, Mr. Reed. You owe me 9 bucks.)