It's Impossible!

My friend Kordt used to work at a restaurant on Rodeo Drive. The manager - let's say he was named Fabien - was an ebullient guy with a thick French accent. One of the servers (let's call her Telsie), was petite, beautiful, and very self-assured.

Once, as Fabien was ushering a couple into Telsie's section, she said, "Oh, no. No, no. Fabien, I told you I would never wait on them again."

Fabien's response: "Oh, I'm so sorry, Telsie," and to the couple, "Please follow me." The woman protested, "What?" and Fabien shrugged, put his hands up, "It's impossible! This way please."

Telsie worked two jobs, the restaurant during the day and the Playboy Club at night. We went to visit her - I guess she got us in; I don't remember. We were impressed by her nighttime look, "Oh, my God, Telsie, you've got boobs!"

She said, "Oh, yeah, you basically just drag every single bit of your body up into this iron cage (she gestured at her bodice) and set all of that on a shelf of padding. All of this," (she poked the bottom of her boob) "is just stuffing. Half of this," (she poked the top of her boob, the part that showed) came from my thigh." We were all pleased by this important intel. Then she said, "Oh. I have to go deal with those dickheads," and she walked off smiling from ear to ear to a tableful of business men who looked very much like dickheads.

Telsie was buying a second house by the time I left LA.

This is the restaurant.

Someday I'll write about the night I worked there.