by Jay Onrait
So when Chobi and I visited New York together in 2008, it was an obvious choice for at least one of our two dinners that weekend, but we had to be prepared to wait, and wait, and wait. Word was, the wait to get a table at The Spotted Pig could often stretch past the two-hour mark. Luckily, like many no-reservation restaurants, the Pig allows you to leave a phone number with the hostess, so you can roam around the neighbourhood freely and they’ll text you when your table is ready, rather than jam yourselves into their tiny entrance and be miserable for two hours.
Our wait that evening wasn’t two hours—maybe one at the most—and we were in a great mood when we were summoned back to the restaurant while wandering those leafy and beautiful West Village streets. A smiling hostess led us upstairs to the second floor, past a beautiful central bar and into a room at the back. There we were led directly into a corner booth with a view of the entire restaurant. The table seemed too good for a pair of tourists from Canada, but maybe this was simply all that was available. Either way, we certainly weren’t complaining.
Our waiter for the evening was a Bill Hader type, if Bill Hader hadn’t made it as a comedian and instead channelled all his comedic energy into a serving job. He was frantic, but kind and helpful in selecting beers from the tap. We ordered as many dishes as we could and they were all truly fantastic: fluffy, Batali-inspired gnocchi and a gorgonzola-laced burger that was easily one of the best I’ve ever eaten. About ten minutes into the meal I noticed a familiar face at the table directly across from us—David Schwimmer, Ross on Friends. He was dressed a lot like his character on Friends: khakis and a shirt topped off with a fedora. He was accompanied by his fiancée and they sat quietly chatting at a corner booth, various well-wishers from the restaurant occasionally stopping by for hugs. Ross was likely a neighbourhood regular and who could blame him? If I had a nice apartment in the area I would probably eat at the Pig twice a week.
Suddenly, faux Bill Hader appeared in front of us in a panic. His demeanor had completely changed from friendly and entertaining to “when the hell are you two going to be finished and get the hell out of here!”
“How much longer do you think you guys are going to be?” he asked.
Yes, the dessert is just delicious. Thanks for asking, I thought to myself. What happened to the jovial guy who was treating our dinner like a one-man show? Why did his attitude switch so fast? He scrambled away without explanation. Was Schwimmer upset that I was silently judging his hat? What the hell was going on?
Then, just a few feet away from our table, I noticed a figure staring in our direction. He was African-American, about six feet tall, and very thin. He wore a crisp, fresh-out-of-the-package white T-shirt and baggy black jeans, with a long, red string of rosary beads dangling from his neck and hanging between his chest and navel. He also wore a Yankees cap.
It was Jay-Z, and we were sitting at his table.
Faux Bill Hader re-emerged with a proposition as Jay-Z continued to stare over his shoulder: Would we consider moving to another table in the restaurant? This was just as we were finishing up our meal, a pretty confusing request for any restaurant patron no matter how hot the establishment or who was waiting for your table. He offered no explanation for the request, obviously feeling that Mr. Carter’s stare was all the explanation needed.
“We’ll be out of your way as soon as you bring us the cheque,” I said. That was still not quick enough for Faux Bill Hader, or very likely Jay-Z, but there was really very little that they could do. They asked us to leave and we were leaving. It still didn’t change the fact that the gnocchi were frigging delicious.
Then, seconds later, I felt really important, because Jay-Z sat down right next to me.
“Hi,” I began.
As I said before, I’ve always been pretty good with opening lines.
“Hey, guys,” said Jay-Z. “Sorry about this. We would be happy to move you to that table right across the room. I just have a big group coming in.”
“It’s really no trouble at all. We were just heading out,” I replied. This was really happening. We were having a casual conversation with Jay-Z as we were both trying to pretend he wasn’t kicking us out of his table at his restaurant, all while David Schwimmer and his fiancée sat directly across from us and pretended not to notice.
At that point Jay-Z’s entire entourage walked into the room. It was pretty much exactly as you would expect. Despite the fact that Mr. Carter was now happily married to Ms. Beyoncé Knowles, she was nowhere to be found. Instead, the requisite models were along for the party that night. Two girls sat on one side of Jay-Z and the other two sat on the other side of my wife. Each and every one of the models was obviously thrilled that they were one entire Canadian mixed-race couple away from the person whose attention they were trying to capture that evening. One of Jay-Z’s buddies then squeezed himself in between Chobi and the models and briefly tried to make small talk with the future Mrs. Onrait: “You guys in town for a while, err . . .” Another one of Jay-Z’s buddies sat on the far end of the other models who were seated next to Mr. Carter. Pudgy, wearing sunglasses, and just happy to be there, we later dubbed him “Jay-Z’s weed-rolling buddy” because he was clearly the “Turtle” of Mr. Carter’s entourage. Jay-Z made some small talk with the models as I signed my credit card receipt, with a frantic Faux Bill Hader waiting to snatch it out of my hand like a golden ticket to freedom. We started to get up to leave when Mr. Carter spoke:
“Would you like to have a shot of Patron with us?”
I froze.
For a split second I thought back to my one and only visit to Peter Luger Steakhouse in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Established long before Williamsburg became the hipster haven it is today, Peter Luger was a must-stop for steak lovers in New York City, serving arguably the best porterhouse in America. The place was bare bones wood décor, accepted only cash, and featured old, grizzled male waiters who had all likely worked there since they graduated high school. I had been warned about those waiters and their impatience with patrons who were unsure about what they wanted to order. There was really only one thing to order at Peter Luger, the porterhouse steak. I had even been told a story about patrons getting ridiculed by the waiters when they dared to order a seafood dish. A friend of mine attended a bachelor party dinner there with seven other guys, and they all sat back in shock as their waiter dictated the meal they were about to eat: “You want some steaks, guys? Some spinach? Some potatoes? Good.” None of them got a word in. They also said it didn’t matter because the food was so delicious they would have taken any abuse handed to them for the right to watch those old, grizzled veteran servers delicately tip their platter full of meat to one side and scoop up the juices to pour all over their protein. When I finally visited the restaurant with Chobi, I warned her about the possible poor treatment we were about to receive. We were led to our table, and I sat in my seat and had just picked up my menu when a server appeared in front of us.
“You guys ready?” he asked.
“I literally just picked up the menu,” I replied.
“What’s the problem?” he said.
What’s the problem?
Who the hell was this guy? I was a patron in his restaurant! What happened to treating the customers with respect? Of course, I didn’t actually say this to the guy. Instead, I just sat there, mouth agape, totally stumped for a reply, while Chobi jumped in: “We’ll take the steak for two, spinach, fried potatoes, and a bottle of red wine.”
“Great,” said the waiter, and off he went to terrorize another group of tourists.
Flashback to Jay-Z asking “Would you like to have a shot of Patron with us?” and once again I was completely dumbfounded. There was probably drool hanging down my lip, and he probably thought I was some sort of sad invalid. Thankfully, once again my wife jumped in to save the day:
“Sure! We’d love a shot of Patron!” she exclaimed.
Done. Just like that, Faux Bill Hader was dispatched to the bar to grab Patron shots for us,
Jay-Z, the chatty buddy, the weed-rolling buddy, and the four models. As you can imagine, Faux Hader was a little frazzled, having thought he was rid of us, only to have his boss prolong this somewhat awkward encounter.
A minute or so later FBH returned with a tray of shots, handed them out to everyone, and scurried off.
“Cheers. Thanks for your understanding, guys,” said Jay-Z.
“Thanks for having us!” I said. What? That didn’t make sense. Oh well.
I poured the icy, almost frozen alcohol down my throat. I love tequila but don’t know much about the subtleties of it so I can’t tell you which Patron we were drinking that evening, but I can tell you that if Patron makes a brand of tequila that is distilled from the tears of royal children then this must have been it. It was the smoothest, most delicious shot of tequila ever, and then it was gone.
Just as we were expected to be.
“Thanks, man,” I said and shook his hand as we got up to leave.
The next day my wife was reading People.com and she saw a paparazzi pic of Jay-Z strolling through a heavily touristed part of Soho hand-in-hand with Beyoncé. The picture had been taken just hours before our encounter. I guess after an afternoon of shopping with the missus he decided to call up his buddies and told them to bring along some models. Shopping in Soho with all those tourists must have been too much for him to take. Then the poor guy shows up at his restaurant to find that Faux Bill Hader had given away his favourite table to the two most obvious tourists in New York City.
I will always appreciate how kindly he kicked our asses out of there.
Chapter 10
Medicine
Chobi and I moved to California in the summer of 2013. The good people at Fox were kind enough to put us up in a condo right by the water in Santa Monica while we looked for a permanent place to live. It was paradise. Just steps from our front door was the beach, the ocean, the sun! But as much as I loved walking along the beach strip, I realized pretty quickly that if I was going to survive in Los Angeles, I was going to have to drive. Everywhere. And that meant getting a California state driver’s licence from the dreaded DMV.
Long before I arrived in Santa Monica, I had heard the horror stories of the California Department of Motor Vehicles—the massive, slow-moving lineups and general inefficiency are the stuff of legend. Luckily for me, because Fox was trying so hard to show their appreciation for Dan and me coming all the way to the USA, we had been assigned relocation experts to assist with the move. Fox Sports’ ultra kingpin David Hill even sent us each an email when we agreed to the job. Hill himself had immigrated to Los Angeles from his native Australia, and he assured us that our assigned relocation experts would make the entire move smooth and easy. He was absolutely correct. My wife and I were assigned a wonderful lady from Redondo Beach named Susan Graven, who booked every DMV appointment for me and then showed up to meet me on my appointment days and waited until my appointments were over, just like my mom. It was a luxury for someone so disorganized, and an absolute necessity. How did other people move to the United States without a dedicated relocation expert to take care of booking their appointments to get a Social Security Card? If talented Canadians over the years had known how difficult a move this was without a mother figure holding one’s hand, we might not have seen the likes of Alan Thicke, Martin Short, and Robert Goulet making their way down to SoCal to find success with audiences south of the border.
Having been a driver for almost thirty years (we get our learner’s permit at age fourteen in Alberta, unless you grow up on a farm, in which case you’re likely already driving around age six or seven), I was somewhat taken aback when I learned that I would have to take an actual driver’s test to obtain my California licence. Suddenly, I began experiencing feelings of terror. What if I failed the driver’s test? I was almost forty years old! I hadn’t taken a test in years, but clearly past exam experiences had stayed with me because anytime I had a nightmare it was the same scenario: I had reached the end of my four years at Ryerson University, but just before I was about to graduate I was called into the guidance counsellor’s office. Turns out I hadn’t completed sufficient credits to earn my degree and I was going to have to take classes during the summer. Then I wake up in a holy, sweaty terror with a feeling of relief that can only be described as borderline orgasmic. I hated taking tests when I was young, and I hated the idea of taking one now even more.
Susan herself was a terrible driver, perhaps one of the worst I’ve ever seen. She had the basics down but fell into the classic talking-too-much-and-not-paying-enough-attention-to-the-road trap that so many of us, including me, fall into. But she managed to meet me at the DMV on the morning of my driver’s exam—an exam that inexplicably included both written and practical portions. I somehow aced the written exam, despite feeling absolutely terrified about having to sit down and put pencil to paper on an actual test, and I was feeling pretty good about myself until I wheeled my newly-arrived-from-Toronto-via-cross-country-train car into the testing area and a large, silent heavyset man approached. We got into the car and immediately the guy started giving me instructions:
“Turn on your left signal, then your right, now the hazards. Why are you nervous? Don’t be nervous.”
I wasn’t nervous, but this guy was making me nervous. He was like a bully, or a bouncer; this was his chance to lord his power over me in the only setting he could control. I instantly hated this man and I was certain he was going to fail me. We eventually pulled out of the DMV parking lot, and what followed for the next half hour was a series of right turns.
“Turn right here,” followed by twenty seconds of silence.
“Turn right here,” then another silent twenty seconds of driving in a straight line. “Another right.” I hoped I’d never have to do anything behind the wheel in California but circle the block because that was all I was being tested on that day.
Finally, the big burly bully gave me what I thought was going to be a challenge. “Pull up to that curb on the right,” he said.
The dreaded parallel parking test. I actually considered myself a brilliant parallel parker and looked forward to proving it to this socially awkward, lumbering oaf. I pulled a car-width from the curb and looked over my shoulder in preparation of backing in to the curb when the bully spoke, enraged: “I didn’t ask you to parallel park! I asked you to pull up to the curb!” There were no other cars parked on the side of the road. Even my wife who had never driven a car in her life could have managed this. Was this some kind of a joke?
Ten minutes of more right turns later we were back at the DMV. The bully told me to park and then got out of my car without a word. Did I pass? Fail? There was absolutely no indication. I followed fifteen steps behind him and walked in the front door toward the woman who had handed me my written test an hour before. She told me to stand three steps to the left on a mark on the floor so she could take my picture.
“So you’re saying I passed?”
“Yes, didn’t he tell you?”
“He did not.”
“He can be like that.”
Should he still be working here, then? I wondered. No matter, I would never have to see him again, and I was now officially a licensed driver in the great state of California.
A few weeks after my ordeal at the DMV, I was lounging around my beachfront pad, watching a terrific series called The Layover on the Travel Channel. This was the second series to be hosted by chef and author Anthony Bourdain after his breakthrough TV hit No Reservations. The Layover featured a very simple premise: Bourdain would travel to a major metropolis somewhere around the globe and spend approximately thirty-six hours eating, drinking, and lodging at the best places the city had to offer, all the while showing you how you could do the very same. As someone who loved to take such trips, I waited for each episode eagerly. The Los Angeles episode was no exception. Bourdain spent one evening having dinner at super-popular restaurant Animal on Fairfax Avenue with the establishment’s co-owners, Jon Shook and
Vinny Dotolo. During the course of their conversation the subject of marijuana came up, and Bourdain casually inquired what he would need in order to get his medical marijuana card in the Golden State.
“You need a California driver’s licence,” replied Shook and Dotolo in unison.
I sat up immediately, the words slowly sinking into my brain. Hold on, I thought, I’ve got one of those. I’ve got a California driver’s licence! I figured I had to try to get my card, not because I was going to become a regular user, but just to see if I could. I wanted to know if Jon Shook and Vinny Dotolo were right. And just think of the story this would make! Besides, what’s the worst that could possibly happen?
Chobi, of course, wanted no part of this ridiculous adventure. So, like all men who need to do things their wives don’t approve of, I waited until she was out of town. She went to visit her mother in Ontario for four days not long after, which gave me plenty of time to research and track down the best and most reputable doctor I could find. Instead, I spent three days in my underwear watching television. Then, on the last day before she was scheduled to return, I panicked after realizing that if I was really going to make this happen, I needed to get it taken care of fast. There was only one destination I had in mind, and that was the shady Venice Beach strip that I’d visited a few years before.