The Golden Rollin' Belly
Reading the Burt Bacharach obituary in The New York Times last week I was suddenly back in the summer of 1971 when the famous songwriter and his movie star wife, Angie Dickinson, walked into the restaurant where I was a waitress.
The Golden Rollin' Belly, a pub with British pretensions and waitresses in wench costumes, had opened that summer just in time for the race season at the Del Mar track. I had parlayed a brief stint at an A&W a few summers before into waitressing experience. Had the manager checked out my reference, he might not have hired me. I had been a left-handed disaster behind the counter, constantly burning my arm on the heat lamps when reaching for the fries and regularly knocking, bumping or spilling something. Only the local cops seemed to find me amusing when they stopped by on break for a root beer. Never mind, I talked a good game in the interview. The manager hired me and suggested that I could lose a few pounds.
As part of the young team that opened the GRB that summer, I was an outlier. The others were already career waitresses and bartenders in their 20's. I was waitressing because it was the best way to make good money before I left for a graduate semester in Paris at the end of August. Still, I enjoyed the other staff, heading to the beach with them on breaks between split shifts, placing small bets on the daily double at the track, and closing the bar together with cocktails at the end of the night.
The work itself was physically demanding, carrying platters of prime rib and steak up and down stairs, but I managed multiple orders, cranky customers and even the few drunks. Given the deep décolleté of my costume, there were unwanted advances, but also welcome tips. Only one jerk actually stuffed bills down my cleavage. I swallowed my shock and kept the money. Waitressing was a temporary job.
Most nights the scene was convivial, with the house band playing an upbeat mix of folk and rock, including a version of John Stewart's "The Golden Rollin' Belly" which had been released just the year before. The clientele included local regulars, tourists, and the racing crowd. Jockeys sat at the bar drinking club soda and gave us tips on the next day's races. High rollers who had a good day at the track spent big while others lamented their losses over their beers.
Over the summer several high-profile celebrities who played the ponies came for drinks or dinner but in my memory none had more star power than Burt and Angie. Hollywood dazzling, with perfect smiles and quick wits, they lingered for hours charming everyone. The kitchen was abuzz, with all of us wondering if they would be seated at our table, if we would have the nerve to ask for autographs, if they would join the singing. None of which happened. But for a few hours we all felt slightly glamorous simply by proximity.