The Wreckoning - September 25, 2007

How Eating at The Water Grill Saved Me $800.

I recently received my first paycheck for writing this column, so as a result, haven't been able to eat out much. I thought it a fine time to dust off a few choice stories that twenty years of eating out in Los Angeles have produced. Here is one that holds up better than a Craftsman claw hammer.

A few years ago, a group of us--two couples and a single guy--decided to dress ourselves up and have a terribly civilized meal at a classy place none of us had tried. After some brief research, the winner was The Water Grill, chef David LeFevre's highly-regarded seafood restaurant located in the heart of downtown.

The Water Grill. (Lobster not to scale)

I made the reservation under my own name for a mid-week evening in late spring. When Peter and I arrived, I gave my name to the host, who directed us to the bar where two of our party, David and his wife, Monica, were half-way through their Chardonnay in an otherwise empty bar.

The sun was still up. An off-night at the Staples Center down the street meant that bookings were light and the staff of The Water Grill were able to give us their undivided attention. As I ordered our cocktails, the bartender nodded to me, but not just the polite nod of a courteous professional toward a stranger. This was a knowing nod, a nod that said I was a man to be respected and he knew it and he wanted me to know that he knew it. It was so quick and so subtle, I thought it my imagination. I needed a drink. Regardless of traffic, a drive downtown at rush hour is always taxing, so the Stolichnaya slid itself down my throat like a homecoming.

We waited for our straggler, my occasional friend, Simon, a British import whose uncontrollable shiftiness, horrible socks and pretentious musings are not even his most irritating character traits. That honor goes to his smug, condescending opinions on fine food and drink. A few years ago, Simon decided, seemingly overnight, that he was the grandest of epicureans. When I once told him that I had been underwhelmed by a restaurant he had tediously raved about, he said, quite famously, that I "must have ordered wrong." Needless to say, I can effortlessly go months without missing his company. He is, however, despite all his buffoonery, a friend, so when he somehow had gotten wind of our Water Grill outing, he grumbled until I relented to inviting him.

Simon trundled in ten minutes late and instantly found a way to teeter between being on charmingly good form with my friends and annoyingly high-status with the staff. He pressed the bartender about which Pinot Noir varietals were on hand from the Santa Ynez Valley--a region Simon proclaims to be "rigorously" familiar with. Satisfied with the bartender's ability to understand phrases like fruit forward, he allowed the man to pour him a glass. Thank God our table was ready.

As I tried to close out the bar tab, the bartender gave me the knowing nod again. This time there was no mistaking it. The vodka had done its job; I could see clearly.

"Don't worry about it, Mr. Schlemmel," he said.

"Excuse me?"

The man looked at me, a bit of uncertainty in his eyes for the first time. "You're Mr. Schlemmel?"

"No."

I am many things. A Schlemmel is not one of them. I was flattered he had tried to address me by name, but he got the name wrong, way wrong. He wasn't even on the right continent.

"But you're friends with him, no?"

The manager must've seen me tapping my credit card on the counter, because he walked over. "Sir, go ahead and have a seat, we've got your drinks covered."

I had just been bought a round of drinks--expensive drinks--at a non-gay restaurant I'd never been to for seemingly no reason. Let's see, that's happened exactly...never. But what a classy move, I thought. This guy could tell we had come down here to spend some serious money so why not show his gratitude ahead of time? We were potentially great long-term customers. It was an impressive display of forethought.

We all sat down at a choice table and started at the menu. I informed Simon right away that I would be needing no help with my ordering, but he still took charge of the wine list. I didn't mind. It occupied him completely while the rest of us caught up on conversation. The wine steward was summoned (by the only one of us who would ever "summon" anyone). Simon finally agreed to a Pinot in the $60 range, perhaps remembering, grudgingly, that although I invited him, I was not treating.

Halfway through the meal--which I'm sure was excellent; I can't really remember--Simon ordered a second bottle, a heavy red this time. For some reason he skipped the tasting part, instructing the waiter to "Go ahead and pour," like it were some capricious decree from a power-drunk despot. "No hangings today! More wine!"

Simon rattled on through some ludicrous story as Monica and I each took a taste of the new red. We looked at each other. Not bad, we thought--tangy, but not bad. Simon took a break from his story to grab a quick sip and his face imploded.

He beckoned for the wine steward officiously. "It's gone off, I'm afraid," Simon pronounced. The steward poured himself a tiny swallow, gulped it, frowned, and promptly whisked the offending bottle and all tainted glasses away without a moment's pause. Simon gloated, as every snob's wet dream had just come true--detecting a bad bottle of wine and being proved right.

The occasional off bottle is no reason to crucify a restaurant. Wines go bad all the time. If it happens repeatedly, then there is either a problem with storage or supply. But the steward's face and the speed with which he produced a suitable replacement told me that this particular incident was an aberration.

The management and staff were winning me over in spades with their professionalism, helpfulness and accommodation, but nothing prepared me for what happened next. We sat there, fat and happy after dessert, and leisurely asked the waiter for the bill. He informed us with a smile that we were all the restaurant's guests that night.

After a few seconds I quietly lifted my jaw from the table. Comped. The whole meal. Two bottles of wine, five starters, five entrees, a few desserts--we were looking at a bill well north of $600. There were some gasps of protest from some in our group, possibly from, but not limited to, myself.

"You don't have to do that."

"We want to. It's our pleasure."

"Well...wow...thank you very much."

The waiter walked away and let the initial shock dissipate. David and I quickly whipped out some cash and stuffed an enormous tip into the leather folder sitting empty on the table. And then it was time to go...before the restaurant changed its mind.

On the drive home, Peter and I tried to piece it together. My first thought was that Simon had pulled some stunt--complaining to the manager about the "grievous offense" of a "rancid" bottle of wine. But Simon had never left the table. It just didn't fit. When a restaurant makes a mistake, even a big one, or wants to impress some newcomers, free desserts usually do the trick. No, this was a big chunk of change. The whole Schlemmel confusion came to mind. But by now they had surely figured out that I was not, nor was I friends with, the mysterious Mr. Schlemmel.

Over the next few days, the free meal ate at me. It ate at Peter too. Instead of feeling like we had gotten a free gift, we felt like we had found a wallet that didn't belong to us. We decided to clear our conscience. What better way to return a restaurant's kind (if unnecessary) gesture than with decadent patronage?

Peter and I decided to go back to the Water Grill and spend like Rockefellers. I made a reservation for the two of us, again in my own name, for the following week. The night arrived and again we were greeted with a kind, grateful welcome from the host. He sat us at a prime corner table. We had both skipped lunch because we had serious, guilt-abolishing work ahead of us. I selected an $80 bottle of wine right off the bat. The array of starters came, followed by my steak and Peter's grilled lobster. We were stuffed at dessert time but ordered two of them anyway. Dessert wine? I had a lovely 12 year-old tawny port. Peter had the Moscato.

Never had I been so excited to receive a bill. My credit card practically jumped from my wallet as the waiter approached smilingly and said, "Was everything all right?"

"Everything was wonderful," I said.

"Good, because Mr. Schlemmel is picking up your bill tonight."

The words hung in the air like cigar smoke. What bizzaro-world had I walked into? I combed the restaurant to make sure I was still in the city of cell phones, bare midriffs and self-absorption. Yep, I'm still in Los Angeles, where the only thing you can count on after a night on the town is the arrival of the reckoning. And that was now asunder.

"There must be some mistake. He doesn't have to do that," I said.

The waiter seemed puzzled as we protested. Finally, he got annoyed.

"I'm going to check in the computer. But if it says your meal is free, then your meal is free. And that's the end of it." His tone was bordering on aggressive as he stomped away.

Peter and I looked at each other in disbelief. The manager approached our table a minute later.

"You're friends with Mr. Schlemmel, yes?"

And here is where I paused. I did not blurt out an emphatic "No." I did not throw down my credit card and demand to pay and say, "I am not leaving this table until you have charged me for the entirety of this meal!"

What I said was: "Not really."

It was that "really" that condemns me to hell. The manager smiled, as if I was just downplaying my relationship with the famous Mr. Schlemmel. He set down the folder on the table and asked me to initial the credit card slip, but not on the payment line. That was already filled in by Sam King.

Sam King, I have since learned, is the seafood maven of Orange County. He is also the owner of the Water Grill. I dutifully did as I was told and initialed the bill. At least I had tried, I thought to myself.

In the days that followed, Peter and I did our best to formulate an explanation. As best we could figure it, some dude named Schlemmel is either a big spender or a crony of the owner, Sam King, or both. Clearly he's got enough juice to have a charge account at one of the more expensive restaurants in town--a phenomenon so anachronistic it feels ripped from a gangster movie. Somehow, someone made an association, erroneously, that I knew him or he knew me when I made the initial reservation and entered some type of footnote into the restaurant's computer system--something like, Aaron Black: bill to Schlemmel account.

This would explain why the association with my name and his existed on our return visit. As it turns out, Peter and I got it pretty much right.

Cut to two months later. I was sitting at my desk when I received a call from an accounts payable officer at King Seafood in Orange County. The very polite woman had a question about a very large bill from the Water Grill. She was calling about the first bill, the party of five.

"Mr. Black. I've just spoken to Mr. Schlemmel and, well....He doesn't know you."

"No kidding!" I explained everything to her, just as it happened, but at this point, felt completely exonerated. I knew Schlemmel wouldn't have to pay; the restaurant would eat it. It was their fault. But she gave it a shot.

"I just don't know how to bill this," she said.

"Ma'am, that sounds like something you need to take up with the Water Grill. Someone there clearly made an overzealous assumption, but I can't be expected to track down everyone I was at dinner with and get them to pay for a meal from two months ago."

It didn't take long for her to realize that I was right. And no call ever came about the second bill. I've been to the Water Grill a few times since, but always under someone else's reservation. If I were to go back on my own I know just what I'd say.

"Dick Schlemmel, party of six. We'll start with a couple of lobsters."

The Water Grill. 544 S. Grand Ave, Los Angeles. Excellent seafood. Even better prices--if you're V.I.P. or F.O.S. (Friend of Schlemmel).

Posted by Aaron Black at 10:23 PM