Notes from Underground

Or My Life in Nightlife

Fashion Week

 

Restaurants love opening during fashion week. Especially places that fancy themselves fashiony and want to attract a fashiony crowd. Personally, attracting a fashiony crowd sounds like a bad way to run a restaurant to me, but I guess that should have been my first hint that [MexicanRestaurant] was more beast than restaurant.

We still don’t have uniforms, so I show up wearing the same thing I wore for the Fancy Tequila Dinner. Much to my surprise, some fashiony gentlemen are there to adorn me, because they are displaying their line at the party, and I need to look like I am in some way affiliated.

They ask if my name is Russian and comment on my insoles, revealed when I take off my boots.

It’s a men’s clothing line, so our options are sort of limited. They have me try on a striped button-down. I look like a five year old wearing my dad’s nightshirt. But they didn’t call me big foot in the fifth grade for nothin’, so we find a pair of shoes that work, and they tie a sort of belt-type-thing around my waist, over the shirt I had shown up in. They all take a step back and look at me with their chins in their hands, and their expressions say that I’m that short, frumpy work of art that’s just not quite coming together.

“Yeah, that’ll do,” they say, and walk away.

Other First Hire, however, is completely outfitted, and though he is griping, actually doesn’t look half bad.

AGM is there and she looks simultaneously fashiony and awesome in some blue transparent-net-dress-thing.

We were supposed to be open as a restaurant by now, but so far it’s just been training— the date for friends and family keeps getting pushed back. I hear murmurs about an issue with the liquor license, but nothing concrete. GM jokes that every night of fashion week we should just pay someone to stand outside and say that we’re closed for a “private event”. Not a bad idea.

Anyway all I know about this event is that we’ve got a bunch of models and donated alcohol. Go!

Oh and that Lady Gaga is rumored to show up.

In the kitchen, Chef explains what each tray of canapés is. I’m not terribly familiar with the food yet, as we’ve only had one tasting, and most of the ingredients are foreign to me. This isn’t Mexican food like I’ve ever seen before— what I would have thought was an empanada is in fact a quesadilla. Things like gorditas, flautas, and tostadas all appear to be part of a greater category called antojitos… he keeps talking about epazote and huitlacoche but I have no idea what those are… there’s not much time, the food is hot, and Chef’s accent and eccentric English make it difficult for me to grasp his explanations over the din of the kitchen. So I pay it forward and mumble some things that sound vaguely like what he said as I offer up my tray, and smile politely in the face of people’s confused stares.

There is a line of male models posed along one wall sporting the fashion label’s latest looks. I’m passing canapés amidst a flurry of camera flashes, and one of the designers pulls me aside to request that I make sure the boys get some food. I’m about to drop them a tray of something-that-I-think-are-gorditas when I spy Cute Scruffy Investor, formerly known as the one in the Henley tee. I ask if I can get him anything and he says yes, he’ll take a Brave Man. I know enough to guess that that’s one of our pulque cocktails, so I drop the tray of probably-gorditas in the PDR for the boy models and rush off to the bar.

Encountering AGM on the way, she asks why I’m not passing food and I explain to her about Cute Scruffy Investor. “Ah, yes,” she nods wisely, “that’s his drink. Just make sure he has one in his hand at all times tonight. In fact, maybe you should cocktail for awhile. I’ll tell Other First Hire to worry about the food.”

After bringing Cute Scruffy Investor his tomatillo-pulque-brave-whatever-the-fuck I walk around with a tray of other pulque cocktails, which were briefly explained to me by the surly bar manager, after the story about how his father taught him how to make pulque when he was a child. Cool. Pink is watermelon, yellow is corn, white is jicama, and green is tomatillo. Got it. Gracias.

“Excuse me, what is this?”

“That’s the Two Rabbits. One of our pulque cocktails. It’s made with jicama.”

“Oh, um… so what’s this one?”

“That’s the Inebriated Monkey. Also one of our pulque cocktails. With watermelon.”

“I’m sorry, pul-what?”

“Pulque… it’s… um, it’s made from agave.”

“But is it like, alcoholic?”

“Yeah… these drinks also all have tequila in them.”

“Oh! Great. Thanks.”

But after doing a lap my tray was still full, so I just stood in a corner, hoping someone would lighten my load.

After standing there for a few minutes with an increasingly weakening forearm, I heard someone whisper my name from inside the coat check.

It was Bald Girl Server, who had somehow gotten on AGMs bad side and was therefore relegated to taking coats for the evening. She had a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “You know what helps me when I’m passing drinks? I just stand there and think about something really nasty that I did in bed. Your tray will be empty in one minute. Try it.”

I went back to my corner and followed her advice. God damn it, she was right. As I walked back to the bar to replenish my tray, I caught her smiling at me knowingly.

When I went to bus the plate that I had left for the boy models, I caught one of them stuffing the last probably-a-gordita into his mouth. He was all alone in the PDR, probably eating his feelings. Or maybe just hungry. I laughed. He laughed.

The space got more and more crowded to the point where it was difficult to move. But boy-oh-boy did I keep Cute Scruffy Investor supplied in Brave Man Cocktails. He was nearly drowning in Brave Men. So much so that he may have even tried to remember my name at one point.

I was keeping half an eye open for Lady Gaga, but she was nowhere to be found. However, AGM did send me to insure the contentment of several VIPs on table four. The group, which included Rose McGowan, complained that they had been unable to battle the crowds at the bar. I fought through hell and high-water to bring them their cocktails in a timely fashion. “You’re a star,” Rose thanked me upon receipt of her vodka tonic. You hear that, everyone? Rose McGowan says I’m a star.

Passing back by the PDR I caught the lone hungry model solo-eating again. I laughed. He laughed. We talked about how he is from Australia.

But my time to chat is limited because now things are really getting out of control. I feel like I’m playing the Sims: Restaurant Edition and I can see everybody’s anger levels rising as their booze level falls because the bar is so slammed. I cut through the kitchen because I can’t carry a tray through that crowd, and I find two other servers sharing a bright pink cocktail which I identify as the Inebriated Monkey.

“Whatever,” Sassy Server says, “we fucking deserve it, putting up with this shit.”

She hands me the mug and I drink, it’s sweet but probably would be refreshing if it were cold. Unfortunately it is not.

The boy models have now been liberated from their post and I find the Australian one back in the bar. There was just enough tequila in that cocktail to make me think it’s a good idea to talk to him, so I saunter up. “Still hungry?” I put on my best flirtatious affectation. “No… but can you bring me a glass of water?”

Ah. OK. Walking away I realize that there are two kinds of customers: Those who see you as a means to an end, and those who see you as a person.

Sassy Server catches my eye as she heads back into the kitchen with three tequila shots and I follow her.

Just as I put the empty shot glass in the dish pit, AGM rushes through the door, her arms full of glasses, eyes panicked. “Go bus every glass you can find. Everything.”

I rush into the bar and am nearly run down by a bartender carrying maybe ten bottles of tequila into the basement. The others are anxiously pulling everything from behind the bar. Guests are milling about confusedly, drunk but concerned.

A slightly wobbly girl grabs my arm while I’m filling my tray. “Why can’t we exit?” she demands.

“Excuse me?”

“Why can’t we go outside? What’s going on?”

“I… I don’t know anything about that. I’m sorry.”

Sassy Server comes back into the bar from the dining room, muttering something like “Do we even have our fucking liquor license?” under her breath as she passes close to me.

I flee the scene and start grabbing glasses that have been left in the staircase. From above on the street I see red and blue lights and hear shouting. AGM comes down through the staircase, seems initially angry when she perceives somebody in the staircase, but then sees my tray. “Oh thank God, that’s a good idea.”

“Do you need me to do anything else right now?”

“No… just… what you’re doing. And don’t let anybody up these stairs.”

“OK… and, um, why exactly are we doing this? I mean… with the bar, and the bottles, and….”

AGM inhales, sizes me up through narrowed eyes, and then exhales wearily.

“Don’t repeat this. It’s just that… we may or may not have secured our liquor license at this point…”.

“Ah. I see.”

If you have ever had a nightmare about being trapped in a Mexican Labyrinth… well, I have lived that nightmare.

Worming my way through the crowd trying to clear the evidence of just how much potentially illegal alcohol these people have consumed this evening, I overhear murmurs of “What the fuck is going on” and “I don’t think I’ve ever been told I can’t leave a venue…”.

One of the bartenders loads me up with the last of the bottles and sends me downstairs into the basement. On my way back up I find Sassy Server freaking out in a corner at the top of the staircase. “Do you have any idea what’s going on?”

“I… no. No idea. I… I think the police might be upstairs.”

“Do we have our liquor license?”

“I don’t know. I would assume so…..”

“Because if we don’t, then we could all be held responsible for serving alcohol without a license.”

“Yeah.”

“Which would be bad. Like, really bad.”

“Yeah.”

“So, I’m asking you, do we have our liquor license?”

“I… I don’t know.”

Five minutes later I saw her with her bag, the other girl following.

“Guys, no one is supposed to go outside…”.

“I don’t give a fuck. This is so ridiculous. Whether we have it or not, I’m not gonna stick around to find out. Either way, we’re so far over capacity… Honestly, I’ve been waiting tables for ten years, and I’ve never seen such a shitshow.”

In the back server station I find Other First Hire downing a shot of tequila. “Dude, come on," I start to lay into him, "we’re supposed to be getting rid of all of that stuff.”

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

AGM comes back and says that the cops are gone. People start trickling out. Somebody taps me on the shoulder, I turn around to find Rose McGowan. She is miniscule.

"Oh, yeah, it's OK," I tell her, "you can exit now."

"No, just..." she fishes in her purse. "You were helping me before. Here." She hands me a fifty dollar bill. Nice.

Back in the bar I find the Australian model.

“More water?”

“No, but… well, my friend wants your number.”

Ah ha. Maybe I am a person.

“Which friend?”

He points down the bar to one of the boy models who looks like he just may be over twenty-one. Boy model clearly knows what conversation we’re having, he smiles sheepishly (read: adorably) and waves.

“Well then, tell him to come ask me.”

Australian Model motions at Boy Model to come over.

“This is Boy Model, Boy Model, this is…”

“Annika.”

“Hi.” He has curly hair and what promises to be a sick body under the artfully-half-buttoned shirt the designer had dressed him up in.

Six months later he was still texting me, and still in my phone as Boy Model.

The only thing is, I was wrong about the whole over-twenty-one thing.

After an hour I'm still cleaning up. The liquor has been restored behind the bar. As it turns out, because we weren't charging (everything was paid up front by whoever was throwing the party), we were never really in danger of having a liquor license issue. But we destroyed all the evidence in the interest of playing it safe.

“Where’s Other First Hire?” I asked AGM when the place was mostly closed.

“I sent him home…he didn’t seem like he was helping much.”

“Fair enough. How much longer do you need me?”

“I think we’re done here. Do you have plans?”

It was three in the morning, so my only plan had been heading back to my twin-sized mattress on the floor.

“Not really…”.

“Cool. Let’s go drink upstairs.”

[Mexican Restaurant] is next door to a speak-easy style bar, operated by the same owners. AGM led me up a back staircase, and we emerged behind a gorgeous marble bar covered with antique-style bottles filled with what appeared to be potions.

Cute Scruffy Investor was lounging on a divan, and Male Co-Owner was smoking a cigarette in a wing chair. Mustachioed bartenders in lab coats were breaking everything down. A large doorman in a black overcoat came in from the street, locking the door behind him. AGM pulled up two leather ottomans for herself and me next to Male Co-Owner.

“So?” she asked him.

“She was here,” he replied.

“Oh yeah, I know. She was so incognito. I loved her dress.”

“She was fucking here.”

“Wait,” I interjected, “Who?”

“Sefani Germanotta,” Male Co-Owner replied, “Lady Fucking Gaga.”

“What?” I was astonished.

“Yeah, crazy, right?” a shorter guy who seemed rather underdressed for the evening had joined us. “Hi,” he shook my hand, “I’m I.T. guy. I live upstairs. And I do the computers for [Mexican Restaurant].”

AGM lit a cigarette and leaned back against the elaborately upholstered wall, removing her shoes.

“I didn’t realize we could smoke in here.”

“Eh, you can smoke anywhere after hours.”

Male Co-Owner stood up and started doing a sort of jig.

“Stefani Germanotta. Lady fucking Gaga. Was. In. My. Restaurant!”

“You did it. Congratulations. Now all you have to do is show up for your court date.”

“Court date?” I asked.

“Male Co-Owner gave the police a bit of a hard time…”.

“It was worth it,” he smirked.

AGM went up to the bar and poured us each a glass of wine. We toasted.

“Happy Fashion Week.”