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now, the stool’s
imprint is permanently worn into his butt, not that I’ve looked mind you. Mr.
Peterson of the Peterson publishing empire and his wife always came to my bar to
have lunch, but Mr. Peterson would complain about how terrible the food was. He
loved to tell me stories about the good ol’ days, and how they all used to dine
like kings at his old restaurant, Scandia, on Sunset Boulevard.  He’d bought
the restaurant in the 1970’s from the original proprietors, Ken and Ted Hansen,
who had made it into a number one celebrity dining spot that had competed with
the Cricket Room of the time.
    The
waiters had worn red jackets, the captains differentiated in black jackets, and
the service was reputed to have been beyond impeccable. One guest recalled that
if you dropped your napkin, a swarm of staff would descend upon you to replace
it and lay it in your lap. The food, as he described it, was
Scandinavian-inspired luxury continental cuisine.  Having lived there, I’m
highly skeptical of the cuisine, but I always let him talk (read brag)
uninterrupted. Scandia’s sumptuous interior was
elegantly designed with exotic paneled woods that today’s tree huggers would
despise, copper and brass fixtures, bright red chairs, royal blue and white
china, and crystal vases. The kitchen had received many awards for its gourmet cuisine
from the ‘50’s through the ‘70’s.  Mr. Peterson even admitted to me that
he had no idea how to run a restaurant and finally in 1989, after losing money
for ten years, he had to close his beloved old-school eatery.  Now he came to
my bar to relive the old days, which sounded quite similar to the Cricket
Room’s heyday.  Today, if Frank Sinatra suddenly arose from the dead, the
Cricket Room would be the only place in the LA area where he’d feel
comfortable. We might even let him smoke.
    Right
next to Spector and his blonde mystery date was Warren Beatty at his usual
table, number two.  This time he was getting good service. Somebody probably
still has teeth marks on their ass from the chewing out they got, even though I
had saved the day by jumping in to help. Someone of Beatty’s stature should not
have to even ask for service, let alone wave his hand like an idiot flagging a
taxi.
    Next
to Beatty on table three was Steven Tyler, a rock and roll peacock in his flashy
outfit. Without the crap all tied into his hair, his ten pounds of jewelry, and
his over the top outfits, he would look more like somebody’s skinny grandfather
than a rock legend. But legend he is; I’m a huge fan and would have loved
nothing more than to act like a fan and run up to him for an autograph. That,
of course, was not done at the Cricket Room and would have gotten me fired
immediately.
    Suddenly
I felt as if I had truly arrived, and this was the Cricket Room I had been
hoping for.  “Fuck yeah, this is more like it.”
    As
I was gazing at these iconic figures from behind the bar, a memory flashed back
to me from my waiter-ing days in Boston. I was working at a trendy spot on Boylston
Street when Tyler walked up to me and asked: “Hey! What kinda beers you all
gots?” As if he were rapping out the lyrics for “Walk This Way.” He was just
about to order an Anchor Steam when his wife Cyrinda intervened. They later
went to a table where Joe Perry, Tom Hamilton, and their ladies joined them. 
Mid-dinner, Steven went to the bathroom and did not come out, even with the
band and Cyrinda pounding on the door.  Finally, the restaurant staff had to unscrew
the hinges. And there they found Tyler, passed out cold. They quickly paid
their bill and dragged Tyler’s limp body out with Perry and Hamilton holding
him up.  He certainly looked a lot more alive and healthy this time. It would
have been cool if he’d remembered me, but he probably didn’t remember that
night at all, let alone me.
    During
my early days at the Cricket Room, it seemed to me as if I was being auditioned
by many of the old