For the Life of Me...: Anecdotes from a Career in Hospitality

For the Life of Me…

anecdotes

from a

career

in

hospitality

Graham Willsher

iUniverse, Inc.

Bloomington

For the Life of Me…

anecdotes from a career in hospitality

Copyright © 2011 by Graham Willsher.

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ISBN: 978-1-4620-5874-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-5875-4 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 10/14/2011

Contents

Preface

Death by Chocolate

Over a Barrel

One Does What One Can

Media Bites

Two Sides to Every Story

Be My Guest

I Now Declare…

Downhill, Definitely Downhill

Up Close and Personal

Blood, Sweat and… Fears

Forty Years On

The Demise of Harry Seybold

Up in Smoke

Simply The Best

About the Author

For the Life of Me…

For Aaron, my son, who has managed in his twenty two years to bring out in me every possible emotion known to man.

There are many reasons why someone would wish to write about their exploits as they travel this mortal coil. I felt strongly that my son may want something tangible on which he can blame his own missteps in life. This book should do it.

I appreciated Aaron’s words when I announced that I was writing my first book. Actually word, not words. ‘Cool’, if I remember correctly. I was expecting more.

I settled for cool.

The art of hospitality

is making people feel at home

when you wish they were.

Anon

Preface

I was crouching in the ladies washroom, my hands and arms wrapped around my head, when the explosion occurred.

I felt the vibration. The sound of the blast caused me to clamp my eyes shut. Moments later, one of two Bomb Squad officers, who were also hunkered down just feet away, asked if I was okay. I was. Both cautioned against going out into the corridor for a full minute to ensure there was no aftermath.

An eerie silence prevailed as we walked towards a settling dust cloud emanating from the meeting room on the left hand side. I wasn’t sure what to expect. The entrance door, now open, was hanging from a solitary hinge and badly damaged. Inside, through a mist of swirling particles, I saw pock-marks on the walls. Debris was everywhere; chunks of plaster, splintered wood, some twisted metal.

It was an otherwise normal morning at Hockley Highlands Inn & Conference Centre, located fifty miles to the north of Toronto, Ontario, where I had held the position of general manager for the past several years. Minutes after eleven o’clock, one of the twenty five meeting rooms, in what was referred to as the Trades Building on the sprawling 200 acre estate, had been targeted with explosives. It was a surreal moment.

True story?

Every word. On particularly bad days, some of my peers only dream of blowing up the facilities they are entrusted to protect. I preferred to be proactive.

The fact that the incident was a controlled exercise, conducted by an elite tactical force from a regional police service, did not minimize the reality of what had just taken place.

I had agreed to the unusual training mission provided that the selected meeting room, within the partially operable building, be repaired and returned to its original, albeit dilapidated, condition. At the invitation of the Bomb Squad, spurred on by my aggressive curiosity, I was kitted out with protective eyewear, industrial-strength ear muffs and a padded coat, having been instructed on how to protect myself if the ensuing process fell short of expectations.

The story of the bomb detonation came to mind in 2007 as I was putting the finishing touches to the design of a website that I would name, Truly Bloggered, a vehicle that would ultimately record some of the more memorable moments in a hospitality career that had started in 1964 and would end in 2008.

Although I have long believed that most hospitality employees, at every level, have a trove of anecdotes from their working life that, if documented, would keep book publishers in business for eternity, my reason for creating Truly Bloggered had little to do with reminiscing about my chosen career. Quite simply, I had set my mind on learning how to create a website. Nothing more. Having completed the desired look, I needed content to fill the pages. To that end, I set about writing a true-life story which I would entitle, Death by Chocolate. I added four more anecdotal tales, involving my time in hospitality, to round out the initial effort. It was at this point that I sent the web link to three friends who responded effusively about the nostalgic moments recorded on the site.

Without their enthusiasm and urging to continue, For the Life of Me . . . would not have borne fruit. So, if you need someone to blame for feeling obligated to read on, I will provide their names: Diane Rickwood, Joyce Baker and Karen Jamieson, one of my two ‘Canadian sisters’. I am grateful for their kind words of praise for Truly Bloggered. All three have one trait in common—beautiful liars. In bolstering one’s ego, what else would true friends be.

Most authors will claim that writing a book is a labour of love. I now know what they mean. However, I experienced more than a passion to see the end result. Because I needed to delve into the distant past, I rediscovered events, other than those in this book, about which I had long forgotten. I ‘renewed my acquaintance’ with individuals I had not thought about in forty, thirty and twenty years. And I remembered conversations that would otherwise have remained hidden. I am grateful for those opportunities.

For the Life of Me . . . is not the story of my career; no-one in their right mind would wish to read that sorry tale. Neither is its content provided in chronological order; far too methodical and unappealing. I have attempted to record incidents and conversations as I remember them without enhancing the content for effect. Research was also undertaken, where needed, to ensure accuracy.

I have since moved on from a career in hospitality. The closure and transition were not easy; perhaps a case of not wishing to let go. Almost four years after my final role in a career that spanned five decades, I can now, literally, close the book and feel satisfied that I gave my all.

Apologies, notwithstanding.

Graham Willsher

Georgetown, Ontario

October 2011

Death by Chocolate

I have been on the run, now, for forty two years.

In retrospect, that is six years longer than Ronnie Biggs, the infamous Train Robber in England, who survived on the lam until his voluntary return from Brazil in 2001 to complete jail time. Having slipped into Canada in the mid 1970s, I cannot claim to be constantly looking over my shoulder in case the strong arm of London’s Metropolitan Police is about to nick me, but I do get edgy as I pass through passport control on clandestine returns to the old country.

The year was 1969 and I was to have a brief and disquieting encounter with Paul Newman, the late American actor and film director. The focus of our connection was a fragile-looking lady of means who was not a day younger than ninety.

Now, in case you’re thinking that I mix frequently in highfaluting circles and hobnob at will with Hollywood’s A list, you’d be right. Solely from a subservient standpoint, you understand. Over the course of a career which spanned forty years, I had occasion to be involved in the provision of hospitality services to British royalty, Canadian prime ministers, an American president and dozens of screen, television and music celebrities. Some of whom have likely forgiven me.

My good fortune during those early years in the business was to be assigned my college placement training at the fabled Connaught Hotel in Carlos Place, Mayfair, London W1.

The Grill Room at the Connaught was, and likely still is, a magnet for those who are partial to the highest levels of culinary creativity and fawning service offered in that fashionable district of London. Under the watchful tutelage of the maitre d’, a gentleman named Mr. Rose whom we assumed, as staff, wasn’t provided with a first name at birth, I found myself serving half a dozen recognizable personalities throughout any given day.

During my second week of placement, I was notified that Her Royal Highness Princess Margaret was to dine in my section for lunch. I was summarily advised that I would not be allowed to attend table on this occasion. Following timid protestations, I was counselled that, whereas my skill sets barely matched those required to serve the commoner in life let alone the more noble members of society, the true reason for my exile to the far reaches of the dining room was that I had yet to be trained in the art of walking backwards. I still haven’t, although that deftness hasn’t dampened my ability to survive most of what life has thrown my way.

A month into my training, I was assigned the much sought-after duty of serving Afternoon Tea in the hotel’s Lounge adjacent to the front desk. My career was peaking. Equipped with trolley, tea pot with requisite cosy, miniature sandwiches and an array of gateaux, French pastries and assorted fripperies, my task at precisely two thirty each afternoon was to enter the Lounge at ten minute intervals to provide the finest of mid afternoon sustenance that the grand old house had to offer.

Adept at recognizing even the most obscure of notable faces, I was, nevertheless, taken aback by the presence of a gentleman seated in the first chair to the left of the entrance. Paul Newman, the actor, was reading a book. To his left sat Joanne Woodward, his wife. Two empty seats, then a white-haired, elegantly dressed lady peering nonchalantly at nothing in particular from a wing back chair. Wrestling with whether to address Mr. Newman by name, I proffered the full delicacies. He settled only for a beverage. His wife the same. My marketing skills at up-selling were falling on deaf ears. I turned my head towards the sole target remaining and zeroed in on, what I hoped would be, her vulnerability to my sales pitch. Offering a sympathetic smile, the lady thanked me in a soft grandmotherly voice but declined to partake of anything more than a cup of tea. ‘Go for it!’ were the words I said to myself. ‘Don’t give up!’

Perhaps if I cut just a thin slice of this dark chocolate cake?

I’m not sure if it was the doleful look in my eyes. Maybe she felt obliged to partake of something more substantial whilst occupying prime real estate. Whatever the reason, her resolve weakened.

You’re such a charming young man… how can I resist. Now, mind you, I only want a small slice.

Success! I was destined for the top. Having sliced, lifted, served, bowed and walked backwards a pace or two, as if subliminally training for more regal days, I exited stage right returning to the pastry shop on the lower level. I waited a full five minutes before commencing my second sojourn into the Lounge. A cursory glance through the room dictated that the Newmans were no longer reading. Another couple had arrived and were awaiting my attention. The old lady, whom I had coerced into fattening herself up, was staring downwards. Ignoring my offer of further service, as if about to leave, Mr. Newman inched forward in his chair and, in a calm and steady voice reminiscent of many roles he has played in front of the camera, spoke the words that still resonate five decades later.

The lady over there… the one you served chocolate cake to… I think she’s dead.

I remained rooted to the carpet. Speechless. Staring.

The body looked limp; the used fork balanced precariously on the edge of her dress. The bone china plate, containing the thin slice of chocolate gateau, positioned in the middle of the lap. With one bite-sized morsel missing!

Recognizing that whatever talents I possessed did not include attending to the disabled, the chronically ill or the recently expired, Mr. Newman rose slowly and walked the short distance to where the lady sat. He leaned forward to check her pulse. An agonizing wait. Then he returned to where I stood frozen on the spot.

I think you should fetch the manager.

It was a testament to my continued employment in the hospitality business, upon being asked what had transpired, that I didn’t respond that I had killed my first customer.

And so, I remain free.

Deaths, mishaps and plain old shenanigans are all part of daily life at a hotel. I have been involved in many.

Some,