Puttin' On the Ritz

My vacation was stupid awesome phat deadly, man. For 5 days I stayed at the Ritz Carleton, Key Biscayne. There, I met Martha, my breakfast server and dream girl. She was a Latin lovely, late 30s early 40s, maybe 5’4”. She was sweet, friendly and efficient. Every 8 minutes Martha would come to my table with coffee and fresh-squeezed OJ in hand, and she’d fill my cup and glass until I said, “No thanks, Martha. I'm finished.” (The filling of the cup, for those not playing with a full deck, was a symbolic gesture.) She remembered that I liked my waffle with strawberries and pecans on the side. The urge to inappropriately hug her, press her close to my bosom, raged inside me. One morning when I walked in to the restaurant, Martha was nowhere to be seen. Panic struck. I couldn’t eat without her. I’m sure I looked like Bambi did when his Mom got whacked. Did Martha have a life outside my breakfast? Was she at the dentist? Fired? In the arms of an unfaithful lover? God knows she couldn’t have a day off in the middle of my stay. Impossible! Unthinkable! Right when I was about to call my shrink in a freakish K-hole of abandonment issues, Martha appeared like the Virgin Mother. Hail Martha, full of grace. Blessed art thou amongst servers and blessed is the fruit you bring to me a la carte. Yes, I’d love a refill. Amen.

My friends and I entertained the thought of kidnapping Martha. Fine, it was all my idea, but they wouldn’t have protested when her cheery smile, calming presence and fresh toasted bagel & banana in hand, greeted them on the way to the express train. Martha is worth doing the time. But there was a dark side of my fantasy, too. In it, Martha is with me in NYC (where she once lived for 14 years), but she keeps ignoring my demands. She goes out with friends, attends church regularly and volunteers at 3 local hospitals. There they call her Miracle Martha. Yeah, sure, AIDS babies need love, burn victims, too. But what about me? Where’s my banana? And why aren’t my pecans chopped? What the hell? She’s constantly leaving me, telling me that she’ll be right back after she tends to our community garden. My therapist would definitely agree with me: I have to get in her grill about it. I have to sit Martha down and explain to her the conditions of her captivity because she’s obviously confused. I write a thorough imprisonment contract that details the finer points of what will and will not be tolerated. She's mine, M-I-N-E! I don’t want to have to release her. That’s too severe a punishment. I could never do that to my girl.

Martha and the entire staff at the Ritz were outstanding hosts. I felt completely at home. Each time they said things like, “Come back and join us at the spa. Take full advantage of all the services we offer. We’d love to see you again,” I completely believed them. For 5 days I got the royal treatment, and I’m still glowing despite a 4 hour layover in Raleigh-Durham (great place to watch paint dry) and this morning’s lack of Manhattan bound service on any train out of Brooklyn. Nice try, NYC. Thanks for shoving your ever present middle finger into my peaceful, happy face.

Now I know why places like the Ritz Carleton have the reputations they do. Complete strangers welcome you to their world. You, the guest, are important to them. They wait on you, offer you the best of everything they’ve got, and there’s nothing servile about it. Unlike many of us in our chosen (or accidentally necessary) careers, they seem to enjoy what they do. But even if they don’t, they managed to make me feel so special. What I’ll remember most is their signature phrase. When a guest said, “Thank You,” they’d always respond, “It’s my pleasure.” Au contraire, Martha and friends. The pleasure was all mine.