The Biltmore

Tuesday’s town hall meeting with the Saudi ambassador was held at the Biltmore Hotel in downtown LA. I never get tired of returning to that classic and beautiful hotel. It’s the site of some wonderful childhood memories. My dad would frequently travel to LA for business and my mom and my brother and I would often accompany him. On several occasions, I went alone with him. We always stayed at the Biltmore – it was “our hotel”.

It was on these trips that my dad taught me some important lessons, like how to check bags with the skycap; check in at an airline counter; hail a taxi; and how to tell the cabbie your destination in a way that made it clear that you knew where it was and, more importantly, that you knew how to get there.

It was at the Biltmore that I learned how to check into a hotel and discuss room and bed selection; how to get important information from the Bell Captain and the other bellman and then how to tip them accordingly. I not only learned how to order room service in that hotel but how to assess the bill, add a tip, and sign for it. I suspect my dad was giving the room service delivery person some visual sign that it was OK for a 10- or 12-year old to be signing for a room charge.

But it was downstairs in the Biltmore restaurants where I learned lessons that became more memorable and more applicable to daily life. Dad helped me peruse the details of the menu, explaining the various choices and why certain combinations were good and others weren’t. When my mom was present, I learned to let the ladies order first. I also learned to say “please” and “thank you” to every person who provided a service to me. Dad taught me to never take any of those people for granted. He made it clear to me that there was dignity in providing any service to another person, and that there should be graciousness in receiving that service.

Dad taught me the art of tipping at those tables, explaining what mattered and what didn’t matter. More importantly, he taught me generosity in the process. Dad always tipped more than others did – 15% when the norm was 10%; then 20% when the norm began to rise. He explained that tipping wasn’t just a reward for good food and good service – it was a recognition that another person was waiting on you, doing things for you that you were perfectly capable of doing for yourself. Again I heard, “Never take anyone for granted, son.”

It didn’t take long for me to notice that everyone in the Biltmore knew my dad by name, and seemed to like him. I also noticed that he knew them by name, and they seemed to like that. Of course, he was Mr. Reid to one and all, and they were Robert, Nancy, James and Ann to him. My dad’s conduct there over the years had transformed this place from a hotel to something closer to a home away from home, a place where friends and neighbors could be found close by.

Without a word of explanation from him, I also saw that it didn’t matter in the least to my dad whether the person in front of him was white, black, Hispanic, Asian, man, woman, old, young, whatever. He treated everyone with respect.

Lest I make him out to be a saint, I saw that he could get impatient with bad service, which let me know that having expectations of those who provide us service is okay, too.

On several occasions we would walk to Mike Lyman’s, on Sixth Street, I believe. On our first visit, Dad whispered that this famous LA restaurant was reputedly a major hangout for mafia kingpins in the 40s. In addition to that intrigue, I discovered the most incredible seafood salad there; it was a bowl the size of a catcher’s mitt filled with shrimp, crab and scallops. To this day, I’ve never found a better salad. I always ordered a Roy Rogers, which was my first mixed drink of choice (a boy never ordered a Shirley Temple!). It was not unusual for me to wear a tie and sometimes a sport jacket for these outings.

In my sophomore year in high school my parents were confident enough in my training to put me and my good friend, Rob, on a plane from Phoenix to LA. They were going to take a later flight and join us there in the evening. As we were boarding, Mom came running out on the tarmac because she’d forgotten to give me any money. She handed me a $100 bill, which was a big deal in the early 60s. Rob and I landed at LAX, hailed a taxi, checked in at the Biltmore, and took a taxi to Dodger Stadium where we watched a game and ate Dodger dogs, peanuts and frozen chocolate malts. We took a taxi back to the hotel. Rob had to pay for everything we did that day because no one would take a $100 bill – no one; anywhere. I’d forgotten to have the hotel cashier break it into 20s, as I’d been taught to do. As we walked in the hotel lobby we saw my parents coming down a staircase from the floor above. I handed Mom the $100 bill and said, “Here, this thing isn’t worth a dime in this city.”

By the way, the cabbie who drove us from the stadium back to the hotel took “the scenic route”. He thought he was hauling around a couple of young rubes. When we finally pulled up at the Biltmore, I handed him roughly half the fare on the meter and told him that I’d made that trip several times and knew what the fare should be. He immediately protested, of course. I asked him if he’d like to speak with the Bell Captain in the hotel. He declined, took the money, and went his way. Not bad for a 15-year old; Rob was impressed.

When I shared that story with my dad, he smiled. Thanks, Dad.