A night serving the 1 percent goes from class to crass

“Let me tell you about the very rich. They are different from you and me. They possess and enjoy early, and it does something to them, makes them soft where we are hard, and cynical where we are trustful, in a way that, unless you were born rich, it is very difficult to understand. They think, deep in their hearts, that they are better than we are because we had to discover the compensations and refuges of life for ourselves. Even when they enter deep into our world or sink below us, they still think that they are better than we are. They are different.”

― F. Scott Fitzgerald

It began with a vague text from a former work colleague.

“Hey Charles, are you by any chance available tomorrow evening? The event is in Manhattan.” And that is all it said.

These kinds of texts pose a unique set of challenges and opportunities. On the one hand, they surely involve some kind of event work, and event work can be a really great way to supplement one’s income. On the other hand, while the prospect of event work is great, it also comes with a bunch of questions and concerns. The most fraught being the “money question.”

Sometimes it can be hard to just ask, “How much am I going to be paid?”

With this particular friend, her client base tended to be extremely wealthy, and while she paid a solid hourly rate, it was still below my normal day rate. Friend or no friend, I don’t like to lowball myself.

That said, with her clients being people in private equity and hedge fund management who tended to tip very, very well, this was a chance to swim in the wake of whales.

So, I decided to be honest about my day rate. She said that while she couldn’t guarantee I’d make that amount, she also said that this client was usually very generous.

I went ahead and took the job, and once I saw the address she gave me, I was glad I did.

The client’s home was one of those huge townhouses on the East side of Manhattan right near Museum Mile. The building number was in the low double digits, and the street was in the mid-eighties. It was the kind of place that you might pass by on the way to the Metropolitan Museum of Art and wonder who the heck lives there and what it might look like inside.

Soon I wouldn’t have to wonder.

When I arrived, I rang the bell and was buzzed in through two heavy wrought iron doors with frosted glass. The lobby was marbled from floor to ceiling, and the walls were covered with large 1st edition photographic prints and tons of original modern artwork. This outer area led to a huge kitchen, and its entranceway had a blue neon art piece on the wall that read in florid script: “Meet Me in Heaven, I Will Wait for You”.

There were various tables scattered throughout the room like precious stones, and on them sat numerous lamps made of rare substances the like of which I had never seen before, with lampshades that matched their opulence. There was a table made of wrought metal in the center of the room, which must’ve easily weighed 400 pounds, and it was laden with an enormous vase full of freshly cut flowers, and large coffee table art books were scattered around it like pollen. On top of the books were more huge quartz stones that were cracked open, and a large candle illuminated them. In one corner stood a sculpture of a melted conga drum, and the entire room was filled with recent purchases of modern art, much of it still in crates. The place was surprisingly quiet considering a social event was about to happen, and I had to look around a bit to see who it was that buzzed me in and where I should go to check in. I peeked into the kitchen where there was an older East Indian woman in there alone, diligently working and unpacking things for the party.

Eventually, I found Joao, the young Brazilian guy who was leading the event on behalf of my friend. He told me where I should change, and then I went upstairs to the second floor to get things set up.

The owners of the mansion were an East Indian couple, and the man had recently retired at the ripe old age of 50 after running a very secret and elite hedge fund at a large, well-known investment firm for 20 years. When I met him, he was understandably distracted by texting on his phone, but he still asked my name, and unlike many wealthy people whom I’ve met when working in their homes, it seemed genuinely important to him that we meet properly. He looked me in the eye and smiled while he shook my hand and introduced himself.

The event was basically going to be a small dinner party of about 15 people, and the drinks were really simple: wine, champagne, and a few different types of spirits, mostly vodka, scotch, and tequila. The “bar” was more of a huge wall unit made of oak with a low boy fridge built into it and a sink along with a marble counter to make the drinks on. The rest of the second floor consisted of another smaller kitchen that was secondary to the one downstairs and that came complete with a modern dumbwaiter. Beyond that, there was a small back office for us to put our belongings in, a large area at the top of the stairs where the bar was, and a large, lushly carpeted and bay-windowed living room. Everywhere I looked, there was a fantastically constructed art piece or a gorgeous item of furniture plush in texture or made of polished, petrified wood. It was like bartending in the Museum of Modern Art.

It turns out that Joao had worked with this client before, so he knew all of their quirks and preferences. These kinds of details are essential when dealing with the ultra-wealthy, especially in their own homes, but his experience with them would also prove very valuable in more unexpected ways later on.

Joao’s wife, Gisele, was also working with us, so it was a bit of a family affair. The way service was worked out was that Joao would be the waiter, and I would bartend, meaning he would go into the living room where they were seated and take their orders and then tell me what to make for them. Then, after I made them, he would take their drinks out to them. His wife mainly stayed in the kitchen organizing the flow of hors d’oeuvres and the main courses that were going to come up via the dumbwaiter for dinner later.

The guests arrived in staggered fashion, and some had young children who were delighted to either meet for the first time or to reunite. They were all well-behaved, and once there were about 10 of them, they were sent up to the third floor to play, watch a movie, and eat while the adults mingled and chatted. As I said, the party was small, but it was also attended by the host couple’s two adult children. One was a young woman in her early twenties, who was there with her boyfriend, and the other was a young man in his mid to late 20s.

They also had a dog. It looked like a larger version of a Barbet breed, and I swear this animal somehow knew it was part of the One-Percent too. Its haughty demeanor made even the snobbiest cat look like the paragon of humility. Every time it deigned to look at me, it did so with such disdain that it felt as though I was being sized up by the reincarnation of some haughty Brahmin relative of theirs.

I was alerted of the son’s arrival when Joao suddenly rushed over to me and said, “Oh, the son is here. Quick, make me 3 chilled shots of Stoli Elit! But add some water to them; the father doesn’t want him to get too drunk.”

Huh?

At the time, I had no idea who he was talking about, and the suggestion that I add water to chilled shots in a private home, or really anywhere, seemed really bizarre. The bar was in plain view of almost everyone, and I would look really silly if I was seen, and since they were shots and not shooters, whoever was drinking them would surely notice something when they drank them. Anyways, I played along and quickly grabbed the shaker, poured some vodka in it, and tried to surreptitiously add some water, and then shook it up to chill it, which also waters them down even more. I poured out 3 shots into 3 empty rocks glasses. As I’m doing this, I see the host’s brother beaming at a young, handsome man who sort of looked like a young, olive-skinned, more classically handsome Sly Stallone. He was fit-looking, wore the mask of confidence and the gilded privilege that came from being raised around extreme wealth, wrapped in a snug t-shirt, jeans that were a bit too tight, and barefoot. His uncle said his name with a combination of pride and chide. “Nigellllllllll” he said, drawing out the last syllable. I realized that this was who the shots were for. What I was also quickly made aware of, however, was that they were not for him and his uncle to share. ALL THREE shots were for him. He drank all three immediately, chased them with a small glass of orange juice.

Almost as soon as he finished the shots, he complained that they tasted like water. Even though I was told to weaken them by his Dad, I still felt like a bit of a jerk as he groused, “Is this Grey Goose??” to no one in particular (which of course it wasn’t). His father countered by saying that he had asked the salesperson and was told that Stoli Elit was one of the top vodkas there is. In the background, I nodded along and tried to regain some of my professionalism self-esteem.

I’m not sure whether it was out of suspicion of how his shots were being made, an anti-social wish to avoid small talk with the other guests, or keeping close proximity to the booze, but after that first round, Nigel spent the entire time he was on that floor of the house hovering right near the bar.

As with any party where there are small children and adults present, the adults tend to shuffle the small kids off somewhere so the grown-ups can talk. In this case, and with these generally well-behaved children aged 7-12, that place was upstairs to the 3^rd floor. Not long after Nigel had his second trifecta of shots—this time unadulterated by H2O—Nigel followed them up to what I imagined was his room.

The host couple mingled with their friends while their tall, colorfully dressed daughter doted on their dog, who eventually had to be sent downstairs because he refused to stop trying to help himself to the various snacks that were being passed around. As the night progressed, it seemed like this was going to be pretty easy money. The only question was how much the host was going to tip us and how late things would go. After all, we were in their house. Joao had told me earlier that sometimes they liked to go until really late and things could get pretty wild. I found that a bit hard to believe given how conservative everyone looked, but then again, some of the wildest people I have served have appeared very buttoned up at first. Besides, my base pay was based on an hourly rate, so a late night could also be more lucrative.

After serving up a few glasses of wine and a martini or two, I noticed that Nigel had re-emerged from the upstairs. He had someone order another round of shots, and as they were brought over to him, I saw that he was wearing some sort of vintage military jacket. It looked to be from the World War II era and was in excellent condition, but it was definitely not from any branch of the American military, nor was it British.

Whatever country it was from, it appeared to be authentic and not a replica based on what I could see. He stood proudly near the top of the stairs, showing it off to his doting uncle, who partially obscured my view, which prevented me from seeing what its provenance was. I overheard Nigel proudly saying how he rarely took it out because he didn’t want to damage it. While his uncle looked it over admiringly, I couldn’t help but wonder why he was wearing it at all since this wasn’t a costume party.

Nigel seemed to be born with almost every possible advantage, yet something seemed a bit off about him, the heavy drinking being the first sign. I had encountered some serious boozers in my 3 decades of bartending, but I had never encountered anyone who repeatedly downed three shots at a time. This was a bit of a red flag to me, but since he was safely in the confines of his own house, I considered it none of my business. I did, however, want to watch how the booze was affecting him a little bit because it seemed to be of some concern to his father, and ultimately it was he who was paying me, and I didn’t want him to be unhappy. As he stood by the stairs opposite the bar, pounding a trifecta of vodka shots every 10 or 15 minutes, I kept my eyes on him.

As Nigel and his uncle chatted, the uncle sipped on his Casa Dragones and soda, and the markings on the military jacket Nigel was wearing were still unrevealed. Like a scene from an Off-Broadway play that had been blocked out to create suspense and mystery in my mind, it seemed as though it would draw out until a second act. It went on for so long that I started to become unbearably curious. Over and over, I furtively stole glances, trying to see what the heck kind of jacket it was.

Suddenly, his uncle laughed uproariously at something he said and as he did, he turned his shoulder towards me just enough for me to fully see the jacket.

My eyes bulged as they keyed in on the striking black, white, and red emblem adorning his military jacket, surely the most violent, hateful symbol in the history of mankind.

He was wearing the jacket of a Nazi uniform.

I froze, and for a moment, my unflappable, “I’ve seen everything” veteran bartender façade cracked as I struggled to stay composed and professional.

Though I tried to remain calm, the horrific power and meaning of that monstrous glyph washed over me, and my head started to spin, and my emotions started to roil as I thought of all the hatred and harm it was responsible for. I scanned the room for a reaction from the other guests. I hadn’t seen any hint of one from his uncle, and most of the others were in the main sitting room, so maybe they hadn’t seen it. I didn’t know where Joao was, so I went into the kitchen for a second to clear my head. Gisele was in there prepping the trays of food and icing the champagne. The dissonant and disorienting effect I experienced felt akin to elevator music playing after the doors shut on a crime scene in a department store.

I didn’t really know his wife, and beyond saying hello, we had barely spoken, so I felt weird telling her what I had just seen. I stood in the kitchen for a few beats and gathered my thoughts. For one of the few times in my bartending career, I genuinely didn’t know what to do.

After a few minutes, I went back out to the bar. Nigel was gone, and Joao was standing there hurriedly pouring a glass of wine for one of the guests, seemingly oblivious to the fact that the host’s son had just been in there casually chatting away while wearing one half of a Nazi uniform. Nigel was nowhere to be seen.

As Joao whisked the drinks away, I stammered in a feeble attempt to tell him what happened.

“What’s up with this guy’s son?” I said.

“What do you mean?”

Trying to sound level-headed, I said, “Well… he was just hanging out down here wearing a Nazi officer’s jacket.”

He barely batted an eye. “Ohhhh… him… He’s a bit off. But he’s not really like that though. He’s a producer and he makes movies and stuff”. Then away he went with the drinks.

What the hell was he talking about??

He’s not really like what? A Nazi?!?

And what on earth did his being a producer and making movies have to do with his openly wearing a Nazi officer’s jacket at a dinner party?

My hands shook slightly as I continued making drinks and struggled to reason out what the hell Joao was talking about. While doing so, I heard some music wafting down from the upstairs that sounded familiar. Very familiar in fact. Suddenly I realized where I recognized it from.

It was the theme song from Inglourious Basterds.

Suddenly things made some twisted measure of sense. Nigel must have been upstairs cosplaying while watching Quentin Tarantino’s modern classic about Nazi hunters and that while he was doing so, he chose not to dress up as Lt. Aldo Raine, or Donny “The Bear Jew” Donowitz. Nor was he dressed up as Archie Hicox or even the former Nazi turned assassin Hugo Stieglitz. No, instead he chose to identify with and dress like Hans “the Jew Hunter” Landa.

Now I know what some of you may be thinking. In an effort to make sense of the surreal and horrifying notion of a man from East India wearing the uniform jacket of a Nazi officer your somewhat panicked mind might recall that the swastika is a symbol that has its origins in ancient India. Well, I can assure you that this young man was not wearing this Nazi uniform adorned with that symbol because of those origins. He was wearing it in its capacity as the outfit of a member of the National Socialist German Workers party, otherwise known as the Nazis. Was he himself a Nazi? I have no idea. But I do know he wore the jacket of their uniform proudly at a dinner party filled with people that the Nazis believed were worthy of extermination.

Eventually, Nigel went upstairs, and when he returned, he was dressed normally. As the night wore on, I kept working and doling out his trifecta of chilled vodka shots every 15 minutes or so while the insane surreal-ness of it all ricocheted through my thoughts. The more I heard Nigel talk, it became increasingly clear that him being a product of such wealth and opportunity was a kind of handicap for him. He had no personality at all and seemed profoundly bored in a way that only the scion of someone incredibly wealthy could be. His identity was entirely manifested in conversation solely by talking about where he went to school, where he had lived, how much he worked out, who he dated, and bizarrely contradictory political opinions, all of which were terrible. It all seemed engineered to reinforce some gilded, superficial image of success that he wished to project.

And then there were the shots.

He must’ve had at least 15 shots in under 2 hours, yet he just kept going. He showed no signs of being drunk, and other than the first round, they weren’t watered down anymore.

Dinner was served. It was spread out on their incredible dining room table family-style.

After dinner, there were more drinks and many more shots, which should’ve been made all the more effective since Nigel didn’t really eat anything.

3 more chilled shots and then 3 more and then 3 more again.

It was clear this concerned his father and that he wished he wouldn’t drink so much, but there was nothing to be done. Just as my fears of a very long and late night that spiraled downward began to surge, the host emphasized a moment of professional small talk by palming me a crisp wad of cash.

Discretion requires that you never look at palmed tips in front of the person that handed it to you or in front of other guests, so I slipped away quickly to the office where our belongings were, to satisfy my curiosity about how much money he had given me. My eyes bulged as I unfolded a large mass of hundred-dollar bills.

Jackpot.

I quickly crept back out to the bar area and poured myself a shot of Casa Dragones Joven to celebrate making it through one of the strangest, most stressful events I have ever worked. Soon, Joao asked me to help him clean up a little, then he told me it was okay for me to leave. After I gathered my things and was about to exit, the older Indian woman I had seen earlier in the downstairs kitchen pulled me aside. Like aunties and grandmothers from every culture, she insisted through broken English that I be fed before leaving and that I also have some food to take home with me. As I sat at the kitchen table in the home of these super wealthy people eating some of the best Indian food I have ever had, I wondered what Auntie would’ve thought had she seen her boss’s son wearing that Nazi jacket. My guess was that she’s probably seen stranger things while working there.

Since that evening, I thought quite a bit about where the line would’ve been for me that night. At what point might I have refused to go on?

Ultimately, I decided that if Nigel had approached me and ordered a drink while wearing that accursed jacket or even if he had spoken to me while wearing it, I would have had to walk out. Every single bar I have ever worked at has two hard and fast rules: No serving of alcohol to those under the age of 21, or to any visibly intoxicated person. To those I would also add NO SERVING NAZIS, or those wearing Nazi apparel. I know bartenders are supposed to always be above the political fray, and bars are supposed to be sanctuaries, but I draw the line at real-life genocidal supervillains. Unless there is a performance of Mel Brooks’ The Producers happening, wearing that kind of garb is a form of sartorial violence, and it is unacceptable.

So, what became of the son? What became of the Nazi-fetishizing Nigel?

Well, he currently boasts 1 million, likely fake followers on Instagram, most bought and paid for just like that heinous jacket. Every photo on there is of him “modeling” for fake magazine covers, all while wearing the same blank, wax figure expression he wore at the party while he spoke incessantly about himself and never asked anyone how they were or what they were interested in.

His Instagram profile describes him as being an:

Actor

Model

US Marine Reservist 🇺🇸 (who wears Nazi uniforms at his house parties)

Fitness Enthusiast 🏋️‍♂️

Extreme Athlete

Professional Wrestler

Cruz MMA 👊

NYU Tisch BFA In Theater 2020

And me?

I am a bartender.