Me To Play

Me, to Play

“Me, to play.”

―Samuel Beckett

Prologue

After retiring from the hospitality industry, Giuseppe Baldini returned to Italy and began writing his memoirs. Most of his stories were anecdotal; some taking place in Bologna, Italy, and others in the United States, where the former waiter had worked for over thirty years. Unexpectedly, Giuseppe Baldini passed away. Since he had no immediate family, his nephew Paolo was contacted by a neighbor and ended up inheriting a few old paintings, a minuscule library, and an unfinished manuscript. Intrigued by the fact that his distant relative would want to write about his past, the young relative sat down at his uncle's desk and began reading. When Paolo got to the last story, he was surprised to see it had no title and that it was divided into three acts. In the margin of the first page were the words Requiem and Endgame, followed by question marks.

ACT I

On the last Friday of every month, Stephen Polonsky held court at Frantoio Ristorante with four of his college buddies: Jack Eaton, Lee Marconi, Chuck Carona, and Gary Mellman. Although he usually dined in San Francisco’s high-end restaurants with high-profile corporate clients, the monthly gatherings at the Tuscan-style restaurant with its elegant tower, Florentine stucco walls, on-site olive oil press, and shaded patio allowed him to dictate his whims and take up everyone’s time until he had his fill of being attended to. One of the original investors of the Toscano Ristorante Group, Stephen Polonsky was considered a VIP at Frantoio, where he benefitted from his Founding Father perks, including a ten percent discount on the food, free dessert, no corkage fee on the bottles he brought from his cellar, and the undivided and consummate attention of the general manager in charge, in this case, the recently hired Umberto Galantini. Although he had personal reasons to dislike the young Italian whose polite recalcitrance was irksome, the lawyer knew he would always have the upper hand even when dealing with virtuous and genuinely sincere individuals. With time, he would break him down as he had broken other managers before him.

Also known for his ferociousness and doggedness in court, Stephen Polonsky had developed the ability to identify his adversaries’ weaknesses in a matter of seconds, be it those of plaintiffs, attorneys, or anyone who dared to defy his authority. The more he thrived on exposing flawed arguments or preying on vulnerabilities, the greater the appetite for shattering reputations and lives in courtroom settings. Although he was financially set and his notoriety well-established, he found equal pleasure in ruining the careers of restaurant employees he considered insufficiently obliging. Priding himself on the belief that he was restaurant royalty, Stephen Polonsky viewed himself as an invaluable patron and destroyed whoever didn’t adulate or fear him enough.

ACT II

When he pulled his black Mercedes into the parking lot, Stephen Polonsky became irate. After honking several times, he saw the dark-haired general manager rush out of the restaurant, followed by one of his employees. Lowering the car window on the passenger side, the lawyer then grumbled and waved both hands.

“What’s going on here? No valet?”

Circling the car and then opening the door, Umberto, whose model-like features and long hair gave him a vulnerable appearance, did his best to defuse the situation.

“Signor Polonsky, buongiorno. I am so sorry.”

Stepping out of his car, the bearded man continued to complain.

“I’ve been sitting here for two minutes. Don’t you have a valet today?”

“Mi dispiace, signor Polonsky. Unfortunately, the valet called out at the last minute.”

“This is certainly an unpleasant start. Anyway, you know where the wine is.”

Nodding, Umberto turned to the busboy, Marco, and asked him politely to bring the case of wine into the dining room and set it on table fourteen.

“When you are done, tell Felipe to park Signore Polonsky’s car and bring back the keys.”

After both men entered the restaurant, the attorney began surveying what he considered his domain. He liked coming before the lunch service, as it gave him a sense of ownership. Then, looking over the servers who were putting the final touches to their stations, he frowned.

“Where’s Danny? I don’t see him.”

Smoothing his navy blue jacket, Umberto apologized to the lawyer once again.

“I am sorry, but Danny works in San Francisco.”

“That’s rather annoying. He knew how I liked things. So, who’s going to wait on me?”

“Elizabeth.”

“No waitresses, though the other guys might enjoy that kind of change, especially Lee.”

“I will have Joseph wait on you.”

“Joseph? Don’t know him. By the way, I’ll be leaving for Montalcino in a couple of weeks. Been there enough times that everyone knows me. You know what I’m talking about. All the right people. When I go to wine tastings, they open the bottles from their private reserve. It’s always about who you know.”

Then, as Stephen Polonsky began dropping the names of several well-known restaurateurs from Siena, Felipe walked up to the attorney and handed him a ticket.

“Your ticket, sir.”

“No need. By now, you should know which one’s my car. Right, Umberto?”

“Certo, signor Polonsky, certo. Felipe, just keep the ticket. I’m going to ask you to be the valet today since Mauricio is out. And thank you for all your help.”

“Okay, Mister Umberto, I will tell Juan,” answered Felipe, visibly slighted by the guest’s attitude.

The soft-spoken general manager then became pensive and watched his employee walk away. Irritated by Umberto’s composure and need to praise his employee, the attorney then clapped his hands with impatience.

“So, what are we waiting for, my friend? Jack and the gang will be here soon. Let’s figure out the order in which we’ll drink the wines. Then, I’ll tell you all about them. Between us, only a select group of people own these vintages. Limited edition. They are molto, molto speciali. Robert Parker gave them outstanding ratings. Wait a minute. Tell the waiter to change the tablecloth. Black on black will look better.”

“Of course, Signore Polonsky.”

Thirty minutes had gone by, and the restaurant was almost full. Stopping by each table, Umberto greeted each customer with a warm handshake or a kiss and wished them buon pranzo. So far, things were going smoothly. Yet, as he approached a party of four that had just gotten seated, he saw Stephen Polonsky throw his napkin on the table, stand up, and look around. Excusing himself, Umberto quickly went over to the lawyer’s table.

“Signore Polonsky, is something the matter?”

Grimacing, the lawyer pointed at the table with an open hand.

“Can’t you see what’s missing? Even my friends are surprised.”

“Do you need more olive oil, balsamic vinegar, or tapenade?”

Tapping his forehead twice, the lawyer grunted,

“The garlic fries, Umberto, the garlic fries. I always have garlic fries with truffle oil, along with the olives. Two orders, chop chop!”

“I am terribly sorry, Signore Polonsky, I completely forgot. I will tell the chef right away.”

“But before you go, pour us some wine. The Ornellaia. I’ll taste it first.”

After the attorney sat down, Umberto took the bottle with the red and gold label, removed the tin foil, uncorked the wine, and poured his guest a taste. Patiently, the general manager waited while the host sniffed the glass several times, swirled the wine, and checked its color before taking a small sip.

“Well, Stephen,” asked Jack Eaton, “What’s the verdict? Drinkable?”

“Parker gave it ninety-seven points. Yes, it’ll do. Once you’re done pouring, Umberto, give the order to the chef and then come back. I want to discuss the menu. And too bad you lost Danny. Our waiter should be working in a pizzeria. Doesn’t know the difference between a Burgundy and a Bordeaux glass.”

As Umberto placed the order for the fries with the chef, Joseph, a middle-aged waiter with salt and pepper hair, approached him.

“That guy on table 14, who does he think he is? He keeps flagging me down and complaining that I am not paying attention to him. I have other tables. Besides, he doesn’t want to order anything yet and gave me a hard time about some fries.”

“I know, Joseph, but he’s a Founding Father. About the fries, don’t worry, it was my fault, so I will take his order and make sure he’s happy. Just keep an eye on the table so that he doesn’t feel neglected. Ask him if he needs more bread or bottled water. And offer to pour the wine, though he’ll probably say no.”

“Okay.”

Umberto then exited the kitchen and went straight to the lawyer’s table.

“The garlic fries are on the way. Just to inform you, we have a wonderful branzino today and the Brasato al Barolo, slowly cooked beef in a red wine sauce.”

“I love branzino,” said Lee Marconi, stretching the vowels, trying to sound Italian.

“Signore Marconi, I am sure you will love the way our chef prepares this dish,” replied Umberto.

Turning to Stephen Polonsky, he then queried if they wanted risotto. Peering over his eyeglasses, the lawyer raised one finger and made a circle in the air.

“We’ll do mushroom risotto. Make sure they add extra truffles. And since we have lots of wine, we’ll also have some insalata caprese with prosciutto. When we’re done with that, we’ll order the main courses.”

“Bene, signor Polonsky.”

“Before you go, open one of the Sassicaia’s and decant it.”

With expert and concise gestures, Umberto removed the cork, poured the wine into the decanter, shook the glass container gently, and offered to pour it.

“Leave that to us,” said Stephen Polonsky, “and just bring the food out.”

Whereas lunch proceeded smoothly for the other diners, the bearded lawyer refused to let up, his face a frozen grimace. The risotto didn’t have enough truffles, and the insalata caprese needed more prosciutto. Because the day was gloomy and chilly, the lawyer requested that his table be moved closer to the fireplace. Once the lawyer and his friends were settled comfortably, Stephen Polonsky told Umberto that he could take the entrée orders, adding that he wanted a couple of orders of gnocchi with pesto.”

“We’re out of gnocchi, unfortunately,” said Umberto.

“Figure something out. Maybe some fettuccine.”

Unflappable, Umberto began taking the orders, though he had to wait three minutes for the lawyer to make up his mind.

“Okay, so what I want is the Brasato with the Osso Bucco set up, Brasato with polenta. Something a little more Italiano. When in Rome, do as the Romans, right, guys?”

“When in Rome, do like the Romans,” bellowed Chuck Carona.

Pleased with Carona’s response, Stephen Polonsky grinned again and took a sip of wine. Handing his menu to Umberto, he then added:

“As for dessert, the usual. Large platter with all the goodies and some mixed berries. With that, we’ll have the Amarone. Amarone and dessert. It will be fantastico.”

“Bene, signore Polonsky,” replied Umberto. He then quickly picked up the rest of the menus, bowed, and stepped away from the table.

Turning to his friends, Stephen Polonsky smiled smugly and added:

“Another day in paradise, gentlemen, thanks to yours truly.”

Their faces turned towards the lawyer, the four guests raised their glasses and clamored in unison:

“To Stephen, to Stephen, to Stephen, to Stephen.”

Acknowledging the toast, the host took a sip of wine. Despite a few minor hiccups, he was still a king. Having people at one’s beck and call was indeed an art. Forcing them to become your audience was even more satisfying.

Interlude

Paolo paused for a cigarette after finishing the second act. He had always known his uncle to be fair-minded and forgiving, which is why he was shocked by the animosity his older relative seemed to harbor toward this Polonsky character. After all, the world was filled with demanding and entitled individuals who had no regard for others and imposed their crude ways on whomever they could order around. Stephen Polonsky was a mere replica of others.

ACT III

When Umberto arrived at Frantoio the following Tuesday, Roberto Vessia, the president of TRG, as well as two other corporate officials, was already sitting in the bar lounge.

“Good morning, Umberto.”

“Good morning, Roberto. Good morning, gentlemen.”

The president of TRG gestured to an empty chair.

“Have a seat, Umberto.”

Taking his time, the company president cleared his throat, picked up a white envelope, and glanced at Umberto.

“I asked you to come in early because I just received a letter from Stephen Polonsky. We are all disappointed in your performance, to say the least.”

Slightly puzzled, the general manager looked at his employer.

“There were a few small issues in the beginning, but he seemed pleased when he left.”

Roberto shook his head.

“That was your impression. Here is what he had to say.”

The president of TRG took out a letter with a gold embossed letterhead and began reading out loud.

Dear Roberto,

You know how much I dislike writing these types of letters, but as a Founding Father, I feel that I must share the details of my most recent experience at Frantoio. Rest assured that I will not make any mention of my disappointment on social media. There are other ways to resolve such an incident. So, here’s a breakdown of the unfortunate events that took place last Friday.

As Roberto read the rest of the letter, Umberto listened politely to the attorney’s initial complaints. His not being greeted immediately and having to wait in his car was not surprising. Then, Joseph’s service, followed by the garlic fries, the truffles, and the prosciutto. When Roberto got to the part describing Stephen Polonsky’s leaving the restaurant, the tone of the letter changed. Slightly acerbic yet civil expressions had been replaced with manifest resentment. In a hostile tone, the lawyer stated he had not received the full regard he was due. The aloof manner in which Umberto had said goodbye was an indication that the recently hired general manager had not made the effort to properly treat a long-standing customer and one of TRG’s original investors. Absent from the lawyer’s accusations was the mention of a local movie star’s late arrival, as the attorney and his friends were wrapping up their lunch. Because Umberto had to attend to a celebrity he had known from his days working in Los Angeles and spend more time with the new arrivals, the Founding Father had felt slighted.

Putting the letter back into the envelope, Roberto rubbed his chin and looked at Umberto.

“You do realize who Stephen Polonsky is, don’t you?”

Although Umberto had spent five minutes saying goodbye to the attorney and his friends and had wished the host a safe trip to Italy, he nodded apologetically, keeping his thoughts to himself. The lawyer’s complaints about the food or the service were his way of testing how far he could go while demeaning the staff. Umberto felt bad for his employees, not for himself. His being pulled out of the attorney’s orbit was another matter. That was inadmissible. Trying to recall all his exchanges with the lawyer, the general manager suddenly realized he was unable to picture the Founding Father’s face. All that came to mind was a rictus and a beard, and now that he thought of it, Umberto had never seen his guest’s face, only a mask. He took a deep breath. Because of his training, the young Italian knew he had to respect the time-honored tradition of saving a customer’s face or, in this case, his mask. No matter how appalling the behavior, Umberto was still the host and had to play his role until the end. For a brief moment, he looked at the table in front of him, as if seeing it for the first time. It wasn’t even made of real wood. Just a shiny and polished faux wood. Fake. Across from him, the corporate faces looked the same, cast from the same mold: shiny, shaved, pink, and emotionless. “I am terribly sorry, Roberto,” uttered Umberto, “I will write Signore Polonsky a letter and make it up to him the next time he comes for lunch.”

“I’m glad to see you understand.”

Epilogue

At the end of the untitled story was a group of notes. The first entry was a quote by Pirandello: “You will learn at your own expense that in the long journey of life, you will encounter many masks and few faces.” The rest of the jottings were scattered and unfinished thoughts: “Becoming a member of an audience should be an individual’s choice. This freedom has been taken away… Once carnivals were over and costumes and masks were put away, the city’s inhabitants and its visitors would become themselves once again and return to their everyday activities without much fanfare. Everything that took place during these festive interludes was done in good jest and good faith… Stephen Polonsky loathed free play... Our old and humanistic theater is being replaced by an art form born out of whims, boredom, and hollow ideals…All forms of rebellion, such as disinterested sharing and selfless entertainment, will be eliminated, and humans will no longer remember that kindness once thrived and was the norm.” The last entry sounded like a premonition. “Our last role as human beings and members of our society will be to applaud and humor a new generation of inhumane actors. Having little or no choice, belittled audiences will be forced to watch these apocalyptic spectacles and applaud, lest they be punished.”

Closing the last page of the manuscript, Roberto briefly sighed and looked out the window of his uncle’s apartment. Two pigeons flew onto the ledge, waddled a few steps, then began cooing. Although the evening was serene, soft, and gray, he remained troubled by his uncle’s remarks. He then wondered how much longer until these people would own the world’s stage.