Concierge Confidential Read online

  Like a typical German hotelier robot, Ronald recited my conversation with Lucinda with exact precision. “Certainly we can’t be treating our guests like this,” he concluded.

  “That is absolutely ridiculous,” I insisted. “Look in the comments in her guest profile. Clearly the woman is out of her mind! Give me a break.” It was true. If you looked in her profile you’d see, ad nauseum: complaint; complaint; room moved; complaint; room moved; rebate.

  * * *

  COMPLAINT KARMA

  When you complain in a hotel, you leave a trail in the system. It’s all logged through programs like Fidelio, Opera, or Hot Sauce. It’s one of the big benefits of the industry-standard software. Staff often go out of their way to put positive comments in people’s portfolios. When people act great, staff want that to trail them to other hotels in the chain.

  The next time that a positive customer checks into a brand hotel in another city, whoever’s checking them in will see the comments. Everyone always looks at the comments; it’s an internal way for employees to warn one another or to encourage rewards for good behavior. When a customer I praised went to another InterContinental Hotel, I am positive that they received some perk upon checking in.

  Being nice is free—and it gets you free things.

  * * *

  Ronald did not dispute my denial. I had too good of a reputation. As smart as Lucinda Oskar was, she was also quite stupid, because now I had a bug up my ass just waiting to get back at her.

  The porter came down from her room and handed me her airline tickets, with a note of instructions. Apparently she didn’t take me up on my offer to call me directly. Her instructions were asking for me to reconfirm her tickets. Reconfirming tickets is a very European, very old-fashioned thing to do, one which there’s really no call for anymore.

  Lucinda’s tickets were for the 6:00 P.M. business-class flight back to London, wait-listed for first class. The 6:00 P.M. flight is the most popular flight; everyone wants to get out on that. With people as traveled as Lucinda, their ticket is usually not reflective of what they’re actually doing. They’ve changed it many times, but because they’re super-triple-platinum members they don’t bother them with more tickets. It all comes down to the confirmation number.

  I got on the phone and called British Airways—as she instructed. “Hi,” I said, “this is John, Lucinda Oskar’s assistant. I need to make some changes on her flight. Here’s the confirmation number.”

  I read the guy the number from the ticket. “All right,” he said. “How can I help you, John?”

  “She wants to switch to the ten o’clock flight.”

  “Well, she’s wait-listed for first class,” he pointed out.

  “Yeah, we’re not gonna do that. We’re gonna go with the ten o’clock flight.”

  “I’m sorry, but we don’t have any first-class seats available. We don’t even have any business available.”

  “That’s okay, that’s okay. Coach is fine.”

  “We’ll wait-list her for business class. But there are a lot of people ahead of her for the upgrade, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh, darn! That’s so unfortunate. All right, it’s probably best for me to just take a confirmed seat for her in coach. She’ll have to hope for the best. She just wants to get home, bless her heart.”

  From the sound of the seat number, she was practically in the back bathroom. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

  Should I? Shouldn’t I? Ah, what the hell. “Yes. She would like a Hindu meal.”

  Now I had to send her ticket back to her room with the porter. I was very careful to make sure that I had clean hands and nothing could be traced back to me. All I did was write “okay” on her note, which she could have interpreted any way she wanted. She must have had a great flight, because I never heard from Lucinda Oskar again.

  But even though Lucinda was a dreadful, horrible person, I didn’t have to deal with her or think about her when she wasn’t at the hotel. She wasn’t some nemesis that haunted me day in and day out, an enemy I couldn’t avoid dealing with no matter how much I tried.

  In other words, she wasn’t The Trough.

  The Trough was, and still is, the most impossible restaurant to get into in New York City. It’s been that way for over fifteen years, and it’s kind of crazy. Other places are often very hard to get into—Per Se, Union Square Cafe, and Dorsia come to mind—but for it to go on for that long is kind of unprecedented. As the buzz trickled into their restaurant, the consequence became an air of total arrogance.

  The whole idea of getting in somewhere fancy and important is to feel fancy and important. But when you go to The Trough restaurant, they make you feel like you’re trespassing. You’re taking a tour of Graceland, but all of the rooms are roped off. You’re welcome to step inside—but you’re not welcomed. Any restaurant-review website is full of scathing attacks on The Trough, simply because of their attitude. I absolutely loathe their whole condescending philosophy—and I eat my heart out because it’s so impossible to get in.

  Part of gaining access to a hot restaurant is knowing people on an individual basis. But you can’t just call a restaurant of that caliber and ask who the manager is. It’ll be like, “Um, who’s calling? We can’t give that out but I’ll leave a message that you called.” It’s very much need-to-know information.

  I used to case the place because it’s not far from my house. The Trough seems like a pretty unassuming establishment from the outside, but the “no trespassing” energy it generates could not be any clearer. I was mastering the art of getting past the gate, but this place psyched everyone. One day, I saw an Italian Wine Merchants truck double-parked outside, delivering wine. I looked up their phone number and called them. “Hey, I was dining at The Trough and I think they mentioned that you do the wine? I love their wine list. If I wanted to get something from their list, how would I do it?”

  “That’s no problem. Was there anything in particular you were looking for?”

  “Yes, I was just in there talking to the manager. To … uh … oh, man. I’m totally blanking on his name.”

  “It’s Hal.”

  “Hal? Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, it’s Hal Druiter.”

  I chuckled at my “forgetfulness.” “Of course,” I continued, scribbling down the name while it was fresh in my mind. “I just love him. I’m going to ask Hal for his favorites and then call you back. Thanks so much! You’ve been a big help.”

  Now that I had his name, I called the restaurant asking for him specifically. I called over and over—and left messages over and over. It was all for naught, but I still felt like I had gotten one step closer. I knew for a fact that The Trough had several tables specifically reserved for walk-ins. A lot of restaurants do hold literally a couple of tables for walk-ins (though not for reservations). They’re designated just for that purpose, and they’re usually at the bar or are side tables. If you put your ego in your pocket, walk in there, and say that you’ll be happy to wait for a half hour, you will get a table.

  One night I went into The Trough for dinner without a reservation, knowing that if I waited I’d get a table eventually—and get to meet Hal. When I saw him I was surprised, because he looked somewhat nondescript. He was about fifty years old, with a very precise blond hairstyle. But he was very charismatic and seemed like he recognized everyone. “Hi,” I said to him when I walked in. “I’m Michael Fazio. You’re so hard to get in touch with! You must see my name every day on your call list.”

  “Oh, yeah,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  “We’re just going to try your walk-in policies tonight,” I told him, using the right lingo.

  “Great. It’ll be just half an hour or forty-five minutes.”

  I had money to give him, but I wasn’t sure when I should pass it along. Giving straight cash is always a tricky thing to gauge. It can be in anticipation of a favor or as gratitude, or you can mean it to be one but it’ll end up being perceived as the oth
er. I went up to him when he stepped away from the podium. “Wow, you guys are so hot. It must be fun to work here. I bet everyone does what I do and are always bothering you. I hope you understand we concierges are on the frontlines. Everybody looks at us like we’re idiots because we can’t get them in here. I’m sorry to bother you but it’s my job.” I shook his hand and palmed him $200.

  He didn’t make a show of protesting, as most maître d’s in my experience tend to do before pocketing the cash. He pretended nothing had happened. But two seconds later, we were being seated at a table—and Hal Druiter was my new best friend, as nice as can be.

  Hoping to be seen, I did a quick scan of the other diners. Were we even in New York City, let alone downtown? It didn’t buzz like other places with that kind of hype. Where were all the alleged celebrities? The crowd was clearly a well-heeled bunch, but there were no air kisses. It felt a little bit like we were all guests at a wedding where we really didn’t know the family.

  The food itself was really, really good—just like at ten thousand other restaurants in New York. But the larger part of going to eat at a nice restaurant is the experience, and that’s where it fell flat.

  It’s engaging to let people in service know that you’re really enthusiastic about what you’re about to experience. It makes them want to make the experience even better for you—if they’re normal. But there didn’t seem to be any sense of excitement from the staff at The Trough.

  We got the menu and I looked it over. “It all seems so good. What’s your favorite thing to try?” I asked the waiter.

  He sighed with irritation. “Well, it depends on what you like. If you like fish, then this one is good.”

  After I left that night, I made sure to say good-bye to Hal. “Call me anytime,” he told me. “You’re the best. Let me give you our direct line.”

  Cool, I thought. I got the number!

  A couple of weeks later, a guest wanted a reservation for a table. I called the number—but it was the same as the regular one, except it bypassed the hold music. Some secret! “Sorry,” they told me on the phone. “We have nothing.”

  “Well, will you tell Hal that I called?

  He actually called me back. “What do you want?” he said. He wasn’t very warm and he wasn’t very cold; it was just very businesslike.

  “I’m so desperate,” I said.

  “What do you need?” he said.

  “Can I get a four-top in at eight?”

  “What’s the name?” he said, impatiently. He didn’t want to linger on the phone because he didn’t need to linger on the phone. I had a short, specific request, and it was granted. The guest got their table and I did my job. Everyone was happy. I’m so in now, I thought.

  Now I felt comfortable recommending The Trough to the guests of the hotel. The next time I called, I thought my old buddy Hal would be glad to speak to me. But it was my old buddy Hal—the one who didn’t know me from Adam—who was on the other end of the line.

  “Hi, is Hal there?”

  “Hold on,” the hostess said. “Who’s calling?”

  “It’s Michael Fazio.”

  “Let me check.” They put me on hold, and I was forced to listen to opera music for a few minutes. “Yeah, he’s going to have to get back to you.”

  Crap. Crap, crap, crap!

  I went back there after work one night, about eleven o’clock. I sat at the bar and ordered a drink. Hal was there at his station but, even though it was late, he was still busy. He didn’t act like he really remembered me, which I didn’t take offense to. “Hey, Hal,” I said, when he had a minute. “Can I buy you a drink?” Obviously he doesn’t need to pay for drinks at his own place, but it’s a gesture of respect—just like when you buy strippers a drink.

  “No, no, no,” he told me. He didn’t really say anything else or even engage me in conversation, which I also didn’t take offense at.

  As I was leaving, I stopped by him one more time. “Thanks again for everything,” I said, palming him fifty dollars more.

  I was a little taken aback that he didn’t do what other people in his position usually do, which is to feign humility. “Thanks for coming in,” he said, pocketing the money without any protest.

  The next time I called them, I got the reservations that I needed—and then Hal stopped taking my calls again. Damn, I thought. Here we go again. But he had a bit of an excuse; the person on the other end of the line told me that he was in Italy on vacation. Since I knew “the number” I had a little bit of creditability with them. “Where is he in Italy?” I asked. “I want to send something to him.”

  “He’s in Capri,” she told me. Then she gave me the name of the hotel where he was staying.

  Abbie speaks Italian, so she called his hotel. We sent him a beautiful bottle of wine, a bottle of Limoncello, and some pasticiotti. All this was not cheap. Abbie spoke to the concierge at the hotel and they attached a note, in Italian, to the gift. We thought we were being really classy, and we thought we were being kind of clever. We had found him all the way out in Italy and sent him a gift that was thoughtful.

  Now we sat back and waited for the phone to ring. But there was no acknowledgment, not even a terse note. There was nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing. Maybe we were being too upfront and honest for Hal’s taste. We were establishing the boundaries of our relationship, but in doing so we were robbing him a little bit of his power. Maître d’s—like concierges—cultivate an air of mystery about their position. They don’t like their clients to feel totally comfortable. It’s very much a situation where good service is given when they feel like it—not when you demand it.

  But now I had to get a reservation that was very important. My friend Courtney worked at Bergdorf’s, and she would always do really nice things for my clients and me. She would call and let me know that in ten days a certain collection was going to go on sale. I’d send people in. They’d pick out what they wanted, give it to Courtney, and she’d give it to them at sale price—and ring up the purchase ten days later.

  Her corporate buyers were coming into New York, and she wanted to impress them. No surprise, but they wanted to go to The Trough for dinner. She called me right away, anxious that I make this happen.

  “Of course I can do it,” I told her. “Don’t worry.”

  I managed to connect with Hal on the phone; maybe he was relaxed after having gone on his Italian vacation. “Incidentally,” I asked him, “Abbie and I sent you something. Did you get our gift?”

  “Oh, yeah!” he said. “That was great! How’d you know where I was?” He was more curious than grateful. I got the message: we weren’t that kind of friend. I was trying to be that kind of friend, but failing.

  “I really, really wouldn’t bother you if I didn’t need this one reservation,” I told him. “This is a favor for a close friend.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” he replied. It wasn’t a yes, and it wasn’t a no. He clearly didn’t want to keep the door open for me to call anytime in the future. But I hoped that maybe he’d help this one time—and then I’d leave him the hell alone, like he wanted.

  But Hal never called me back, and Courtney went ahead and told her guests that they’d be eating at The Trough.

  I didn’t want to be a pig and call him again. He had made it clear that we’re not pals. None of my gestures was reciprocated. The Trough was literally—literally—the only place where those gestures didn’t work. Maître d’s know that concierges are kind of like matchmakers—we recommend their places to customers who would appreciate it, and we send them customers who would behave appropriately and add to their vibe. But no matter what you do, at The Trough you’re still just an outsider.

  It got to be the day of the reservation, and I started to get a bit of an attitude. I kept calling him, and calling him, and calling him, and calling him—and Courtney started calling me.

  “This guy’s being a dick,” I told her.

  “I already told them that we’re going,” she reminded
me.

  I imagined Courtney calling her buyers, who were totally psyched about eating at The Trough. She’d have to tell them that she was a loser and actually didn’t get the reservation after all—and then she’d have try and do business with them in the future? It would be awful.

  At around five o’clock, Hal finally got back to me. “I can’t promise you anything,” he said, “but just tell her to come and see me.”

  So I called Courtney. “Come by the hotel,” I told her. “I want you to take something with you.”

  She didn’t have that much money to throw around, and she didn’t feel totally comfortable accepting money from me, but she had to do it so that she wouldn’t have egg on her face. I didn’t want Courtney to feel awkward, so I didn’t tell her that it was money I was giving her—and certainly not how much. I put it in an envelope so she’d never know. “When you get there,” I instructed her, “say hi to Hal. Give him this and tell him it’s from Michael.”

  Courtney and her group went down to the restaurant—and I didn’t hear anything the entire night. I was sure that it all backfired. But she called me first thing the next day. “You are amazing!” she said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He took the envelope and sat us right away.”

  Abbie and I gave up on The Trough, and started playing by their rules. They take reservations thirty days in advance, and they open at 10:00 A.M. We would always start dialing at 9:56, a month before we needed a reservation. But even if we got through at 10:01, they never had 8 o’clock tables available. It would always be like 6:45, or 10:30. Maybe the 8 o’clocks are the ones that Hal uses for some sick I’ll-decide-who’s-worthy game.

  I couldn’t be more over The Trough if I tried—and I wasn’t alone. I’ve yet to meet a concierge in the city who didn’t roll their eyes at the name.

  Whenever a hotel guest would request reservations for The Trough, I would always tell them, “You know, everybody wants to go there. I get it. But we get much better feedback from other places. The food is great, but they aren’t going to make you feel very special.”