Oops

Dear Jim,

I hope this email finds you well.

I made a mistake last night and wanted to acknowledge it. I worked a party for Goldman Sachs at the New York Public Library last night. Our captains had granted us a break about 45 minutes prior to the event's start, and my station at coat check was stocked and ready to go, so I went outside for a cigarette. I headed out the back, and the NYPL staff told me I couldn't go in the loading area (they were shooting a film). They instructed me to go out front. I wanted to stay close to site, just in case, but now I understand I should have rounded the corner. I was seen by someone very high up at the company smoking in front of the entrance and this attracted negative attention for the team and the captains. For this I am truly sorry.

I am aware that the captains were frustrated, although this wasn't communicated to me directly, and I hope that didn't color their perception of the rest of my work for the evening.

I appreciate the opportunity to do great work for High-End Catering Company and represent you in the best possible light.

Yours,

Caterwaiter - NYC

© Caterwaiter-NYC

H-U-S-T-L-E-R hustla

It was the week that Lehman Brothers fell. Yet across town candles glowed, lights glittered and plasma screens hummed away in celebration. Like Sarah Palin, I crammed before my big encounter with the crumbling financial sector, I read every page of New York Magazine's "The Panic: Wall Street Had to Die in Order to Survive" before working my big event for Goldman Sachs at the New York Public Library. I absorbed snippets about "blue chips" and something about Wall Street's last bank standing. I figured tonight's event would be a semi-private circle jerk, and I was ready to record every arrogant, swaggering detail.

"It's been quite a week on Wall Street…" Governor Corzine of New Jersey intoned. The room burst into hearty laughter. Although the laughter was hearty, I couldn't really hear it. Oh no, the information was delivered second-hand, by a free floating caterwaiter not quarantined to the coat check. My dreams of uncovering financial secrets and tapping the pulse of the newly enfeebled Wall Street were shattered. I was working the coat check.

I learned three things at this exclusive event: Goldman Sach's is not on Wall Street, but located in Jersey City; the dusty coat check of the New York Public Library is nowhere near the gilded ballroom; investment bankers checking their coats during a week of utter turmoil in their business seemed humble but I may have been projecting.

There were four of us working coat check, because according to our Captain, "These are not the kind of people who want to wait in line!" My partners in crime for the evening were the three Latina women on staff. Evie a cool girl with shiny black hair and an urban sensibility, "you bitches better be done hanging hangers by the time I get back!" Yolanda, a mother from Belize wearing an Elsa Peretti necklace who called me "love" and "mad-uh-moiselle" instead of bitch, and Guadalupe "don't call me Lupe, call me "Susi" ok?" from Ecuador who was fighting off a terrible cold and had some serious hips.

"Um, I'm kinda new to coat check so why don't you just hand me the bags and I'll put them in order… not sure I want to be up in the front."

"Of course, mad-uh-moiselle, we all help each other out here…" assured Yolanda.

"Don't get all controlling now, girl" smirked Evie.

"Wish I brought a crystal bowl so these bastards knew to give us tips" lamented Susi.

Evie and I had already been passively aggressively reprimanded for loitering briefly in sight of a manager. We were feeling paranoid.

"What's the policy for tipping?"

"Just be discreet, and then we can split them up."

Susi grabbed a large box and wrote TIPS in huge letters and plunked it on the counter. Raquel snatched it and threw it in the back. Sesi found a smaller one and stashed it in a drawer where the tickets were, dumping a $5 and a $10 dollar bill of her own in the box.

"You know, so they give us big ones" she winked and then snapped into action.

"Just two bags, an umbrella, a coat and your running shoes tonight, Sir?"

Coat check. Investment bankers. A rain storm. A new challenge. Old leather, new leather, vinyl, plastic, matte, glossy, hard cases and soft. I organized and ticketed the usual items: briefcases, laptops, computers, suitcases and backpacks. (When did it become acceptable for men in suits to carry back packs?) Among these treasures were more unusual items.

"Can you check that for me?" A man handed me a crumpled newspaper.

"Would you mind?" a woman handed me her Blackberry.

Then we waited, sipping Pellegrino and fussing over my almost logical system of bags and tickets. During the downtime, Susi sat on a high backed chair and held court. I stayed alert attempting a gracious smile in case a manager snooped by with a boxy suit, earpiece and fake smile hissing through his teeth.

Susi intoned while blowing her nose, "You know, Aristotle Onassis never checked his coat. Uh uh, he never did."

We looked at her with interest.

"Everyone expected Aristotle Onassis to give a $100 tip for his coat, because he was so rich, so he never left his coat anywhere. Someone in a coat check probably made a joke about it to him and he never forgot it."

I felt empowered by my potentially life-changing role as a coat checker.

An attractive dark haired woman came to claim her coat. She was appreciative, but didn't reach for her wallet, although Susi had maneuvered the tip box within clear view. We rolled our eyes. She put on a white, fitting pea coat.

I nodded when she left. "Nice coat."

Susi shrugged, "Ann Taylor, last season."

A man approached, clutching his brand new Goldman Sachs baseball cap. As I bent down to pick up his bag I noticed Sesi with the drawer cocked open whistling and organizing a stack of dollar bills. She reached over to Yolanda, just under the nose of the man awaiting his briefcase.

"Here honey, I owe you this…" and handed her a wad of bills.

Yolanda took the money. Sesi fingered the tip box. The man stared at the stack of bills. I walked slowly to the counter, he dug sheepishly into his wallet, I dropped the bag and he dropped the green.

It worked! We died laughing.

"That one just came to me. I'll keep trying it… 'Here honey, I owe you this…'"

Shuffle, shuffle, count, count, straighten, neaten, wave the money, and capture the bills.

"God bless you, mister" was her finishing touch.

A jovial man approached with puffed red cheeks. I hopped off to find his 1U and 1B (one umbrella, one bag), and delayed a little to give Susi time to do her money hustle. I crouched over his backpack and eyed her. The tip drawer stayed firmly closed and Sesi's face went blank.

"Are you kidding, I could spot it a mile away that he wasn't going to tip. I worked in retail for twelve years, ok? That is a cheap bastard if I ever saw one."

And she was right. Two items fetched. No tip for us.

Young guy approaches. Rifles through his wallet.

"I don't mean to be ungracious but this is all I have. Thanks so much. You guys look tired." He passed up his $5 and gave us a dollar.

"Aw he's sweet, seems sincere" Evie commented, smiling after his little ass.

Although cute, I wasn't buying it. "He was fiddling with a $5 and a $1 and he could've asked for change… not sure I'm convinced."

Susi weighed in, "He gave us $1. $1 for guarding his $3 umbrella. Hello, he's sincere."

Touché.

A man proffering hats approached.

"Which one of you ladies would like a hat? I've got two…" He yanks out a white one with blue stitching that said "Studley" and another one that said "Battea."

"You should keep the one that says 'Studley'" I said, smiling graciously, with an open hospitable, non-cynical expression.

"Do any of you women speak Spanish?"

We all stared, especially Susi, Evie and Yolanda who all spoke Spanish.

"'Bettea' is a Spanish word… do any of you know what it means?"

Susi gave him a withering look. "That's not a Spanish word."

"Well, the consultants said it's an old Spanish word. It's the copper bowls that were used when panning for gold." A stroke of marketing genius, linguistically- enlivened terminology for ye olde robber barons!

Sesi sighed, "I work in the jewelry business for twelve years, sir, and I'm Spanish, I never heard of the word to refer to gold, copper or anything. Also, the word has two "t"s, so it's probably Italian. You never see one "t" in Spanish."

"Oh." He said deflated, shoving both hats back in his briefcase.

At the night's end, Susi and I lugged a bag of trash down 40th street (I prayed I wouldn't run into anyone) and headed for Grand Central terminal. In addition to my hours booked, we had scored $160 in semi-legal tips.

I commended Susi's hustling skills and suggested she and I open a casino together.

"Yup, I'm pretty good" She lit a cigarette and started swaggering toward the uptown train. "And I don't feel guilty girl, they're rich and we're in a financial crisis."

© Caterwaiter-NYC

The Model Kitchen

Just days before the collapse of Wall Street, I sliced my finger with a paring knife in an Architect's model kitchen on the Upper East Side. As my bright, red blood spurted on the white marble, I ran for the sink to turn on the water. Being a model kitchen, it didn't work, so I slid past the tightly smiling female employee and bled my way to the bathroom.

Simple tray-passing was on the agenda for the night. An Architect and Architectural Digest magazine were teaming up to show the Upper East Side just how large and complicated their unused kitchens could be.

Six kinds of appetizers needed to circulate in a crowded space, which included two stone, spiral stair cases. Our captain warned us it wouldn't be easy, and the architects warned us that we, the caterwaiters, were forbidden to fall down the stairs.

The night's crowd was a hungry crowd. They were Park Avenue residents who were torn apart by food deprivation. They wore ascots and whiskers, hearing aids and tufts of ear hair, skinny jeans and chemical peels. One man in a tan linen suit primped and preened, fluffing out his hair in the mirrored walls of the dining room set. I paused by the bar to stare and snicker with the bartender.

"Um, is he going to whip out a hair dryer?"

I have learned my lesson. Never again will I be "that person." The person who stakes out the caterwaiter to snatch up the croquettes, who grabs her sleeve, yanks her crackers and trails her like a private investigator. I will eat daintily; I will not seek out the caterwaiter with my laser gaze and raise my eyebrows with hopeful expectation.

A portly man with color contacts asked for something "soft" and explained his recent root canal. He grabbed three lobster shumai with one hand while splashing soy sauce down the front of his shirt. A disheveled woman with lipstick on both mouth and face pretended like every time was the first time, "Oh, oh, I couldn't, is this …? Have I tried this one? Oh! hold on, let me just (mouth full) get one more!"

Meanwhile back in the office that was converted into a kitchen, Jasper, a slim, snide caterwaiter offered to pass some trays. I thought it generous and helpful, as he had been bussing trays of empty glasses up the spiral staircase before. Tina the silver-haired veteran, looked at him warily. She leaned toward me, "He's been fired from every company in town, have no idea why he's back."

He seemed appropriately invisible and hadn't fallen down the stairs,

"Fired? Why?"

She mimed the act of taking a croquette off of a platter and popping it into her mouth. Her eyes widened. "Eating! He was always eating. Someone even caught him lining his bag with food."

And sure enough, when I strolled to the model bedroom, he was standing with his back to the door, shoulders hunched, popping shumai like popcorn.

The party was clearing out and we caterwaiters were getting anxious. A blond on a blackberry called out to me from the empty kitchen "What's that?" I was so struck by her
face – the skin's confusing translucency, the small bandages, and her strained youthfulness- that I couldn't choke out the words "tomato tartelette with ricotta salata" and just stared. She slugged her wine and glared "My hands are kind of full anyway."

My task turned to bussing and I hovered impatiently over the remaining vultures milking their pinot grigio. A jovial man in a suit motioned to me, "You know, you have a beautiful smile." Well shit, I love compliments, so I gave him one.

"But, it is very cynical."

"Cynical?"

"Oh yes, cynical and intuitive. I can see on your face that while you are passing trays you are biding your time. I can see that you have a brain!" And he tapped his finger to his head.

"Cynical?" I smirked. "Intuitive?"

"Tell me young lady, do you have a degree?"

"Uh huh."

"What kind?"

"A Bachelor's."

"From where, young lady?"

"Ivy League University."

"And how long have you been out of school?"

"A while."

He chortles. "What's a while?"

I smile intuitively, savoring his accidental compliment. "Over a decade"

He pauses, "And you're doing this?"

--
Oh yes, I AM DOING THIS! Tonight I don my white mandarin/Nehru jacket to pass canapés at an event at the New York Public Library. It's a wonder that in this financial climate, with thousands gathering to protest the bail out on Wall Street today, who on earth is celebrating?

Looks like it's Goldman Sachs having a party tonight, and this caterwaiter is very excited to be a tray-passing fly on the wall! The caterwaiter sees and hears everything!

© Caterwaiter-NYC

Tuna Tartar?

Dear Friends and Family,

When I left the threadbare golden cushion of the Arts, and Philanthropic worlds, I knew I was destined for greatness. Determined, I filled my humble artist's toolbox with an illegal $ublet in Chelsea, some talent, and a few cracked binder clips.

Along my journey would I face obstacles? Certainly.
Depression? Frequently.
Alcoholism? Possibly.
Near-poverty? Most constantly.

Fears aside, I knew I had to give it my all as an Artist, a Documentarian, an Activist, a Philospher, a "Maven," a Dilettante, and a Renaissance woman in order to look myself squarely in the eye, and in the mirror, for hours each morning.

Now I add a shiny new tool into my optimistic, second-hand toolbox:
The High End Cater-Waiter.

Last night, a new door in my life opened with the choral accompaniment of angels singing and plates crashing (totally not my fault). Scurrying around in my white mandarin/nehru jacket, I silently lept over Giacometti sculptures in the MoMa Sculpture Garden, juggled salmon plates, russet potatoes with garlic confit, baby lamb chops, and the occasional dirty dish. Politely smiling, I served Midwestern Lexus Car Salesmen at their annual gala where oysters went untouched and white wine sloshed across excessively tanned chests. Small bits of sirloin were snuck into my hand and nibbled while squatting in polished boys dress shoes beneath the carving station. An army of New York's hottest, brightest and most promising young "actors" and I mingled in matching cheap, stiff, white mandarin/nehru jackets, dropping terms like "sanit" and "french service".

I am a High End CaterWaiter at your service!

© Caterwaiter-NYC