After that night he kept calling to apologize and ask my forgiveness. I had very good cause to refuse any contact, but he begged me to let him make it up to me by showing me what a good man he could be and buying me groceries. With the mention of free food, I allowed him to come by when he promised two bags of groceries and a bag of pot for my roommates. Since I was the only breadwinner, with an occasional one-night topless gig, I decided to use his guilt and took him up on his offer. Also, I knew I had the boys there to protect me if he tried any funny business.
Ernest was excruciatingly boring and after a few minutes, I’d excuse myself, saying that I had to study and then lock myself in the bedroom and leave Phil and Eddy to get high and listen to Ernie talk shit. The boys didn’t mind since they were getting free food and pot. This went on for several visits until one day he showed up unannounced with the groceries and pot when Phil and Eddy were not home, and he tried to rape me again. I ran into my courtyard screaming bloody murder for all the neighbors to hear until he left. But before he did, he had the nerve to ask for his groceries back. Well, that was the end of Ernest, and eventually L.A. proved too much for the lads too, and they went back home to New Jersey.
Almost two decades later, Phil had married a famous singer-songwriter and Ed owned and operated a very successful recording studio in Manhattan. Ed had built his wealth through hard work as a recording engineer and worked with all the major music stars. In comparison to Eddie at that juncture in our lives, I felt like the little piggy who had built her house of straw and the big bad wolf was always just a breath away ready to blow it down. But no matter what opinion I held of myself, Ed remained my good friend and whenever I was in Manhattan he always took me and my daughter out for generous meals and would never let me pay. He married a brilliant singer who was a highly successful voice in commercial jingles, and she also became a good friend and one of my best sweater clients in the ‘80s.
One day over breakfast when it was just the two of us, Ed must have sensed I was feeling low and he told me he thought I was one of the most successful people he ever knew. Although he had amassed a great business by then, and had many high-profile music friends and clients, he admired my freedom and spontaneous lifestyle. He told me he envied what he observed as my magical life. If good friends and relationship mirror what you are really worth, then I have to admit I’m pretty damn successful and especially grateful for friends like Ed.
Chapter 6
Food For the Gods
The illusion of Hollywood glamour is obvious to those of us who live on the fringes of fame and fortune. I remember being hired once to work in the kitchen at the Governor’s Ball where the after-Academy Awards dinner is served. I felt like a slave on a big ship’s galley while building hundreds of salads on an assembly line. Every so often, one of my fellow servers would report a star sighting. It felt pathetic and I wished I had stayed home and watched the show from the comfort of my couch. But a girl does what a girl has got to do to pay the rent sometimes.
Chasen’s, a restaurant that opened its doors in 1936, was a hangout for entertainment luminaries for nearly 60 years. Many of its regular customers had booths named in their honor. The Ronald Reagan booth, now on display at the Ronald Reagan Presidential Library museum, was where Ronnie proposed to Nancy. Frank Sinatra, Alfred Hitchcock, James Stewart and Groucho Marx also had their booths. Located near Beverly Hills, it was the site of Academy Awards parties and was also known for its chili. In 1962, Elizabeth Taylor had several orders of Chasen’s chili packed in dry ice and flown to the set of Cleopatra while filming in Rome. But just before Chasen’s closed its doors permanently in 1995, the acclaimed chili was requested one last time by Michael Jackson, who was bringing Elizabeth Taylor as his date to a party being given in his honor.
The chili was just one item that would share the sumptuous buffet table along with all the other fancy foods my employer and her kitchen staff whipped up for this prestigious occasion. Beautiful displays and lush flowers lined the silver trays, which were filled with Dungeness mini crab cakes, rolled salmon with crispy sesame tofu cream, Belgian endive salad bites filled with feta cheese and candied walnuts, burrata mozzarella and heirloom tomatoes, prosciutto di parma, Holland white asparagus salad with miso dressing, and trice-baked potato puffs au gratin with cheese and smoked bacon. And for desserts, there were several chocolate fountains surround by ripe fruits and berries, a chocolate crumble parfait with cardamom glace, espresso air chocolate brulee cookies, and s’mores macaroons, to name just a few. I honestly can’t remember everything that came out of that kitchen that night, but I do recall going home sick from all the sugar I popped into my mouth when no one was looking.
This was just one of the many times I served the stars under the stars at a grand Hollywood affair where there were as many servers as there were guests. We all scurried about refilling trays and drinks, and picking up dirty glasses and plates in our stiff white shirts and black tuxedo pants. I would have been excited to get a look at old Liz, but tensions were high in the kitchen that night, and the pace was frantic. We had been there all afternoon setting up the many food and dessert stations in the hot sun, on the lawn of some Hollywood producer who was throwing this bash to thank Michael for signing a contract with his production company. They didn’t share the details with the help.
By the time the guests of honor arrived, I had been on my toes for over five hours and was already exhausted. Through a crowd of gawking guests and many of the waiters, I craned my neck to get a glimpse of the couple. Liz looked feeble and more exhausted than I felt as she held Michael’s hand and moved slowly through the crowd with the aid of a cane in her other hand. This was probably after one of the many surgeries or health crises she endured throughout her life. She was at an all time top weight, and Michael was a white ghost standing beside her in one of those Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band uniforms. They looked like a royal couple being brought out on display for the masses. I don’t think Liz even got to taste the iconic chili and I felt sadness for the both of them. They didn’t look like they were having a good time.
There were other smaller parties that were not so sad. I got a kick out of meeting Pamela Anderson, and her boyfriend de jour, Kid Rock, when I cooked for her kid’s birthday party. There was also a small Christmas Eve party where Viva and I served the entire Bridges family. Famous father and both famous sons were very gracious. It was another Christmas Eve that both Viva and I wished we didn’t have to work, but the Bridges were so sweet and kind that in the end it was pleasant and they were good tippers.
For many years, I even owned and operated my own small catering business, where I was directly responsible for the menus and service. I booked mostly small dinner parties and a few interesting jobs from time to time. I did finger foods at the DGA in 1986 for Donna Deitch’s premiere of Desert Hearts and some of her private home parties, too. I had no business card, no license, no industrial kitchen or employees, but jobs came to me via word of mouth because I was a good cook. Once I was hired by a P.R. firm where my daughter’s best childhood friend Mira worked and was in charge of special events. Mira had loved my cooking since childhood and hired me to create five different appetizers for 1000 guests for the David Bowie CD release party at Virgin Records on Sunset Boulevard. David was not in attendance.
My menu included ten savory whipped cream cheese, pesto and sundried tomato torte s molded in large Bundt pans and displayed for easy spreading on crackers and bread. I also made ten more mold pans of corn and wild mushroom polenta cut into cake slices and served at room temperature. There were four different flat bread pinwheels cut into hundreds of mini sandwich rolls, some meat and some veggies, as well as bacon-wrapped jumbo shrimp and my fabulous mushrooms stuffed with Gorgonzola and breadcrumbs baked in red wine. For this job, I put Viva and my friends Jennifer and Michael to work, and borrowed space in four of my neighbors’ refrigerators to keep the food overnight as we made it. After two whole fourteen hour days in my kitchen, I had
no time to do desserts and just bought them from a bakery.
There were other jobs that were over my head and way under bid that almost killed me too. I recall a sit-down dinner for 60 guests at a mansion in Beverly Hills. The young trophy wife of a millionaire real estate mogul hired me to cater her husband’s 60th surprise birthday party.
The perky young blond Brit had once been the nanny to the millionaire’s kids during his first marriage. As wife number two she was trying hard to prove herself worthy of the promotion. In her British accent she said, “I want to really impress Bernie’s friends and prove that I’m no golddigger. If I can pull this party off on a frugal homemaker’s budget Bernie will be delighted.”
Then she told me she only had a budget of $200 for the chef but all she wanted was a simple meal for 60 guests to include a salad and one other starter, and for the main course, her favorite recipe for Chilean Sea Bass baked in white wine, roasted potatoes, and asparagus, with birthday cake and cookies for dessert. The deal was she paid for all the food, supplies and rentals with my wholesale discount cards, and then she would pay me $20 an hour for all my prep and on-site cooking time and service. She knew she was getting me dirt-cheap so she kept telling me she would take care of me in the end with a good tip. She also provided her two maids to help out with the food prep and clean up.
Well, it was truly a miracle that I got all 60 plates on the table while they were still warm with as little help as I had. All the guests paid high compliments to their hostess for the delicious meal, and her husband came back to the kitchen to thank me for the wonderful job I did. At the end of the long day and night, my employer gave me my check for $200 as agreed upon, and then handed me a crisp twenty-dollar bill, my big cash tip. I was speechless.
As I gathered my things hobbling to my car to pack the last of my supplies, she said, “Bernie and I are so pleased that I’m going to place a write up in the Beverly Hills Social 411 newspaper about our party and mention you as our caterer. A good review in the 411 should bring you lots of new clients.”
“No thanks, and whatever you do, don’t tell your friends what you paid me.”
Probably the most fun of all the star-studded parties I ever worked was the 58th birthday party for none other than Ms. Diana Ross. The theme of the night was The Main Event. Why the party planners chose that theme, I have no idea. Perhaps Ms. Ross just liked the movie that starred Barbra Streisand and Ryan O'Neal. Well, whatever the reason, it made for an interesting backdrop for a party. The planner rented a big house on the beach in the Malibu Colony and set up a boxing ring on the sand for the dance floor. They also hired a few hunky young male models and dressed them in shiny boxer shorts and silk boxing robes left open to reveal their hard bodies and washboard abs. Two of the models stood at the door greeting guests, and the others tended the bar.
The catering company hired me to work the kitchen, and only the young and pretty people got put out on the floor to serve the guests. Viva was happy with this job because this was the night she got to meet her musical idol, Stevie Wonder. Viva would come back and report who was there and I popped out of the kitchen as often as I could, pretending to look over the buffet table for needed refills, just to see the action. Everyone from Motown to Hollywood piled into the beach house throughout the night. I spotted Kevin Costner, Barry Gordy, Billy D. Williams, and Wilt Chamberlain on one of my runs. Ms. Ross herself was quite friendly and gracious, and greeted all of us, including the kitchen staff. Before the dinner was served, she spent much of the night holding court in a shimmering silver cocktail dress, posed on the large white sectional couch in the living room where many guests took turns sitting beside her to chat. For me, the best celebrity sighting of the night was when Hugh Hefner entered with a half dozen identical looking blond Barbie dolls in tow. Heff was in a silk pajama outfit, and all six bimbos in short tight spandex mini dresses squeezed on the couch next to him. The two that didn’t fit on the sofa sat at his feet. As the Heffner package paid their homage to the great Ms. Ross, I thought I was witnessing a skit on Saturday Night Live. Heff was truly a parody of himself.
As the cocktails flowed throughout the night, and after Stevie sang “Happy Birthday” (the African-American arrangement) to Diana and she blew out her 58 candles, it seemed like everyone got really loose, guests and caterers alike. Toward the end of the night, even the kitchen staff took turns going out to dance in the boxing ring whenever we heard a favorite Motown song. I even bumped with Barry Gordy on the dance floor. The energy reminded me of the house parties my black friends in the ‘60s used to throw in their apartments, where everyone line-danced in the living room. It had that kind of vibe despite its A-list guests. Everyone was getting down. By then, Kevin Costner was relentlessly hitting on one of our waitstaff and RuPaul had become smitten with one of our cute gay waiters, and kept following him back into the kitchen. He hung out with us for quite some time, chatting. It was one of those rare nights where the boundaries blurred between stars and the help, and no one seemed to mind except for one of Diana’s daughters, who Viva reported was giving her heavy attitude. We all went home with big tips and hefty doggie bags that night.
Chapter 7
Tell Mama
Necessity, my ever-loving mother of invention, gave birth to Tell Mama, a one-woman personal assistant business. My logo was a cute caricature of me as the Rubenesque Mama with apron strings undone, holding her arms out and welcoming requests for almost any service, from A to Z; Advice to Zipper Repair. While passing out my flyers to potential clients at the Rose Café in Venice, a successful TV writer scrutinized my ad listing all twenty-six services Mama could perform for ten to twenty bucks an hour, and commented, “You know, it might be a lot easier to write the sitcom.”
I replied, “Don’t you dare!”
I ran home, wrote the treatment, and registered it with the Writer’s Guild before he could. It’s still in development at the back of my desk drawer if anyone is interested.
Like the plate juggler on the Ed Sullivan Show in the 60s, I became the juggling mother of invention, wearing more hats than the women in a Baptist congregation on Easter Sunday. As it turned out, I never generated enough clients to put other mamas to work, which had been my business plan, and I ended up doing all the assignments myself. Be grateful for your nine-to-five routine, if that’s what you’ve chosen.
Rat drops keep falling on my head, they keep fallin’.
I’m on assignment inside the garage of a mega mansion nestled in a neat row of other identical mega mansions on a dead end cul-de-sac in Thousand Oaks, a sprawling suburb of Los Angeles. My client’s Mercedes is parked in the driveway outside her home, while inside her garage a serious disease of stuff-infection is spreading faster than fruit flies on a ripe banana. Inside the garage, large enough to park two trailers, the air is stagnant and dust mites choke me as I shuffle though the wreckage of a compulsive shopper/hoarder’s environment.
Since my client was too embarrassed to call the Center for Disease Control, for fear her neighbors would discover the dangers that lurked behind her walls, she called Tell Mama, my personal assistant business that foolishly advertised Diva of De-Cluttering, under the letter (D) of my services. My worst client, whose name will remain anonymous, was a deranged housewife of Thousand Oaks with an obsession for collecting Barbie dolls and other things. In addition to her hoarding problem, she had struggled with an extra hundred plus pounds gained while pregnant with her daughter. When I met the woman who, only five years earlier had had the perfect figure of a Barbie Doll, she was tipping the scale at about 350 pounds. Since her life coach suggested it would help with her weight loss program, Mrs. Barbie was on a new mission to bring clarity into all her affairs before she underwent bypass surgery.
During our primary consultation, Mrs. Barbie immediately revealed too much information about her unhappy marriage. Apparently on her honeymoon her genitalia, just like Barbie’s, became invisible to her husband. From that moment on, slowly the rest of her body began
to transform into the shape I saw before me. She even admitted that she was aware that she was filling the hole in her love life with revenge shopping and food. Her story reminded me of Oscar Wilde’s The Portrait of Dorian Grey, but in reverse. With each new Barbie she acquired, and hid in the garage, she gained another ten pounds of ugly fat. The hidden Barbie dolls remained her young beautiful self, while outside of the garage, she lost her girlish figure. And now even the beautiful plastic Barbies were being ravaged. It wasn’t a pretty picture.
It was too bad I didn’t charge her a therapist’s rate, because I quickly learned that getting a hoarder to let go of excess was harder than cutting off your own arm. I had to do some serious listening and hand-holding, along with the heavy lifting and sweeping rat turds, silverfish, and dust bunnies into the trash. As I dug into Mrs. Barbie’s self-indulgence, I was forced to listen as she excused her sick behavior and blamed her problems on her husband and his suspected porn and sex addiction. Shopping and then burying the evidence was her way of avoiding confrontation. When I asked how she kept him out of the garage, she said, “We have an unspoken agreement, as long as I never enter his office/man cave or snoop on his computer; he stays out of my garage.” (Metaphor intended!) It’s amazing what a Diva of De-Cluttering can learn about the human condition. If only I had counseling credentials.
Like her weight, the hidden merchandise had grown to unmanageable proportions. Hundreds of plastic bags and unopened boxes were stacked haphazardly everywhere. The bags mostly contained new outfits from high-end boutiques with hefty price tags still attached to them that she bought several sizes too small as an incentive to lose weight over the years. There were also many large Costco purchases she was hoping I could categorize so that she could eventually return them. Other unopened boxes contained gifts for every occasion, but when the occasion occurred she could not find the right gift. There were toys and games for her daughter and her daughter’s friends that she held back until the girls reached the appropriate ages to play them, but her daughter and her friends had since surpassed the games’ levels.
Blow Jobs: A Guide to Making it in Show Business, or Not!: A 'How Not To' by The Counter Culture Diva Page 5