George Thorogood
Sometime in 2003, my band played a show in Nebraska at a small venue attached to a larger venue. The promoter let us know that George Thorogood was playing the larger room next door, and we were welcome to attend George’s show after ours — simply show our wristbands to security for entry.
Our set went poorly, roughly 50 were in attendance, but we got wind that the George Thorogood show was sold out.
I pounded many free beers that the promoter provided in our small green room, and I headed over to the larger room to check out what ole’ George had to offer.
The place was packed, so I chose to stand at the back of the room to avoid the Thorogood devotees. I imagined his crowd might be rambunctious, since they came to see the boogie-blues god.
A few songs into George’s set, a woman stepped in front of me and began dancing provocatively. During “Sweet Little Lady,” she backed up a little closer and started giving me looks, trying to make eye contact.
When the opening riff of "I Drink Alone" began, she started grinding her butt into my crotch — one hand holding a beer, the other fist pumping to the kick drum.
I was wearing a brass, turquoise horseshoe beltbuckle that I had stolen from my cousin Lucky. The protruding cheap gemstones and star motif must have felt uncomfortable to her.
Finally, George played his infamous “One Bourbon, One Scotch, One Beer,” which the entire auditorium had been waiting for. While shouting the words to the chorus, the woman stuck her hand down the front of my pants, and for whatever reason, I just let her.
By the end of the song, she and I tumbleweeded through the crowd while making out, kicking up dust and pebbles along the way, made it through the vast parking lot, and ended up at her car.
She opened the passenger door of her Ford Escort, and we somersaulted inside.
We continued our rough-and-tumble play while she fiddled with the stereo.
After a few moments, she pulled her head away from mine while holding my ears with both hands and just stared at me while my head sat uncomfortably on the headrest in the decline position. She was breathing heavily — deep huffs and puffs.
“Who the hell are you?” she yelled.
The question seemed rhetorical, so I didn’t answer.
”I don’t even know your name! What are we doing?” she said as she leaped into the driver’s seat.
”I have no idea!” I said. “I’m just following your lead!”
”What the fuck is wrong with me? I don’t know this person, my god, Rebecca, get your shit together,” she murmured to herself. “Why do you do this?”
”Hi Rebecca, I’m Christopher. Nice to formally meet you.”
She grabbed the steering wheel, slammed her head into the center of it, causing the high-pitched car horn to honk as it echoed throughout the lot.
”Chris!” she screamed. “Sorry, but get the fuck out of my car!”
Without hesitation, I obliged.
Several years later, I worked at a restaurant in Bel Air. My title was waiter, but I was mostly Tino, the owner’s bitch. The rest of the staff called me “Manager Boy” because I took inventory, closed out the register, and made the schedule on occasion. I was not compensated for the extra tasks.
I was given these duties because the actual manager had to wear an ankle monitor due to a recent DUI and was facing deportation. He would work split shifts and had to plug himself into the wall so the monitor would not discharge by the end of his twelve-hour day.
Tino was 5’2”, wore exclusively Tommy Bahamas shortsleeved button-down shirts, and presented a seasonal goatee depending on this mood. He was a strict owner and ran a tight ship. Some days, he’d call into the restaurant to say, “Ehh, I feel like taking the night off, you got this?” and twenty minutes later, the back door would swing open, and he’d go employee to employee and inspect everyone’s breath to see if the staff had been drinking. He didn’t seem to care about boozing on the job — he was more concerned with the theft, so he’d check the trashcans and dumpster for empty bottles while auditing the evening’s sales.
One busy Friday night, Tino caught word that Gilby Clarke from Guns N’ Roses was dining with us. He scooted upstairs to his office, changed the music from traditional Italian to “Civil War,” and cranked the volume to 100. Then Tino walked down the stairs, pointing at Gilby while doing air guitar.
I had to pull Tino aside to let him know that Gilby wasn’t in the lineup during that GnR era.
Tino liked me because I did not drink while at work, but it annoyed him how often I tried to call in sick. He had a rule: if he didn’t respond to your call-out message, you had to show up for your shift. He also had a memory like a dolphin. You would ask him if you could go home early, and he’d reply, “Remember two months ago when you came to work in a wrinkled shirt, and I didn’t say anything? I’m making you stay late for that tonight. He’d shrug, “Sorry, life’s a bitch!”
One evening, a party of four asked for the VIP table, which happened to be in my section at the back of the restaurant, close to the exposed pizza oven. The table faced forward, but was in a little cove with a half-wall behind it that shielded it from the kitchen and bathrooms.
The party consisted of a lady and a man in their 60s, an older man in his 80s, and a teenage girl.
When I greeted the table and began my “Welcome to Mulholland Grill, My name is Christopher, have you dined here before? Sparkling or still water for the table?” spiel.
I recognized the man in his 60s — it was George Thorogood.
George said, “Hey, Chris, Nice to meet you. Yeah, we’re regulars, we know Tino. He used to let little Gracie here make Nutella pizzas when she was younger.”
”Excellent! Thanks for letting me know that you’re familiar and you’ve dined with us before.”
After my busboy filled the water, I gave them a few moments, and then approached the table again for drink and appetizer orders.
”Have you had an opportunity to look at the wine list? I would be happy to provide suggestions and answer any questions you might have,” I said.
”Chris,” George said, “It’s Chris, right?”
”Yes, you may call me Chris.”
”Y’know, I am just not much in the drinking mood tonight. Do you think Tino would pour me a half glass of house red tonight?”
I said, “I am sure that we can accommodate that for you, sir.”
”Anyone else?”
The lady, who appeared to be George’s wife, replied, “Yeah, a glass of the house chard.”
”Of course. So a house chardonnay for the lady and a half-glass of house red for the gentleman.”
”Thanks, Chris,” George replied.
As I made my way to the POS to ring the wine up, George got out of his seat, rounded the corner behind the half-wall, walked up to Tino, grabbed his shoulder, and whispered in his ear.
Tino sprinted to me and said, “Grab the Pinot Noir bowl, glass, and fill it to the brim with house cab.”
I hesitated because I had just taken their wine order and said to Tino, “Is this for George? He just ordered with me. He only wants a half-pour.”
”Pour the fucking wine! Do it now!” Tino said while flailing his arms and rattling his gold bracelets.
I grabbed the Burgundian glass, filled it with ~20 ounces of house cab, and handed it to Tino.
Tino then rushed to the back of the restaurant, behind the kitchen, and to the men’s bathroom. He opened the door slightly, and a man’s hand grabbed the glass from Tino, then the door closed.
I was very confused.
After dropping off the chardonnay and George’s half-pour, I moved to the next table.
I found Tino and asked, “Hey, what’s that all about?”
He interrupted me, “Don’t ask questions. If George ever asks you for wine by the bathroom, never ring it up on the table’s check. Never. He will give you cash. Just charge him for a bottle of house cab, give him the glass in the bathroom, and go grab it later under the sink. Don’t forget about the glass! We don’t want fruit flies in the bathroom.”
”So charge him for a house cab bottle, ring it up as cash, and pretend none of this is happening.”
”That’s what I said!”
A bit later, I went to check in on the table, and I noticed George’s wife was low on wine.
“How is everyone doing? Ma’am, how about another glass of chardonnay?”
She picked up the glass, looked at it closely, and said, “Christian, I’ll have another!”
”My pleasure,” I replied. “And for you, sir? How are you doing with your house red?”
George said, “Oh gosh. I forgot this thing was even sitting in front of me. I’m good for now, thanks.”
As I walked away from the table, George darted to the back again. Once out of his family's view, he caught my eye, nodded several times in my direction, and winked.
I went to the server station, popped a fresh bottle of Salmon Creek Cabernet Sauvignon, filled it to near the top, and marched it over to the bathroom while trying not to spill it, and knocked on the door.
George’s arm slid between the door and the doorframe with $40 cash in hand.
The money went in my pocket and the wine stem into his purlicue. It felt like I was participating in a drug deal.
I went back to the restaurant floor to make more rounds at my tables in my section.
Tino soon found me and intensely asked, “Where’s George’s cash? The money for the wine?”
”It’s in my pocket, I haven’t rung it up yet.”
”Are you trying to steal from me?”
”Tino, cool your shit. I haven’t had an opportunity to ring it in yet.”
”Go do it now. I want to see you put the cash in the register. I want to watch with my eyes.”
I laughed and said, “OK, come and watch, you freak.”
George’s dinner was coming to an end, and I went to offer desserts.”
”How was the meal? Did everyone enjoy?”
George’s wife said, “The Branzino was delish! Compliments to the chef!”
The “chef” was an overworked Oaxacan man named Beto, who pulled 17-hour days across various restaurants in LA County, and the guy who cooked her fish, we called “La Rana,” because he looked like a frog, had no proper culinary training.
”Sir, how did the small glass of cabernet treat you tonight? Would you like me to top it off or perhaps a glass of after-dinner port?”
“Chris, I think this was the absolute perfect amount for me tonight,” George said as he slurred his words. “I cannot fathom having another sip — I am satiated beyond belief. Thank you so much for such a fine evening.”
George’s wife then said, “You know, Christian, my husband here is a performer. A real rock n roller.”
I played dumb, “Oh, is he?”
”He is! Have you ever heard the song ‘Bad to the Bone’?"
”Wait a minute. Are you George Thorogood?” I asked with surprise.
”In the flesh,” George said as he smiled and pointed at himself.
The entire table laughed. The charade seemed to be rehearsed, but I played along.
”You may think of me as a rowdy, blues singer, but I have love songs, too, y’know. Take, ‘I’m Just Your Good Thing,’” he said. “I’ve been told many times over the years that people fall in love during my concerts.”
I replied, ”I believe it. There must be something special about you while you’re up on that stage that gets people in the mood.”
