You may know me from the Italian restaurant that sits on the short stretch of San Vicente, in Brentwood. Small clue, I know. Brentwoodians like their Italian more than celebrities like their Crackberry, I mean Pinkberry (or did I mean Blackberry?).
It’s the Italian spot where the servers recite 40 specials from memory. It was like performing 20 monologues a night in a play, titled: “Discover Me.â€
I lasted two years, but things grew intense when a busboy threatened to kill me.
My crime? I didn’t replenish the breadbaskets. But the busboy doesn’t know what I know. After all, this is the Westside, and you would prefer not to be tempted by the focaccia. Thank me later.
I moved to a posh restaurant a few driveways into Santa Monica – but don’t tell that to the owners who prefer the Brentwood name. Here, the waiters are called captains. During service, the staff communicates by sign language. I was finally realizing my dream of playing in the majors, when one day I accidentally gestured to the hostess a task meant for the sommelier. One strike, I was out…
No fear, there’s an interview for a restaurant opening on Montana Avenue. During rush hour, I hustle my car seven blocks. Three hours later, I arrive to find 200 actors waiting impatiently.
Management likes my headshot and resume. Next, a 50-page test on food and wine. Easy. As I’m about to leave, they pull out my discontinued friend – the Polaroid. I suggest we take the picture outside, as it (but I really mean me) will look better in natural lighting. They don’t have time. But, I insist.
Not even a callback.
So, I head back to my studio in Hollywood, where I long for the ocean breeze. But I’ll be back on the Westside. Hopefully, with a script sold and an offer from Spielberg to star in his latest. In the meantime, I’m happy to bring the director his salmon. Medium rare. Yes, the chef prepares it medium rare, and please don’t have me tell him otherwise.
