My second job in Seattle was waiting on tables at a restaurant called The Blowfish Asian Café. It was on the bottom floor of the Paramount Hotel in Seattle, a block away from the famed Paramount Theater. At the time, pan-Asian food concepts were on trend, and The Blowfish had secured a coveted spot on the Seattle Times’s Hinterberger’s Top Ten. Every major food luminary in Seattle consulted on the restaurant concept, which caused a lot of buzz around town. They were all White people, of course.
The restaurant was a complete scene for a good long minute. People would get dressed up to dine there and would not bat an eye when told the wait would be an hour and a half. Night after night, patrons would attest to the quality of the pad thai and yakisoba noodles. “This is so authentic!” they’d exclaim. Little did they know Heinz ketchup and Jiffy peanut butter had a starring role. This is what an amazing PR team can do for you. People will believe anything, if they read it in the news.
The postage stamp-sized bar was lined with decorative Japanese pachinko machines and served drinks like “five-spice chocolate martinis” in sugar rimmed glasses and “lemongrass lime rickeys” in ceramic Buddha Tiki cups. There was an oversized blowfish mural made of ceramic tile behind the Japanese robata grill and a live blowfish in a saltwater tank next to the kitchen. The walls were a classic Chinese red, and the bar counters were lined with half-rounds of bamboo. By today’s artisanal food standards, the concept would be considered garbage, with a side of mildly racist.
By virtue of being in a hotel, The Blowfish operated almost 24-hours a day. They served breakfast, catered banquets, and offered room service. Next to the Singapore noodles, the menu had buttermilk pancakes, fish and chips, and burgers, which is not dissimilar to many Korean-owned teriyaki joints around the corner from your house. As a new server, you had to work your way up to the coveted dinner shifts. This meant a lot of 5:30 am breakfast-lunch shifts and room service duty.
The Blowfish Asian Café was renamed the Dragonfish Asian Café after a copyright infringement lawsuit.
Looking back, I can attest there is nothing odder in the restaurant industry than delivering food into a stranger’s hotel “bedroom.” Just think about it. You never quite know what you’ll see when that door opens up. A person in a robe and a messy bed often meant that the occupants just had sex and were now ready for a post-coital meal. You know you’ve done this before.
Occasionally, you’ll get a person who will answer the door fully naked (usually men), and you’d have to report them to the hotel management. Nancy, the general manager, was from Chicago and did not put up with any of that shit. I liked her a lot and used to call her a “true broad” whenever I saw her. She found it mildly amusing.
As the preferred hotel for the Paramount Theater, we’d often get a lot of celebrities who’d stay overnight and dine at the restaurant. Sally Struthers came in a few times, and we’d shout, “Feed the children!” within earshot to see if we could get a rise out of her. I’m not proud about it, and I thank God every day that social media did not exist back then.
One Saturday, when I was covering a host shift, a Black man in a suit strolled in from the hotel lobby. I was staring at the seating chart, and without looking up, I said nonplused, “Can I help you?” “Bellafonte, party of eight,” a man with an accent said. I looked up, and it was Harry Bellafonte, and I nearly fell to the ground. I don’t normally get star-struck, but he is an unusually beautiful and graceful man. I want to say I kept my cool, but my heart started to race, and I immediately broke out in a sweat. It took everything in my power not to blurt out, “Day-O! Duh-duh-Daaaayyyy-O!”
One time, Nelly Furtado saddled up to the bar and casually ordered a drink. She was only nineteen at the time. Our bartender Rob was a real pro and politely declined to serve her. She then tried to get one of her entourage to order for her and was still refused. She threw a classic, “Do you know who I am?” tantrum and had to be asked to leave. It was a complete Hollywood moment in sleepy Seattle.
On a rare occasion, a local celebrity would come in. Kenny G was one of those famous people who rode the coattails of their limited success and demanded a level of respect that kids like us were unwilling to give him. Nothing is more gratifying than seeing a young punk ask an entitled has-been “What does the “G” in Kenny G stand for?” and then laugh hysterically. There are few heroes in the restaurant industry. They usually get fired.
Dave Matthews, another Seattle transplant, would also stop by. Now that guy knew how to party. He always looked perennially drunk and liked to throw back sake bombers like it was a cold glass of sweet tea on a hot summer’s day.
From time to time you’d do a room service shift and the person that opened the door would be famous. I like to brag that I saw K.D. Lang in her pajamas. And Lyle Lovett. Though if you asked me then (or now), I wouldn’t be able to recall a single song by either of them.
One night, after the show had let out, I received a huge room service order from Room 807. It was all burgers, fries, and other fried Asian delights. Per usual, I took the cart up the elevator, pushed it down the hall, and knocked on the door. No one answered. I struck again and firmly called out, “Room service!” Still, no answer. I could hear loud music and a group of men laughing from behind the door. They sounded like they were drunk. These were usually my least favorite kind of room service customers—even more than the naked guy. I tried one last time to see if anyone would answer and when no one did, I headed back downstairs.
When I returned, the front-of-the-house manager looked at me and the full cart of food and asked me what the fuck was going on. Room 807 had already called down, asking where their food was. I explained what happened, and my manager responded by pointing his finger and gesturing sharply towards the ceiling. In an abundance of caution, I called the room to let them know I was headed back up. “Duuuuuuude, we’ll be here,” the man replied.
When I returned to the room, I knocked on the door, and still no one answered. I then closed my fist and pounded on the door until it opened. A wall of pot smoke came billowing out. Then a man emerged from behind the cloud and said, “What’s up?” Typically, you bring the food in the room and set it up, but I took one look inside and determined that I did not get paid enough for any of this. I pushed the cart forward slightly, got my signature, and got out of there.
The following morning, I was on room service duty again. When I was on the elevator back down from delivering a breakfast order, I ran into Nancy, the general manager, who was stepping off the 8th floor. She was holding an ironing board that was bent entirely in half. I took one look at her and said, “807?” And she replied, “Cypress fucking Hill is never staying in this hotel again.”
