A Hole In The Ace or What An Acehole

By count there are twelve employees huddled en masse behind the stretching counter at The Ace Hotel’s King's Highway Restaurant in Palm Springs. And to apply an overused but appropriate simile, they are the flailing body parts of a chicken run amok with its head cut off.  There’s a flap afoot that I’m not privy to. Instead, I wait at the entrance for what seems like an eternity (3-4 minutes in real time, but we’re dealing with that empty pit in my stomach), and am thoroughly ignored by the retirement-age hostess in her Florida Red State rust red dye job and over-sized Boca Raton glasses that harmonize nicely with the hairdo and lip liner. She too is distracted by this counter cluster fuck. She meanders over to add her unsolicited opinion, while I stew in my own juices. By the way, I’m hard to miss;  I might even be obstructing the flow of sunlight into the restaurant.

A minor Celebrity Rehab non-celebrity whisks by me in a pork pie hat, schlepping his equally with-it  doppelganger baby. Maybe Dad's taking a break from a symposium at the Betty Ford Center. He greets an awaiting table and slides in.  When did the great unwashed take over the world?  I haven’t bathed in two days, does that count for nothing? I notice that celeb rehab guy is placing his order anon and the server is fawning over his swaddled spawn.

I wait for some sort of fauxhemian acknowledgement or even a “ ’sup man “ from the hipster staff. Come on now. This place used to be a Dennys. I am transported back to my tender youth and that horrible high school pecking order. The waiters here are at the top. There’s an evolutionary relatedness, but that 1% DNA differential  makes all the difference. I am a chimp. Or at least, I feel like one. 

I seem to recall in restaurant etiquette there’s no need to be escorted to a counter seat, so I help myself to an end spot and eavesdrop. What were once twelve has diminished to 8. There’s a growing concern about a large party in the center of the room that also continues to grow with new arrivals. Apparently this quandary is of such monumental importance, it takes the entire staff to navigate a plan of attack. Time stops and I have gained the unwanted super power of invisibility. Servers stream past in low-slung hip huggers and tight plaid shirts, oblivious to my presence.  Their angsty put upon grimaces draw my attention, but I can’t seem to attract theirs at all, or a menu for that matter.  Like I said before, I’m hard to miss.

I grab a to-go menu from under the nose of Florida Red, and return to my seat with a heavy sigh and unrecognized superiority. I’m not going to ask for help. I’m going to endure and wait in suffering silence. Or I’m going to splatter myself in kitchen grease and self-immolate in protest. I choose the former. Passive aggressive till the very end.

The counter bunch has increased again. Ten. The restaurant manager expedites orders and calls out tickets like the line in a Michelin rated restaurant, but the holey-jeaned greasy haired staffers transmit a cool, disinterested interest.

There’s one other customer at the counter and he’s finishing up. I look to the table behind me. The “Trouble Table”. The one creating a stir. Congregated there I discover more trendy non-conformist conformists. Silverlake has spread to the desert and it’s not pretty. The patrons look like the wait staff. There’s more rear cleavage, beards and tattoos than a Roto-Rooter reunion.  It’s a modern version of The Last Supper: A long table where all the diner’s attentions are focused on the guy with the raddest facial hair.  In this adaptation, Thomas is doubting his lox are truly cured in tequila and JC feels more betrayed by his luke warm cheddar poblano grits than by any of his trendier-than-thou disciples.  I’m overdoing it. But damn it, I’m hungry.

And then “ What can I get you hon?” She wears a tired smile and sunglasses. At long last.

The wait is short. The food comes in less than ten minutes. Poached eggs, sour dough toast, Yukon gold hash browns, and a side of those grits. Maybe JC’s a bit of a nit picker. The poached eggs are overdone. I want those perfectly poached eggs that spill yolk like yellow motor oil. The ones Gordon Ramsey wets himself over, not these half hard ova. The sour dough toast is delicious. Texas style: Thick and a bit chewy. There’s a nice surprise with a roasted tomato, but the Yukon hash browns are a mushy off-white lump with no flavor. I save the grits for last as they hold the most promise. JC was right. Luke warm. There’s some flavor and a bit of heat provided by the chilies, but ultimately blandness wins out.

I whip out a legal pad and start jotting down some notes. Today is the day I shall start my blog. I’ll write about this disappointing encounter. The indignities I’ve endured. Without warning, I seem to have become the center of attention. At least 3 servers ask about my dining experience. “More water?”. “How is everything?” “Can I get you anything else?” What's with this latent loquaciousness? Suddenly I’m persona grata. Where was all this 30 minutes ago when I really could have used it? It’s like the wife beater that gives his wife flowers. Nice afterthought but what about the black eye? Is it the legal pad drawing them in? And a new thought enters my mind : Shit, I should have had the chiliquilles.

I thought I was going to write about food, but instead I am writing about the people who deliver it. What ever happened to a friendly greeting and a genuine smile? It’s been replaced with an aloofness and pretense that instantly puts you “in your place”. When did hip become rude and over it? Or has it always been that way?

I’m reminded of the video store movement in Los Angeles in the 90s after Quentin Tarrintino’s star rose with Reservoir Dogs and ascended with Pulp Fiction. Suddenly the lowly video store clerk had ascended as well. With an encyclopedic knowledge of cinema and an MFA in film studies, many video store employees emitted a palpable contempt and superiority to the inferior consumer. Tarantino had sharpened his skills with a stint at Video Archives in Manhattan Beach. This oft reported fact seemed to lift the lowly video clerk to a revered status, and there was an assumption that within every video store clerk was an undiscovered film auteur.( I served my time behind the VHS curtain when I was nineteen, and at the time it seemed like a dream come true: To be surrounded by the thing I love the most. But this was Redwood Valley, a small suburb of a less small town. Folks were more interested in Ghostbusters II than my burgeoning interest in non-mainstream movies.) Does anyone recall trying to get the attention of an employee at Cinephile, Vidiots, Rocket Video or Videoactive? Don’t interrupt that intense conversation behind the counter dissecting the highs and lows of Joseph Losey’s career, your membership might be revoked.

I thought I was writing about food. Then I thought I was writing about the folk that bring it tableside.

But once again I wind up here. It comes down to film. Writing it, watching it, being moved or changed by it. I guess this blog really is about movies, cinema, film… whatever you call it.

My dad used to say if I knew my homework as well as I knew the contents of TV Guide, I’d be a straight A student. I’ve been following the box office report since the age of twelve. I’ve been obsessed since I can remember. Continue to be. Opinionated. Over critical. Hypercritical. Hypocritical.

I get up to leave. (We’re back at the restaurant now. Think of the dream within a dream within a dream of Inception) Florida Red is distracted once more, doesn’t see my hulking form. Someone finally comes up, takes my credit card. Not the hostess. A waiter. Smiling friendly for a moment then indifferent as he drops my card and rushes back to the pick-up window. I turn to leave, and good ‘ol Red calls after         “ Come back Again!” I’d like to imagine that she’s only biding her time here, waiting for her ship to come in. Like many of us… Like those waiters… Wordlessly shouting, “This isn’t really me. This isn’t what I do.”

In the nineties, when I was a waiter (Yeah, I did that too. Not very well, but I tried.) there was a woman I worked with that had earned the nickname frowny (she in turn had a stalking customer she referred to as Mr. Salty because of his resemblance to Mr. Salty of pretzel box fame. But that’s another story). She had a fixed glower on her face that she reserved exclusively for customers. She pulsated with resentment. She was also one of the funniest people I had ever met. She preformed with a local improve group. Her characters were memorable and her sketch writing skills were concise and hilarious. Many of her colleagues went on to fame and popularity on Saturday Night Live. She went on to teach at the acclaimed school. I looked her up on IMDB recently, and it seems she has had a successful career parlaying her writing artistry. Many people I have met over the years have gone on as well, some to great artistic acclaim.

I’m still waiting for my ship to come in. Still waiting for that series to be picked up, that play to go off-Broadway, that spec script to draw a seven-figure payday. After all these years I refuse to give up.

I head next door to Koffi for a drink and to write something down. ( Koffi recommended, King’s Highway, not so much).  Fourteen-year-old Tony De Franco croons “Heartbeat, It's A Lovebeat” over the sound system. I sang that song in the sixth grade talent show and came in second place.  Haven’t heard much from Tony De Franco lately. Maybe he hit his stride too early. Maybe I haven’t hit mine yet. I suppose that's what I was trying to get to in a round about way.