Our first mission of the evening complete, we moved from the raucous lobby to the peaceful back hallways of the second floor, cut through the hotel’s main kitchen, and made our way to the cafeteria.
One of the perks of working at the Lanigan was free employee meals. Across the board, line level employee all the way up to Tom, everyone ate for free in the employee cafeteria if they so desired. Much of the fare included leftovers – even desserts and pastries – from the day’s banquets or various catered events throughout the hotel. Considering the level and variety of culinary cuisine, the food often consisted of gourmet-tier meals. Unfortunately for the second and third shifts, if the hotel was having a low occupancy day or few events had been scheduled throughout the morning and afternoon hours, there might not be enough leftovers to go around. The menu was then left to the whims of the evening chef, Habeeb Havimaway or “Habeebee Baby” or just “Habeebee” as some of the employees lovingly referred to him.
Habeeb was from Iran, and he looked like Chef Boyardee outfitted in his all-white chef’s outfit, white hat, and sporting a white mustache to boot. He was a wonderfully friendly fellow and always eager to please which turned out to be his one downfall.
The cafeteria was decorated in 50’s-era style with shiny stainless steel chairs and stools topped with sparkling red vinyl seats set among Formica tables that were spread out over black and white checkerboard floor tiles. Kristen and I gathered our lunch trays, plates, and silverware, and fell into line.
“What is it today?” I craned to see around the employees waiting in line ahead of us.
Kristen was up on her tip-toes, peering around as well. “Looks like spaghetti.”
“Hmm,” I pondered. “I might do a burger tonight.”
I often fell back on burgers and fries when the fare didn’t strike me as particularly appetizing or it just didn’t hit my mood. However, I knew that going against Habeebee in regard to what he was serving wouldn’t be easy. He didn’t speak much English, but one thing he did know was how to push whatever he was serving upon those who were lined up before him. He kind of reminded me of a happy Soup Nazi from that one Seinfeld episode. Rather than “No soup for you!” Habeebee’s response was more along the lines of “Lots of everything for everyone!”
Stepping up before the pleasant Persian, who was grinning ear to ear, I decided to give it a shot. “Burger and fries please.”
His smile remained, almost as though he’d had it fixed in place for so long it’d become stuck that way, but his shoulders sagged. I knew he’d created the oozy mixture of overly-runny red slop he was calling spaghetti sauce himself, and he was probably taking it as a personal insult that I wasn’t eating it, as well as a personal challenge to get me to.
He waved a set of tongs dripping with red sauce across the massive tray of pasta. “What? No pasta for you?” he crowed confusedly.
“Just not in the mood for Italian tonight,” I explained with a smile.
“Ah…come on,” he shrugged. “Pasta good, fill up belly. Burger too greasy. Pasta healthy, put meat on your bones. You too skinny,” he chided, pointing at me with his dripping tongs, his goofy grin still fixed firmly in place.
“No, I need to loose weight,” I argued.
“Aggghh,” he shook his head. “No, no, no, no, no…you try, you like,” he nodded, unwilling to take no for an answer. “I promise. You don’t like, you can cook tomorrow,” he laughed heartily, holding his belly as if this were the funniest thing in the world to him, and in the process smearing red sauce all over his white apron.
I took a deep breath and held out my plate. “Okay,” I nodded, not wanting to offend.
Habeebee always over-served. He hated to waste food; and therefore, he piled it high on every plate he could lay his hands on. In the process, he probably wasted more food than if he’d just served normal portions.
Tonight he was in rare form.
Ditching the tongs and digging a big serving spoon out from under the counter, he landed a huge plop of spaghetti and sauce on my plate.
“That’s good,” I waved him off after I saw the immense pile.
“Oh no, no, no,” he shook his head, and landed another huge plop atop the existing pile.
“Good god,” I cringed. “That’s more than enough.”
“Ha!” was Habeebee’s only response, digging into his tray of mess and landing a third humongous serving atop the ever-growing mound.
“Ohhh,” I groaned giving up. Hanging my head in defeat, he landed the death knell to my plate as well as my appetite.
I don’t know how he accomplished it with the runny consistency of his spaghetti, but he managed to laden my poor plate with what I’d estimate at close to a good three pounds of the stuff.
“Sheesh,” I looked at Kristen as noodles slid over the side of my plate. “It must be piled at least five inches high,” I eyed the pile warily.
“Lots for you, because I like you!” Habeebee handed me the plate, happy at having straddled me with a feast beyond comprehension or consumption. “You need eat, keep up energy!” he nodded merrily.
“Thanks,” I waved a hand behind me as I grabbed a carton of milk and an ice cream bar from a nearby refrigeration unit.
Kristen joined me a moment later, a similar mound of pasta on her plate.
I saw Charlie Johnson, a former homeless man I’d befriended a year ago and who I’d hired on at the hotel, sitting alone at a table. Charlie had quickly moved from the role he was initially hired into as a housekeeping houseperson, to a position as a prep cook in the main kitchen. Charlie had expressed a long-time interest in food and cooking, and he’d jumped at the opportunity when the position had become available. He’d proven himself a hard worker and had adapted rapidly to his role in the kitchen.
“Care for some company?” I asked as I approached Charlie’s table. He was a man of few words, but we always seemed to have gotten along well and were never at a loss for something to chat about. I think that Charlie’s time spent on the street had bred a certain level of distrust among his fellow human being; but during his time at the hotel, I’d seen a change in him. Slowly but surely, he seemed to be opening up and making strides in forming new relationships with the other hotel staff members.
“Sure,” he nodded. He was also working on a massive plate of spaghetti.
“It’s not that I don’t like spaghetti,” I said, sitting down and staring forlornly at Old Smokey piled on the plate before me, unsure of where to begin. “It’s just soooo much that it just kills your appetite.”
“You know it, I know it, everyone who eats here knows it, but he never will,” Charlie gave a little smile and nodded over to ol’ Habeebee Baby.
Kristen sat too, shaking her head as she picked up her fork and then hesitated as she also tried to decide which part of her mountain to attack.
“He must get paid by the pound served,” I said.
“Or by the pound gained by those he serves,” Charlie said. “I didn’t eat for almost four days straight once when I was living on the streets. Even on that fourth day I couldn’t have eaten all this,” he nodded at his piled-high plate.
“How things going in the kitchen, Charlie?” Kristen asked.
“Pretty good,” he nodded.
“You like it alright?” I asked.
“Love it. Best job I’ve ever had. Work is hard, and there’s a lot of it, but best of all, I can eat as much as I want. With a history like mine, you don’t know what that means. Don’t tell anyone, but I’d be happy just working for the food. I’ll take the paycheck too of course,” he grinned at us.
“I’m glad you like it,” I nodded. “How’s the apartment hunt coming?”
Charlie had been living in a shelter for the majority of the past year as he got his feet back under him, but recently he’d been looking for a place of his own.
“Good,” he nodded, taking a bite of spaghetti, half the soupy sauce from which slid through his fork before he could get it to his mouth. “S
igned a lease for a one-bedroom place last week. I move in at the start of February.”
“Awesome,” I smiled, happy for my friend. “I’m glad to hear it.”
After about 20 minutes, I’d say that we’d managed to consume maybe a sixteenth of the food set before us before we surrendered and laid into our ice cream bars.
By the time we were finished with our dinners, it was nearly seven o’clock.
“Better get ready,” I told Kristen. “We should probably pop back by the front desk and then head upstairs.”
Kristen nodded.
We said our goodbyes to Charlie, dumped the remnants of our food, and disposed of our dirty dishes in a pass-thru area of the cafeteria that led to a dishwashing station. Then we walked back downstairs where we took a moment to digest, played a few rounds on Jason’s new arcade games, and steeled ourselves for what we knew was coming.
With only 72 arrivals left, my M.O.D. phone still quiet, and as the crowd in the lobby starting to dissipate, we could relax for a minute. I knew that most of our guests were now likely pre-partying upstairs in their rooms or having dinner and drinks in the hotel’s various eateries.
With a bit of time on our hands until things started heating up, I gathered Kristen from where she was battling the world’s greatest electronic drivers in Jason’s racing game, and led her out to the lobby. The lights were gleaming from the space’s towering ten-foot-tall floor lamps and the massive gold-leaf candelabras affixed to the white travertine walls. The century-old, basketball-court-sized ceiling mural glowed pristinely.
“Where are you taking me now, Mr. Haze?” Kristen eyed me coyly. “You’ve always got something interesting up your sleeve.”
“Just wait,” I said playfully, deferring my answer to allow Kristen’s curiosity to get the better of her.
“Fine,” she huffed with a faux frown that made her mouth curl down cutely at the corners.
Carlisle’s Whiskey Lounge was still abuzz across from us, but that wasn’t my intended destination. Instead, I took Kristen by the arm and escorted her to the sweeping stairway that led up half a flight to the eighteen-foot-high double entry doors of the Lake Ballroom.
“Oooo…the Lake Ballroom?” Kristen cooed.
“Yep,” I nodded.
The Lake Ballroom was the hotel’s crown jewel of ballrooms and had hosted some of the most prominent performers and entertainers of their day starting in the early 1920s.
Tonight, the Chicago Ballroom radio program was being broadcast live from the confines of the famed spot. After showing our hotel identification badges at the door, we were allowed entrance to the dinner and dance festivities taking place within.
We found ourselves entering into a lavish affair. The radio announcer’s booth was set up in the rear of the ballroom. A live band was playing on the stage. Dinner was already finished, and couples were on the dance floor before the stage. Kristen and I didn’t quite fit in with the tuxedoed men and ball-gowned ladies, and we were the only couple we could spot in our immediate vicinity under age sixty, but we didn’t let this slow us down. It was New Year’s Eve, and everyone was focused on enjoying themselves, so we just blended into the fray.
“Care to dance, my lady?” I held out my hand to Kristen as we approached the dance floor.
“Why of course,” she took hold of it as I guided her out among the couples.
The band began to play Moonlight Serenade, and as we danced, I gazed about at our surroundings. I tried to envision the sorts of events that had graced these halls over the years as well as what the people enjoying those events had seen, experienced, and felt.
The ballroom’s two massive crystal chandeliers glowed dimly above us as we swirled our way around, through, and between the other couples.
“Just imagine the people who were here before us,” I said to my lovely dance partner. “Sinatra, Lewis and Martin, Garland, Bennett, Armstrong, Torme…the list goes on and on.”
“You wish you’d worked here then, don’t you?” Kristen tilted her head as she looked at me.
“I don’t know,” I shrugged. “I love the hotel the way it is now. I would have liked to experience a few nights back then…just to see what it was like. It probably wouldn’t have seemed all that special to me if I’d worked during those times. It would have just been the norm.”
“That’s the trick,” Kristen smiled. “You have to make the now special. You have to realize that what you’re doing, seeing, and experiencing today will one day seem like what those people did, saw, and experienced 50 or 60 years ago. That’s why you have to grab hold of everything, every aura, every essence, every sensation, right now,” she squeezed me tight to her.
“You’re wiser than your years,” I looked deeply into her eyes.
The song finished, and then we danced to Moon River.
When the song was over, Kristen said, “Okay Mr. Sentimental, now it’s my turn to take you on a little adventure.”
“Mmm,” I said inquisitively, giving her a raised eyebrow. “Sounds intriguing.”
It was after eight o’clock, and I had an idea of where Kristen was taking me, but I let her enjoy her moment as she guided me out of the ballroom.
As soon as we arrived at the lobby stairs leading down to 1B, I knew for sure where we were headed.
Tonight was the grand opening – or for a few of our longer-term employees, grand re-opening – of the once famous Triton Club (formerly the Street Light Club) down on our first sub-street level. Mismanagement had led to the shuttering of the initial tenant, the Triton Club’s predecessor the Street Light Club, and poor marketing, as well as several drug-related incidents in the early-70s, had resulted in the demise of the Triton Club itself.
I had convinced Tom to rehabilitate the space last year. He thought it a grand idea to further our efforts at bringing the Lanigan back to its former glory and retain its place of prominence atop the list of famed hotels known the world over.
The revamping of the Triton Club had been a project a year in the making. The hotel had hired several well-known designers to study the history of the space during its prime. They had gathered documents, photos, and other memorabilia, all the way down to finding samples of the matchbooks, napkins, stir sticks, and glassware used, from the hotel archives, online auction sites, as well as souvenirs sent in from former guests who had an interest in seeing the club revived. We’d had several articles in the Tribune and Sun Times newspapers that had helped pique interest in the project among the general public, but to this point, most of the rehab efforts had largely been conducted in secrecy. Only a few select photos of the work while in progress had been released to the general public. Even I hadn’t been allowed access to the area for the past few months once the tear out work was done and the rehabilitation work had begun.
In its heyday, the club down on 1B – whether The Street Light or Triton – had catered to wealthy guests and businessmen, offered top-tier entertainment, and often acted as an after-hours hangout for the Lake Ballroom performers who would sometimes put on impromptu jam sessions. And of course, like all the other food and beverage outlets in the Lanigan, the Triton Club had been modeled on an ocean theme.
“Looks like they’re going to have quite an opening night,” I said as we walked the island-print sherbet green and pink carpet of 1B. We circumvented a lengthy line waiting to get into the hotel’s newest venue and cut around to the back-of-house area behind the club so that we could enter relatively unnoticed.
Inside, the club was packed nearly to capacity.
The designers had truly outdone themselves when it came to returning the space to its former glory. They had issued in a new age of late-60s, early-70s vintage style but in glowingly new furnishings. Gleaming vinyl and thick paint sheened blazing oranges, lime greens, heavy browns, and scathingly bright yellows that screamed their presence from around the club’s revamped floor plan. It was as though we’d walked through a time warp.
Lounge chairs set around tiny cocktail table
s were filled with partying hipsters, many of whom were outfitted in retro-style garb and thick black glasses that could have blended right into the fashions of the day when the clubs down here were first in operation. Along one wall was a long orange cushioned bench that was packed to capacity. Lining the wall behind the seating area was a row of round portholes, their glass painted with ocean and island views. The lounge was modeled after a late-60s, early-70s cruise ship lounge. A small stage featured a simple nightclub act – just a singer with piano accompaniment. A faint scent of fresh stain and varnish wafted occasionally from around the horseshoe-shaped bar where several nautical-themed jacket-wearing bartenders (who reminded me of the Love Boat’s bartender, Isaac) worked. Cocktail waitresses in knee-high white leather boots and wearing single-piece, Lanigan logoed go-go style green miniskirt uniforms with gold trim, and white sailor’s caps worked the floor serving thirsty patrons.
I liked the uniforms. They were revealing enough to be attention grabbing, but not so short as to seem improper, and they fit the time period for which the new club was aiming, although I had to admit, they reminded me more of airline stewardesses than cruise ship employees.
I was glad to see that the place was packed, and I hoped it would stay that way for the foreseeable future. The Lanigan needed something new and trendy down on 1B to perk things up a bit.
Kristen led me over to the bar.
“What’ll it be, cowboy?” she gave me a sidelong glance and a grin.
“Since you phrased it like that,” I looked at Kristen, “a Roy Rodgers, please,” I addressed the bartender.
“You sure we should be drinking?” Kristen whispered, leaning in close.
“Just how young are you?” I joked. “There’s no alcohol in a Roy Rodgers.”
“Oh,” Kristen look uncertain, then turned to the bartender. “Then make it two, please.”
A minute later, our drinks in hand, we managed to weave our way over to one of the few spots left to sit in a far corner near a life-sized carved wooden figure of a sailor. He was similarly clad to the Gorton’s Fisherman mascot and wore yellow rain gear. He had a bushy beard, and a corncob-style pipe was clamp tightly in his jaw. His nicotine-stained form had been cleaned and refinished since we last met more than a year ago.
The Case of the Linen Pressed Guest (The M.O.D. Files Book 2) Page 8
