Concierge Confidential

by Fazio, Michael

  “So … do you have any suggestions?” he said.

  “I know the perfect place,” I told him. I struggled to remember the name of the restaurant down the block from my teeny apartment. It was a little eatery down the street, and it didn’t even have a sign out front. If you walked by Il Cantinori, you’d miss it. I didn’t know the place had a reputation, that Robert Mapplethorpe had often eaten there in denial of his advancing illness. I couldn’t know that years later Carrie Bradshaw would have her birthday there and Victoria Gotti would have her book release party there. Hell, I wasn’t even sure what it was called. “Il Contori,” I said, desperately trying to remember its name from when Jeffrey had once mentioned it. “It’s down on Tenth Street. It’s great.”

  “Okay, we’re going to need a table for six.”

  I picked up my copy of Zagat’s, found the phone number (and the correct name!), and called the place. “Hi, this is the InterContinental Hotel. Can I get six people in, in about fifteen minutes?”

  “Are you kidding?” the host said.

  I lowered my voice so the guest wouldn’t hear me. “Come on, you’ve got to help me out. I live right upstairs from you.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes. I live right on Tenth Street.” I did live upstairs—two buildings over, but upstairs.

  “Really? What apartment are you in?”

  “I’m on the second floor.”

  “But what apartment?” the host asked.

  “I overlook the street.” I made it a point to chuckle in front of the hotel guest, as if this were my old buddy on the phone giving me a hard time.

  “Oh. So then, do you know Kevin?” Kevin was the owner of the building. Kevin knew the host. Kevin happened to be in Il Cantinori at that exact moment, and he was looking at the host while we were on the phone.

  “Of course I know him!” I said, hoping the host wouldn’t ask me for a description of whoever Kevin was.

  The host didn’t say anything for a while. I think the bastard wanted to make sure that I was sweating. “All right, send them over,” he finally told me. “And then come by and see me later. My name is Frank.”

  “Thank you,” I said, hanging up the phone. I turned to the guest with my biggest smile. “You’re all set for Il Cantinori in fifteen minutes.”

  “You’re the best,” he told me.

  That night I made sure to swing by the restaurant on my way home. I had expected to be greeted by a prissy maître d’ with a little mustache. Instead I got Frank, who looked like he could have been a former linebacker. “Hi,” I said. “I’m Michael. I’m the concierge who called you earlier from the InterContinental.”

  He shook my hand and laughed immediately. “I’m Frank. Who you were trying to pull something over on?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “So who’s Kevin?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted.

  “Come here and have a glass of wine.” Frank led me over to a table and I finally got a look at the place. I had often walked by, but had never actually walked in. Even though it was late, it still had a buzz about it. In a way, I felt like I’d walked into somebody’s dinner party. It was like the people had been there all night, just sitting at their tables. This was the vibe absent at Cinquanta. “You can’t really call a place like this and ask for a table for six people right away,” Frank said. “You shouldn’t do that. That was stupid.”

  It was obvious in retrospect but I hadn’t even realized it. “I’m sorry. I’m new to the city.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Frank said. “It’s like that everywhere. You probably didn’t think we were that popular because we don’t have a sign out front, either. But that’s the biggest clue that a place is usually packed.”

  I sipped my wine, and nodded. Frank clearly knew what he was talking about; he was speaking from years of experience. “I totally get what you’re saying,” I told him.

  “Let me tell you a little bit about how the restaurant business works.”

  * * *

  HOW TO GET A TABLE

  A misconception people have is that restaurants are holding tables. They aren’t. In fact, restaurants have (just like airlines) a virtual overbooking policy where there are more reservations than there are tables. With most of the better restaurants, you have to reconfirm your reservations. If you don’t do so by the day before, they’ll scrap your reservation.

  Overbooking is quite a science, where the benefits outweigh the risks. The restaurateurs have it figured out: how many are typically no-shows as well as how long it takes for the appetizers, the drinks, and the whole thing—down to fifteen-minute increments. Some take things to the next level. RA Sushi on the Las Vegas strip overbooks to help ensure buzz and a sense of urgency. Style-makers and hipsters love intensity and drama, so a little bottleneck at the hostess’s podium helps maintain the sense that you are in the “right” place.

  Restaurants also have customer databases. If you’re a really generous spender, or a big tipper, or a major pain in the ass, or sends things back, that’s noted in the database. This works to a returning customer’s advantage—if you’re acting correctly. Instead of calling and asking for a table for Saturday night at 8:00, you can ask the hostess to look up someone’s name. If the establishment likes that person—and they might tell you so if asked—then it’s much easier to get a table.

  Nine o’clock is the hardest time to get, then 8:00. Then it jumps to 7:15 and after that it’s 10:15. In terms of size of party, it’s hard to get twelve but it’s not hard to get four. Just think of the logic. How many tables does a restaurant have that it can accommodate two people? Four? Six? Ironically, a reservation for four is usually easier than one for a couple. Most people go on dates, just two for dinner—leaving the establishment with more four-tops to fill.

  Now, there’s a wrong way and a right way to get a table. Tippee, the infamous hostess from Sen in Sag Harbor, taught me a very valuable technique to use when confronted with a mob scene and a mile-long wait. Never speak to the hostess at the podium. If you check in at the podium with the masses, you are visible and everyone keeping track will know exactly when you came and who “should” be seated before you. You’re podium poison, and no one will feel safe doing you any favors. Even if you have to wait an extra few minutes, get the hostess’s attention when they are away from the podium. When you corner them, compliment them on how amazing they are at handling the crowd. This sets you apart from the mob.

  Let’s suppose you call Faustina, or any such “it” spot, and want the four-top. The hostess then looks in the database, and they’re probably all booked. If you’re just a regular inexperienced guy, it’s, “All right, thanks, never mind,” and you’re over.

  But let’s say you’re really good on the phone. “Four at nine o’clock.”

  “I’m sorry, we’re fully committed.”

  “Oh, what’s your name again?”

  “Joan.”

  “Oh, right, I was there two weeks ago. Were you there? Were you the one with blond hair in the front? I think we met. So listen, what about if—”

  That’s why it’s a good idea to case the joint ahead of time. You don’t even have to go there. You can just call a few days before you actually call for the reservation and just chat with somebody because you’re not asking for anything. “Wow, I saw your review! Your restaurant looks amazing. What’s your website? What’s your name?”

  So then, a few days later, it becomes, “Is this Joan? Hey, it’s Michael. There are four of us for Thursday; can we come around nine?”

  “No, I’m sorry, we’re fully committed.”

  But because there’s some sort of relationship established beforehand, you can keep the conversation going. “Oh, no. What’s your schedule that night? What’s the table before that? If we came at seven, do you need the table back by eight thirty? We can get out in an hour and a half.” By acknowledging their system, you’ve established yourself as an insider—and they’ll start to work with y
ou. If you’re a concierge who calls them all the time and sends them good people, then they kind of dig even deeper and look at the names on their reservation list. “Jeff Mullen, we know him. Terry Jacobs, we’ve never seen her name before. Lisa Ronson—no idea.” Those last two could potentially cancel, since they don’t have a history in the database. Often it’s somebody’s secretary that booked a reservation and doesn’t even remember. The restaurant might be willing to double-book those tables—if you’ve established a relationship with them. They put you in as a cancellation for that hour, and tell you to call back that day. It’s not like some secret table that they were holding is available, but it’s just as good.

  Even if you don’t have a reservation, you can pull it off. My own personal strategy for when I don’t have a reservation is sitting at the bar. I go to the hostess and start things out with something kind of funny. When it’s a really, really hot restaurant, I’ll say something like, “Do you guys accept reservations?” She’ll kind of look at me like I’m an idiot, but then they realize that I’m being facetious. Then I’ll say, “Great! Can I book a reservation for fourteen people in, like, five minutes?” It starts the whole thing right. Quickly, I go into, “Look, I know, I’m a loser. I didn’t make a reservation. I’m going to go hang out at the bar. I’d love to come here. It looks so great. I’m just gonna play it by ear. I’m in your hands.” I go and hang out at the bar and talk to the bartender, and have a drink, and sometimes order an appetizer. But I always get a table.

  First of all, they want to accommodate me because I honored their system. But at the same time, I’m making light of how seriously people take the whole process. The hostess has to stand at a podium all night and watch the different postures that people take. She has to witness over and over the mistakes people make.

  THE MISTAKES PEOPLE MAKE

  Don’t be totally clueless when you walk in, because you will immediately get blown off. There are people who read an article in a popular magazine or newspaper about a hot new restaurant. For some reason, they think that they’re the only ones who’ve read the piece and now have some kind of secret information. They’ll push past the doorman at Minetta’s, thinking it’s a little pub, and ask for a table for two because they read about it somewhere. They are clueless, and they’re out. The hostess won’t even look at them.

  Another type is the guy who has no respect for the system. He thinks that he’s going to get the table by just going in, and that there’s no way the person at the front is going to stop him—except the person at the front will stop him, every time. His alpha male magic won’t cut it.

  Then there are the business card people. Just because you are the vice president of a department at some big company, you are not going to impress them at the door with your card. It doesn’t matter how embossed your card is or how thick your card stock. Everyone might respect you at work because you’re in charge of the system there, but that doesn’t carry over like a bubble of entitlement. You need to respect the hostess, because she’s in charge of the system there at the restaurant.

  The one technique people use that sometimes works is the straight bribe. But because everyone knows about the straight bribe, it’s a very hit-and-miss approach. Sometimes they will refuse you and treat you like dirt. Sometimes they’ll take your money and, eventually, give you a seat. But even then you aren’t really on the team—you’ve only bought your way onto the bench.

  HOW TO TREAT THE STAFF

  In New York, where the tax is over 8 percent, people have a habit of simply doubling their tax to approximate a 15 percent tip. Don’t. Everyone thinks the tip on a meal is 15 percent, and it’s not—and hasn’t been for years. The tip is absolutely, without a doubt, 20 percent. The waiters all talk about how annoying doubling the tax is, because the difference is usually only a few dollars. When you’re spending $200 on dinner, does it really matter? Waitstaff are exempt from minimum wage laws, since those tips are expected to be their salary. When you’re giving them a small tip, you’re really giving them a pay cut.

  The biggest mistake most people make when they tip is when tipping on a credit card. Unlike when they’re paid with cash, waiters get taxed on their credit card tips. A ten-dollar tip on a credit card becomes seven dollars. So if you’ve doubled the tax and then left a credit card tip, you’ve effectively only tipped about 12 percent.

  A common misconception is that waiters don’t have clout. They do. A lot of times there are employee meals in the afternoon, where the chef is trying something new or there’s something left over. The waiter can go back and tell the chef that the guests at table 21 are friends of his. The chef will then send out the special on a little tray and you’ll feel like a big movie star. The waiters can give you free drinks. They can send you dessert. They have a lot of pull—and they will remember you, for better or worse.

  It’s not just about the tipping, either. There are big tippers that are a pain in the ass. The waiters feel like whores because they definitely know that some tippers are good for a few hundred bucks—but they don’t want to serve them. It’s drudgery, and they rarely give those people extra anything. But a person who treats the waiter (or anybody in service) like it’s a business-to-business transaction will get amazing results.

  Most people don’t realize this, but anybody can ask the waiter or the manager if they can meet the chef. That’s usually a really good political move because it substantiates your position as somebody who appreciates being there. If you make it known that you love it so much that you want to see the kitchen, that’s an excellent way to solidify a relationship with an establishment.

  Chefs often feel unappreciated because people usually only want to talk to them if something was done wrong. That’s why they love it when somebody comes in and tells them how beautifully the meal was done. Chefs are creative people. You should ask them where they worked before. You should ask them where they studied.

  However, you should never tip them. That’s rude. Instead, send them a thank-you card, or a great bottle of wine. The best trick is to mail them some crazy ingredient. It’s cheaper and it’s much more thoughtful—and it really gets to the core of their beings as chefs. If you have a chef’s contact info, then you’re in. It’s even better than knowing the owner. If you ever want a table, ever, you call the chef.

  Of course, a lot of this is easier to say than to do. It takes nerve to go to a restaurant and ask to go to the kitchen; you have to pull it off correctly. It’s like when you’re fifteen and want to buy beer with a fake ID. If you just get the beer and hand it up, it’s easy. But if you start talking about how much you love beer, and how you’ve been drinking it for ten years, then you’re getting carded.

  Don’t try to validate yourself because it’s extremely transparent. You’re on their turf. Validate the system and validate the person. Validate them, and let them welcome you in. It’s especially powerful in the service world because service people are often the least validated of employees.

  HOW TO SEND FOOD BACK

  When things go wrong, there’s a right way to approach the situation.

  One time I ate dinner at a little place on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. The restaurant was very cute and sweet and simple. I hadn’t eaten lunch and I was starving. I took a bite of the food, and it was delicious. But on my third taste, something wasn’t chewing. There was kind of a funny texture. “Excuse me,” I told my dining companion. “I’m sorry, but there’s something in my food.” I put my napkin up to my mouth, and I pulled out—a plastic bag. It was big but all scrunched up. I was horrified.

  I didn’t have a fit, but I also wasn’t shy about it. I tucked it under my plate, and I very discreetly asked for the manager. “I was so loving this,” I said to him. “This is so delicious, but we have a little problem. There’s this bag in the food.” I showed him the little bit of it that was still sticking out.

  “Oh my God,” he said. “I’m so sorry.” He brought me another totally different entrée. Then he sent over
a bottle of wine. Finally he sent over dessert. I sat there for two hours and had a great time. When I asked for the check, I was told that there wasn’t one. (Yes, you still tip the waiter! Figure out exactly how much the bill would have been, and double the tip on that.)

  He didn’t have to do that. Most places would just take one entrée off the bill. I’m sure the manager was mortified; I was mortified. But neither of us acted mortified. Part of gracious service is to not be melodramatic. Because I respected his professionalism and the system, I got treated better than I otherwise would have. I validated the system.

  * * *

  5.

  In Between the Sheets

  “Good evening,” I said. “Concierge, this is Michael. How may I be of assistance?”

  The guest on the phone had a thick Russian accent. “I vant you to get me a voman,” he told me. He could have been asking me to find his girlfriend who was in the lobby or something. He could have been asking me to send him a maid to clean his room. But despite how hard it was to understand what he was saying, it wasn’t hard at all to understand what he was asking.

  “Do you prefer a certain type?” I asked him. “Blond or brunette?”

  “I vant a very beautiful voman,” he said.

  Clearly my instincts were right. “I don’t know anybody off the top of my head, but let me look into it and I’ll make some phone calls.” There was the notorious Robin Byrd Show on Channel 35, where hookers advertised their wares under the glare of bad studio lighting. But I needed an escort, not some trashy hustler. Where do the fancy escorts go? I asked myself. Would someone in the nightclub industry know? I picked up the phone and dialed AuBAR.

  “AuBAR.” They were coarse; exactly what you’d expect for a Eurotrash hangout.