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elegance of Cary Grant, Doris Day, Marlene
Dietrich, and the other stars of Hollywood’s heyday who were frequent guests
here.
    Sometimes
in quiet moments, I stood behind my bar soaking in the atmosphere, feeling like
king shit, and thought about why I was there, in that special place. For a
bartender, this was hallowed ground. Hearing Cricket Room celebrity stories
from the past, often told by guests, other employees, and even management, made
me jealous, but not of the people who witnessed them.  I just wanted something similar
to happen to me.  I wanted to see movie and reality show stars have impulsive arguments,
emotional meltdowns, and passionate hookups. I also wanted to help them blow
ridiculous bundles of cash at my bar.  So far, my only real celebrity encounter
had been with Warren Beatty, and aside from being impatient, he’d behaved
perfectly. Why couldn’t he have stood up in the booth, started throwing dishes,
and ripping off his clothes? Now that would have been something. I wanted chaos
and mayhem dammit. Bring on the crazy. Somebody come in and let your freak flag
fly high and proud. I was anxious for a chance to prove that I had the training
and maturity to handle it. I was prepared for anything short of murder.
    For
the first six months though, working the bar had been uneventful.  No guest
ever stumped me with some fucked up made-up drink request, and even if they had
I would have just made something up and served it. People who pull that crap on
bartenders never know the difference if you serve it with confidence. It’s all
in the attitude.
    The
drinks ordered were all old school.  By the glass: French Champagne like Veuve
Cliquot and the occasional Dom at a mere $100 a glass; high-end wines from our
rotating list of fourteen wineries from around the world; vodka martinis
(mostly Ketel One, Grey Goose or our most expensive at the time, Ultimat, in
its signature cobalt bottle); gin martinis (Bombay Sapphire and Tanqueray); lots
of Old-Fashioneds and Manhattans (mainly mixed with Maker’s Mark Bourbon); aged
Scotch whiskey (primarily Macallan 18 and 25 and an occasional Balvenie or
Lagavulin for those who wanted to grow hair on their backs); and basic mixed
drinks. Negroni, a bitter concoction of gin, Campari and vermouth, was ordered
mainly by Italian and French guests.  Singapore Sling was Hunter Thompson’s
favorite when he had been a famously frequent guest, especially during the ‘60s
and ‘70s. Every year, Hunter Thompson fans would actually come in on his
birthday to drink Singapore Slings in his honor.  I could easily picture the
iconic writer sitting at the bar, wearing his trademark tinted glasses, smoking
a cigarette, discussing world events or politics. Ahhhh, the bad old days.
    One
day I was furtively checking out some skinny, goofy-looking guy at table number
one who wore large cartoonish glasses and sported a hairdo that looked as if he’d
gone to clown school, then seen a ghost and been electrocuted at the same
time.  It took me a minute until I realized that I was looking at Phil Spector,
who was famous for his music and in later years for his murder trial.  Many of
the songs you know were either written or produced by this little twerp. He was
sitting with a blonde girl who looked a hell of a lot like Lana Clarkson, the
woman he later murdered, and who was also about the same age.  But according to
court testimony, it couldn’t have been Lana because he claimed to have met her
for the first time at the House of Blues on the night she was killed.  This was
pre-murder, however, and the Cricket Room doesn’t even vaguely resemble The
House of Blues. He’s now serving prison time, no doubt singing soprano to his
girlfriend, Inmate #70238956 a/k/a Butch.
    It
was lunchtime and two old regulars who had been coming to the Cricket Room for
at least twenty years were sitting at the bar.  Mr. Peterson said he preferred
the lounge’s bar atmosphere to our formal dining room. By