“Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.”
I won’t sleep a wink. Not this week. That’s because this week ends on December 1st and besides starting the most stressful month with an “R” in it—December 1st means only one thing to me and my sister.
That is the date we attempt to make our yearly reservation for Christmas Eve dinner.
I cannot be held accountable for the lengths I will go to secure a reservation at this famous, Beverly Hills, Prime Rib establishment which I shall not name (but it starts with an L and ends in a WHY?)
For reasons too numerous to mention, (okay, it’s cheaper and so much less work than hosting at home), dinner here has become a tradition in our family and I am not about to disappoint the entire family which at this point consists of a bunch of eighty-something’s who look forward to this all year long—by fucking it up.
Let me be clear, a Christmas Eve reservation at this place is as coveted and hard-to-get as they come. You are more likely to book lip injections with the guy who “refreshes” all the Kardashian lips, (not that I would EVER! I read somewhere there is a five-year waiting list) than you are to get a table for ten, on the night before Christmas.
Back in the day, I had no problem playing the absurd LA reservations games that the hot, new places put you through to get a table. It was all about seeing and being seen. But that ship has sailed. I don’t give a rip about getting a table if I can’t book it the same day on Open Table. Not to be indelicate but I don’t care how good a restaurant is—it all gets pooped out the next day, so why bother?
That being said, regarding Christmas Eve I have learned that you MUST make the reservation for as many people as you can. You over-book. You add two extra chairs just to play it safe. We generally have eight people but god forbid somebody unexpectedly brings a date or decides at the last-minute, as a Christmas miracle, to reconcile with their ex. I have learned the hard lessons that are still—years later—too painful to recount, that you may absolutely, positively, NOT ADD A PERSON TO YOUR RESERVATION!
Apparently adding one chair will tip the balance of the universe and all life will cease to exist—or a least that’s how serious this place is about that rule. (If you subtract a person they’re not happy about that either, but a death certificate usually gets you off with just a stern warning.)
You see, the problem is the restaurant. They have become heartless savages. They know they have you by the short hairs so as far as holiday reservations go—they keep moving the goalpost. For years the date to call-in was October 1st. Easy, peasy Parcheesi—no sweat! I got all kinds of time in October!
That morning I would set my alarm for 6AM which gave me plenty of time to stretch and do my vocal warm-ups. At nine-fifty-nine exactly, I would sit down with my coffee and start the speed dialing. By 10:05 I would get an actual living, breathing, woman named Nancy or Carol who I could tell wore sensible shoes and was short on the chit-chat . A serious pro who was teed up and ready to book me a table.
Oh, Holy night.
Then, suddenly, a few years ago when I called on October 1st, the woman who answered seemed startled, unprepared. She sounded…young. Her name was Tiffany.
“Uh, Christmas Eve?” she asked a little confused. I wasn’t having it.
“Yeah! What’s the problem?” I yelled, feeling not one bit ashamed of my outburst. I had trained all month for this day and her I’m a little confused game was not about to side track me. She could save that BS for the newbies, the amateurs. This was not my first rodeo. After close to a decade of this shit—I was a pro.
“Well played, Tiffany,” I said with a little chortle and a hand gesture that was completely lost on her because…telephone. “It’s ten o’clock, the assigned time to book a table for Christmas Eve and that’s exactly what I intend to do!”
There was silence.
“Hello? Tiffany, are you there?” I screamed hysterically.
A minute went by. I could hear her breathing, and turning pages. It was the longest minute of my life. You know how they say that in the midst of a crisis, time stands still?
Time froze.
It ceased to exist.
All I could think of were the large tables being booked by other operators while Tiffany and I were caught outside the time/space continuum.
“Oh yeah”, she finally answered. “They moved the date for Christmas Eve reservations to November 1st.”
“Novem…wait. What? You can’t be serious!”
“Let me check.” Then he put me on hold.
ON HOLD!
An instrumental version of Feliz Navidad tried its damnedest to soothe me while I waited.
For a goddamn table. On Christmas Eve!
After speaking with the manager and the manger’s manager, I was convinced this was not some cruel tactic to put me off. It was a fact. The date had actually been changed. Again!
November 1st dawned dark and dreary that year. A cold rain fell as I cracked my knuckles and cleared my throat waiting to commence the speed dialing. Just to be sure we got a table, my sister was calling and checking the internet at the same time. We would enlist the old “double team” tactic and if one of us got through we would text the other immediately.
Listen, if our family wants over priced Prime Rib on Christmas Eve, no one is going to keep my eighty-year-old mother from her Diamond Jim cut of beef!
My sister got through first. It was 10:10 AM and the only tables they had left were for 3:30 in the afternoon. That seemed…asinine. What should we do?
“Tell them your Sandra Bullock’s assistant and the table’s for her and she can’t eat solid food before 5PM!”
“Too late.”
“Shit!”
But in the end, after dropping every name I could think of, we took our allotted thirty-seconds to decide that maybe the old people would actually love it. You know, a real early, early bird special. Dinner not only started but completely finished by five! No heavy meal sitting in their stomachs at midnight. No meat sweats. No indigestion. No Alka-Seltzer. No Tums needed. Everyone would have plenty of time to digest. And if I knew my mom, by eleven-thirty she’d be back out in her kitchen, like Henry the Eighth, gnawing happily on that enormous bone.
Grateful, we booked the damn thing, profusely thanking them like idiots for allowing us to basically spend north of a $1000 for lunch.
This year, November first, we coordinated by text before the 10AM call in time. I had a jam-packed day and so did my sister, but we knew that in a few short minutes the suspense would be over. Even though we might be eating Prime Rib for breakfast we’d have our table for nine and all would be right with the world. Let the speed dialing commence!
I put my phone on speaker and set it on the table next to me while I ordered Christmas wreaths online.
“Hello, this is Barbara.”
I texted my sis, “Im in.”
“Good morning, Barbara, I need a table for nine on December 24th…”
“That’s Christmas Eve, right?”
Uh oh. Barbara was clearly not the brightest crayon in the box. I tried not to lose my patience.
“Uh huh. Every year.”
“The day to call for that has been changed to December 1st.”
I took the phone off speaker and put it to my ear.
“Don’t you fuck with me Barbara,” I hissed. “It’s now November 1st, which after a generation of being the date to call was changed from October 1st. I get it. You want to separate the wheat from the chaff, cut out the riff-raff. But if you look up my phone number you can see that we book a large table every…”
“I see that Ms. Bertolus”, she said. I could tell Barbara was used to being cursed at, my f-bomb rolling right off her back. I felt bad. This was about Christmas after all.
“So call back at 10AM on December 1st?” I changed my tone and I didn’t insist on speaking with her supervisor.
“Yes. I know it feels like they change it every year,” she laughed a little, so I did too.
“Okay, I’ll talk to you then…happy holidays.”
I will not sleep a wink this week. December first is cutting it really close. By that time we won’t be able to book another place and it’s not fair to have one waiting in the wings only to cancel it of we get in. And if we don’t get a table? I see a Google search for “How to cook a prime rib” in my future.
Or my husband’s future. Same thing.
Explain to me how any of this makes sense? It doesn’t. It’s a Christmas nightmare, tradition that will most certainly die when my mother does just like all great but totally annoying traditions do. I’m sure a small part of me (maybe my spleen) will miss doing this when she’s gone. But who knows, by that time they might make it first-come, first-serve, and half of LA will stand in line all night like we do outside the Apple store for an iPhone.
Carry on,
xox
