Serve from the Left,
Clear from the Right
My commentary about the political leadership on the continent to our south is mixed. Whether or not the overnight undercover raid and apprehension of Venezuelan president Maduro was justified or illegal is debate fodder.
I do know that if someone was living in my neighborhood and was selling drugs to my children, and local law enforcement was complacent in its efforts to put an end to this activity, my duty as a parent would be to put an end to it myself. I believe most parents would feel the same.
Until the successful operation in Caracas, any personal knowledge of and experience with South American presidents has been limited to only one, and since there are 12 of them total, it seems like an awful small slice in which to draw a firm conclusion.
I was working as a waiter at a seaside restaurant in Malibu, CA, in the 80’s. My intention at that time was to be a writer in Hollywood. Having been born and raised in the food business, I was quickly elevated into the role of headwaiter in charge of training, and taking care of celebrities.
It was a beautiful afternoon that particular day and I was home, sitting at my computer, doing what I do, trying to strike oil. The phone rang. "Billy, we have a special VIP coming in, we need you,” they said.
“You have plenty of staff capable of handling whoever it is. Denise is working today, have her do it,” was my reply.
"It's the president of Brazil and they'll be 10 guests in the private room; be here at two o’clock.” He – Jose Sarney, was returning from Japan and the funeral of Emperor Hirohito. His plane was refueling and he wanted seafood, and our place was the place for seafood.
If it were only a common movie star or musician or athlete I would have pushed back, but this was kind of special. I was happy that I received the call because this was going to be a first. People of entertainment prominence were a dime a dozen and were just like anyone else you'd meet; some jerks and
some jovial. An actual president would probably be worth my time.
The private room overlooking the Santa Monica Bay had a stunning view, the ocean just a stone’s throw away, and in January – wintertime – the water is rough and wild. I arrived early to get my bearings and visit with friends before the party was due. The owner and the GM were escorting the Secret Service advance team up and down, back and forth, into every nook and cranny, I assume looking for something that would cause an unpleasant international incident.
As soon as they were seated, someone in broken English said "Bring us the best and bring us plenty.” Those words are a jackpot to a waiter. The U.S.
security detail (weapons hidden) eyeballed me every time I entered or exited the room. All I had to do was step outside the door and say, “More champagne, more lobster, more crab, more wine.” I was the only employee allowed inside.
At the end of the meal, a large chiseled man without any ability to smile handed me a platinum American Express with the words “Consulate Embassy Ambassador" at the bottom. The total tab was $1,400. After running the card and presenting the receipt for a signature, the man asked me how much for a tip. I told him – half joking and half serious, to just round it up to $2,000. He didn’t blink and scribbled his name.
My routine was to put 50% of gratuities into mutual funds, but Lady Luck was being sweet to me. I called my pal Emilio with the black ’66 Cadillac convertible and headed for Vegas. I lost it all, never really expecting to do otherwise.
The judicial system of the U.S. will figure out the Venezuelan Maduro mess. I hope the citizens there will have a better chance at a better life. My feelings for the Brazilian government are fond ones. They are very generous.
