Concierge Confidential

by Fazio, Michael

  Rarely, people would ask for other suggestions.

  * * *

  PLACES I WOULD REFER A CLIENT TO IN LIEU OF THE TROUGH

  If You Are Looking for Great Italian Food:

  1. San Pietro—Bellissimo! Beso, beso, beso.

  2. Marea—Culinary talent and hospitality humility.

  3. Al Di La—Simply real. No reservations. (Please don’t tell everyone!)

  If You Are Looking for Foodie Cred:

  1. Little Owl—You need the cell phone of the maître d’.

  2. Bouley—Nothing trendy about a genius.

  3. Shaun Hargatt—Finally, a newcomer that is too expensive to be trendy.

  If You Are Looking for Grossly Overpriced Cuisine:

  1. Masa—I “get” it … except that I don’t.

  2. Gallagher’s Steak House—This might have been cool, once.

  3. Valbella—Sorry you have to pass along the expensive rent, but really.

  If You Are Looking for a Totally Obnoxious Experience (Masochists Only):

  1. Casa Tua in Miami—or most places in Miami, for that matter.

  2. Any Graydon Carter restaurant—worth the punishment, if you want to be in an “it” place. They usually don’t have a phone number. If you’re lucky enough to get the private email address, you have a chance. But it’s like hoping to get Fantasia Barrino to write you a letter.

  3. The Park—It’s still around, but so is Chevy Chase. At one time, they were the “first” not to publish their phone number. If you were lucky enough to get it, you were greeted with a computerized call-screening device that said, “Thank you for calling The Park, please announce your name at the tone.” After you said your name, it replied, “Please wait while we check to see if your party is available.” Rejected by a machine! (Gross, huh?) And today … crickets.

  * * *

  But the majority of guests didn’t want to hear it. They knew about the reputation, but wanted to go there because, they say, they loved the way The Trough’s famous chef/owner came off on TV.

  “It’s really difficult,” I let them know. “This is the one place where we just don’t get anywhere with them.”

  The thing is, I knew why the guests wouldn’t take my advice. Everybody knows that The Trough is impossible to get into. That in itself is probably a good portion of the mystique. Saying you had dinner at The Trough is the kind of thing that would impress your friends.

  A lot of people buy into the concept of who The Trough’s chef/owner is. He’s kind of a hippie, with this wife whose family used to own a goat farm, where they make their own cheese. He puts on this air like, “Look at me, I’m not a celebrity! Look at me, I wear Crocs! I wear these all the time! I’d wear them to Steve Irwin’s funeral, I’m so average!” I’m really not even exaggerating. The man wouldn’t even put on a tie to meet the First Lady—at the White House. But he’s about as rustic as Mr. Howell was on Gilligan’s Island. Just because you’re with the coconuts doesn’t make you a native.

  One snowy day, Abbie and I were walking around the Village. “I want some mortadella,” she decided. “Where can we go?”

  Abbie had lived in Italy for a number of years, and she loved anything that was authentically rustic and truly Italian. “Feedbag’s a block away,” I pointed out. It was another of the many restaurants in the Trough chain.

  “They have the best carving board,” Abbie grudgingly agreed. “We have to go.”

  We took our coats off, and took our gloves off, and took our snow boots off, and waited. We finally got seated into our little table, excited to have a good meal. The waiter came out, but Abbie interjected before he could say anything. “We don’t need a menu,” she told him. “We’re going to get everything from the carving board. I want some mortadella.”

  “I’ll have some bresaola,” I added.

  Minutes later, the waiter came right back. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but we’re out of mortadella.”

  Abbie looked at him as if he had punched her in the stomach. It was like a Five Napkin Burger being out of ketchup. Mortadella is hardly the food of the gods, but real Italians know what a staple it is—and a place like Feedbag is supposedly all about being real.

  It was a couple of months later when Abbie and I were invited to a documentary festival along with a few other concierges from top hotels. It was sponsored by some TriBeCa organization as a way to promote local businesses and establishments. We were upstairs at the Tribeca Grill, drinking cocktails, eating hors d’oeuvres, and watching the silent auction.

  There, in the faux-rustic flesh, was He Who Wears Crocs—intentionally scraggly ponytail and all. He was standing there talking with Danny Meyer from Union Square Cafe and Tom Colicchio, who wasn’t yet such a superstar. I had never met Tom but did a lot of business with his restaurants. I had met Danny Meyer, and he had personally given me his assistant’s number when I needed something at any of his great restaurants. In my drunken delusions of grandeur, I believed that Danny couldn’t have possibly forgotten meeting me.

  Abbie and I saw this as our opportunity to finally get in good with The Trough. Here were two people with whom we had decent business relationships with, so it would be our in to join the conversation and score a relationship with the third.

  * * *

  DON’T MAKE PLANS WHEN YOU’RE DRUNK

  Trust me.

  * * *

  “You start,” I told Abbie.

  “No, you start!”

  “Well, what should I say?”

  “I don’t know.” We stood there discussing the plan, downing more and more wine until we were kind of giddy. I remembered Dolores’s advice: Be clever, and be quick. “I got it. Let’s tell him about the mortadella. Don’t be mean. Let’s make it really nice.”

  We walked over, and I was so drunk that I was seeing six of each person. It was like 1,800 pounds of Mr. Trough, man of the people. Because they were the celebrities of the room, they were able to block out of their periphery that Abbie and I were standing right next to them and staring at their heads. It was that awkward twenty seconds where I thought that they weren’t going to open up their group and acknowledge us. Finally, Danny Meyer turned his head enough that we sort of made eye contact. “Hi, Danny Meyer!” I said. “I’m sorry to jump in, but I just have to thank you for always keeping the door open for us—even when we knock ten thousand times a day. Your people really get it and they are so great at making things work.”

  “Okay…,” he said.

  “I’m Michael Fazio and this is Abbie Newman. We’re the concierges at the InterContinental Hotel.”

  “Oh, right!” he said, almost a little embarrassed. “Of course I remember you. How are you? Do you know Tom?”

  “I don’t know you personally, but we love your restaurant. Victor”—his maître d’—“is so wonderful. It’s so nice to deal with professionals. You’ve got such a great team.”

  “I saw you speak at a concierge event a couple of months ago,” added Abbie. “Everybody was so impressed. We really love your brand.”

  “Thank you,” he said.

  Now we were in conversations with two of the three, so Abbie went in for the kill. “I have a bone to pick with you,” she told the Man of The Trough, playing up her Jersey accent with a joking wink in her eye. “We trudged through the snow to go to Feedbag, and all I wanted was some mortadella. Everyone knows you’ve got the best carving board in the city, but you were sold out of it! C’mon, man! A girl’s entitled to a little mortadella after dragging herself through the snow, isn’t she?”

  It fell flat. Totally flat. “What are you talking about?” he said, as if she had been rambling for hours in a foreign language.

  Now it was time for my drunken bad judgment to kick in. “You know, I just want to ask you something,” I said. “Are we doing something wrong at The Trough? Every other restaurant shows us a little love, except for yours.”

  He looked at me like I wasn’t worthy of being told to shut up. Danny and Tom turned aw
ay, staring into space, while Abbie and I tucked our tails in between our legs and slowly walked away.

  * * *

  RESERVATIONS: AN INFORMAL HISTORY OF CULINARY OBNOXIOUSNESS

  1996: It’s “who you know,” and if you wanted to eat at Daniel, you’d better know Bruno. Everyone was friends with Bruno, however, which is how he has his own private club now.

  1997: The birth of the charming “we’re fully committed” euphemism. Asia de Cuba was the first to be so “professional.”

  1998: “We take reservations thirty days in advance.”

  1999: “Leave your request at the tone and we will call you back.” Moomba seated Madonna and Leonardo DiCaprio but not enough other people to stay in business.

  2000: A secret number no one else had. Becomes a problem when it kept people from calling. Commune became Rocco’s, the first restaurant reality show—which became cancelled, closed, and sued.

  2001: Call screening technology asks you to “please announce your name at the tone.” “We’re sorry,” they continue, “we are not able to receive your call at this time. Please try back.” People got sick of trying back at The Park, though they are still technically in business.

  2001: Simply no number listed. Thanks, Man Ray!

  2002: Allegedly, “we don’t take reservations.” Yet, somehow, there is a reservations book when you arrive and some people don’t wait. Brasserie’s dubious contribution to the food scene.

  2003–2005: The dining industry wracks their collective brains on how to keep customers away while staying in business.

  2006: “We’ll need a credit card to guarantee your table” at BLT.

  2007: TableXchange.com sells reservations for cash at places like The Trough. Now it’s “404 File Not Found.”

  2009: An email-only policy. I’ve been to the Waverly Inn many times, but have yet to meet this “Fritz.”

  * * *

  7.

  Mrs. Kinezevich, in the Hotel Room, with the Antique Russian Sword

  When working in an establishment like the InterContinental Hotel, you just get a sense for people. She was probably fifty or fifty-five, but I had the sense that the woman was traveled. She was wearing a schleppy-looking fur coat, but the fact that it was so worn indicated that she had probably been carting it around the world. Her hair was pulled back really, really tight, and she accessorized it with ornate barrettes that matched the ornate jewelry and the brooches she wore on both sides. The jewelry seemed like there was some history to them; they clearly weren’t just off the shelf from Van Cleef & Arpels. The pieces were very baroque, bigger than big. The entire effect made her seem like an old wall full of bad frames. She had a much younger guy with her, who had an odd air about him. Was he shy? Was he depressed? Was he planning a murder? She obviously had presence; he probably had skeletons.

  She announced herself very elegantly: “Sofiya Kinezevich, Six Continent Club Member.” The Six Continent Club was the platinum elite for the InterContinental hotel chain. Meeting them was like meeting hotel royalty. You knew you had to go a little extra for them, because they could complain and make trouble—and their complaints would be listened to.

  “How can I help you?” I asked her.

  “You know what I’d really love?” she said. “I’m looking for an antique Russian sword.”

  “No problem,” I replied, as if there were several Russian swords in my desk; all I had to do was reach down and show them to her. Russian swords, coming right up! That was kind of the fun of the concierge experience. The customers didn’t always just give us the task and let us do research; Sofiya stood there while I wracked my brain trying to figure out where to procure Russian swords—antique Russian swords.

  She smiled. I smiled. Even the shy companion smiled. I picked up the phone and began calling every crazy rococo antiques dealer I could think of on 61st and 62nd Streets. Nothing. I hung up the phone and started to dial up Christie’s; they could often point me in the right direction for things like this. If not them, I could call the Metropolitan Museum.

  “One second,” she said. “I’m also looking for some vintage Russian books, from the tsarist period.”

  “Have you tried Argosy Books, on East 59th Street?” I asked her. “That would be a great place to start. I’ll be happy to do more research if you’d like to tell me any specific titles that you’re looking for.”

  “In a moment. I think we’d like to get some food first. Can you recommend a Russian establishment? But Slavic. Not anything Ukrainian.”

  Oh my God, I thought, this is crazy. At first I loved this lady, with her kitschy jewelry. I thought she was fabulous, like Auntie Mame was staying at the hotel. But now we weren’t accomplishing anything. It was like she was asking me questions just to impress me.

  A lot of guests like to play the concierge equivalent of Stump the Band. They’re the kind of people who go to the wedding band and say, “Do you know Mozart concerto number three, second movement? Allegro? And … go!” All right, I thought. Enough of this, lady. What’s really going on here?

  “I just need a car service,” she said. “I’ll find it.”

  “Sure,” I told her. “When would you like the car?”

  “Well, right now.”

  “No problem. There are usually cars right around the hotel. We can go see if there are any town cars out front.” I walked her out to the car, glad to be able to move on to other things.

  “I just remembered,” she said, snapping her fingers. “The Russian embassy. I need the address.”

  “Of course.” I sprinted back into the hotel and found our diplomatic directory. I wrote the address for her on a card, and ran back out to the car and gave it to her.

  “Oh, you’re wonderful,” she told me. “Thank you so much.”

  She didn’t tip me, which was fine. She was off and out of my mind now. The concierge desk was short-staffed, with three people covering a seven-day-a-week shift between us. There was no shortage of requests at the desk for me to handle.

  Eight hours later, the car service dispatcher called me. “Uh, Mrs. Kinezevich has had our car since nine o’clock,” they told me.

  “Yeah, I know.” I was surprised that they were calling me; she was hardly the first guest to use a car all day.

  “But what do you want me to do?” the dispatcher asked.

  “It’s as directed,” I told him. “You stay with her until she’s done.”

  “Well, we dropped her off at the Russian embassy this morning and she told us to wait. But she still hasn’t come out.”

  Aw, crap. A lot of times at the hotel, people would forget that they told the driver to wait—and drivers do as they are told. That’s why booking a driver on an hourly basis is called an A/D (“as directed”). Car service in cities like New York is big business, and people rack up big bills—especially with A/Ds. The clock is ticking from the moment the car leaves with you until the moment you dismiss the driver. When people forget that the driver is waiting for them, the bill becomes hundreds of dollars. Even though it’s the guest’s own fault, they would almost always raise hell and contest the charges.

  The hotel knew that we were getting a commission (read: kickback) for the cars we hired, so anything that came up became our issue. But we wanted to try to preserve the peace as much as we could. We had to try to placate the car company and the customers, and not let matters reach the hotel at all. We used to negotiate with the customers. If they were nasty, I would hardball them. They had signed a binding document, after all. Sometimes we would have to cough up the money ourselves, and tell the car company to hold it out of our commission. But Sofiya wasn’t simply a regular guest. She was a Six Continent Club Member.

  It was always better, for all parties involved, to disappear a problem now instead of contesting it later. What do I do, what do I do? I thought. The car bill was already very high, but it’s not like there was a back entrance to the embassy that she could have exited out of. For now, the car would have to stay. As I finish
ed up for the day, I called the dispatcher again. “Did she come out yet?” I asked him.

  “Nope.”

  It had been like twelve hours already. “All right. Can you send the driver inside, to go ask if anybody had seen her?”

  “Sure.”

  A few minutes passed while I weighed my options. I wished she had rented a cell phone from us; that would have solved the whole problem. I wished all the guests rented cell phones from us. It was new technology at the time, and people wouldn’t know that they needed to turn it off. By the time they’d return it the minute counter would be in the hundreds, at a cost of two dollars a minute—and with no driver or concierge to blame.

  “No one’s seen her,” the dispatcher told me.

  “You know what? Leave. There’s nothing you can do.”

  “Well, she left a couple of things in the car.”

  In a hotel our size, things got lost all the time. I felt responsible. “Just bring them to me. I’ll take care of it.”

  Not too long after, the driver came and brought Mrs. Kinezevich’s pashmina and a bulging manila envelope. It was clasped shut, but it wasn’t glued. This is really weird, I thought to myself. What is this?

  I took the envelope to the back, where none of the guests could see what I was doing. Inside the envelope was a stack of papers, on top of which was a very official-looking cover letter with a seal on it, like some fancy family crest. It was addressed to Chase Bank. Not to, say, John Farnsworth, Chase Bank Vice President of Client Relations. It literally began with, “Dear Chase Bank.” I started flipping through the pages, skipping past the financial statements to get to the good stuff. I pulled up a chair, knowing that this was going to be a while.

  “Allow me to introduce myself,” she had written. “I am Sofiya Kinezevich Lermontov Kyansky”—she had sixteen names, every one Russian—“Romanov. I am the seventh generation of His Majesty” et cetera, et cetera. The point was that she was heiress to the Tsar and his fortune. It was quite formal and I’m sure the honorifics were accurate. Though it was gibberish, it made some sort of sense. In other words, I was clearly looking at the work of a crazy person. Crazy, but learned.