For the Life of Me...

I have been on the run, now, for forty two years.

In retrospect, that is six years longer than Ronnie Biggs, the infamous Train Robber in England, who survived on the lam until his voluntary return from Brazil in 2001 to complete jail time. Having slipped into Canada in the mid 1970s, I cannot claim to be constantly looking over my shoulder in case the strong arm of London’s Metropolitan Police is about to nick me, but I do get edgy as I pass through passport control on clandestine returns to the old country.

The year was 1969 and I was to have a brief and disquieting encounter with Paul Newman, the late American actor and film director. The focus of our connection was a fragile-looking lady of means who was not a day younger than ninety.

Now, in case you’re thinking that I mix frequently in highfaluting circles and hobnob at will with Hollywood’s A list, you’d be right. Solely from a subservient standpoint, you understand. Over the course of a career which spanned forty years, I had occasion to be involved in the provision of hospitality services to British royalty, Canadian prime ministers, an American president and dozens of screen, television and music celebrities. Some of whom have likely forgiven me.

My good fortune during those early years in the business was to be assigned my college placement training at the fabled Connaught Hotel in Carlos Place, Mayfair, London W1.

The Grill Room at the Connaught was, and likely still is, a magnet for those who are partial to the highest levels of culinary creativity and fawning service offered in that fashionable district of London. Under the watchful tutelage of the maitre d’, a gentleman named Mr. Rose whom we assumed, as staff, wasn’t provided with a first name at birth, I found myself serving half a dozen recognizable personalities throughout any given day.

During my second week of placement, I was notified that Her Royal Highness Princess Margaret was to dine in my section for lunch. I was summarily advised that I would not be allowed to “attend table” on this occasion. Following timid protestations, I was counseled that, whereas my skill sets barely matched those required to serve the commoner in life let alone the more noble members of society, the true reason for my exile to the far reaches of the dining room was that I had yet to be trained in the art of “walking backwards”. I still haven’t, although that deftness hasn’t dampened my ability to survive most of what life has thrown my way.

A month into my training, I was assigned the much sought-after duty of serving Afternoon Tea in the hotel’s Lounge adjacent to the front desk. My career was peaking. Equipped with trolley, tea pot with requisite cosy, miniature sandwiches and an array of gateaux, French pastries and assorted fripperies, my task at precisely two thirty each afternoon was to enter the Lounge at ten minute intervals to provide the finest of mid-afternoon sustenance that the grand old house had to offer.

Adept at recognizing even the most obscure of notable faces, I was, nevertheless, taken aback by the presence of a gentleman seated in the first chair to the left of the entrance. Paul Newman, the actor, was reading a book. To his left sat Joanne Woodward, his wife. Two empty seats, then a white-haired, elegantly dressed lady peering nonchalantly at nothing in particular from a wing back chair. Wrestling with whether to address Mr. Newman by name, I proffered the full delicacies. He settled only for a beverage. His wife the same. My marketing skills at up-selling were falling on deaf ears. I turned my head towards the sole target remaining and zeroed in on, what I hoped would be, her vulnerability to my sales pitch. Offering a sympathetic smile, the lady thanked me in a soft grandmotherly voice but declined to partake of anything more than a cup of tea. ‘Go for it!’ were the words I said to myself. ‘Don’t give up!’

“Perhaps if I cut just a thin slice of this dark chocolate cake..?”

I’m not sure if it was the doleful look in my eyes. Maybe she felt obliged to partake of something more substantial whilst occupying prime real estate. Whatever the reason, her resolve weakened.

“You’re such a charming young man… how can I resist. Now, mind you, I only want a small slice.”

Success! I was destined for the top. Having sliced, lifted, served, bowed and walked backwards a pace or two, as if subliminally training for more regal days, I exited stage right returning to the pastry shop on the lower level. I waited a full five minutes before commencing my second sojourn into the Lounge. A cursory glance through the room dictated that the Newmans were no longer reading. Another couple had arrived and were awaiting my attention. The old lady, whom I had coerced into fattening herself up, was staring downwards. Ignoring my offer of further service, as if about to leave, Mr. Newman inched forward in his chair and, in a calm and steady voice reminiscent of many roles he has played in front of the camera, spoke the words that still resonate five decades later.

“The lady over there… the one you served chocolate cake to… I think she’s dead.”

I remained rooted to the carpet. Speechless. Staring.

The body looked limp; the used fork balanced precariously on the edge of her dress. The bone china plate, containing the thin slice of chocolate gateau, positioned in the middle of the lap. With one bite-sized morsel missing!

Recognizing that whatever talents I possessed did not include attending to the disabled, the chronically ill or the recently expired, Mr. Newman rose slowly and walked the short distance to where the lady sat. He leaned forward to check her pulse. An agonizing wait. Then he returned to where I stood frozen on the spot.

“I think you should fetch the manager.”

It was a testament to my continued employment in the hospitality business, upon being asked what had transpired, that I didn’t respond that I had killed my first customer.

And so, I remain free.

Deaths, mishaps and plain old shenanigans are all part of daily life at a hotel. I have been involved in many.

Some, were not my fault.