When I grow up I’d like to be a hotel concierge. I’m not talking gold rope epaulettes exactly, but framed by a stout desk, just visible from the waist up, with sharp lapels, perhaps the suggestion of a shoulder pad, there would be no stopping me. Days out, feasting, entertainments, diversions, and first-class emergency care, these are pretty much my stock-in-trade. Almost every day I field three or four enquiries of this nature, and happily. It’s reviving, on occasion, to be the person with the answers instead of the one with the questions.
I’ve met some truly excellent concierges this year, helpful almost to the point of obsession. In Chicago, at the start of the summer, the degree to which our concierge wanted us to enjoy ourselves was a little bit stunning. How could we possibly be worth it? We knew no matter what, we mustn’t let him down. I thought of an old-fashioned baby being weaned with an aeroplane spoon in his high chair, “Another potato for Jesus, another carrot for the Queen.” Well, we became a bit like that in relation to Gerald.
He recommended a production of The Little Foxes at the Goodman Theatre, which was perfect for the rainy afternoon, the family drama full of miss-steps and sharp practice, making for a delicious unease. “How was it?” our concierge asked, quivering with anticipation, as we wandered through the lobby, and I had that wonderful feeling of relief I have when a friend gives you his or her novel to read and you can truthfully say “I loved it.”
One evening he recommended a Japanese restaurant and told us what to order. We followed his instructions, of course we did. A dish of sashimi arrived in a round glass bowl, the thick slices of fish arranged in a horseshoe configuration, nestling atop a garden of Japanese vegetables in seven shades of green. When the waitress told us exactly how we should eat the fish, because it was a plate of crescendos as well as quiet moments, and a correct procedure needed to be observed, I almost phoned the front desk to see if our man concurred. That people cared so much about our pleasure was enchanting. The opposite of neglect has always been my favourite.
Too much helpfulness, of course, has a bad name. Some 12-step treatment centres that offer rehabilitation for those with drug and alcohol problems, also try to cure those who go in for “compulsive helping”. If you find that you help people to the point that you make yourself ill, such a place might be required. But if your helping spreads cheer both internally and externally, in the main, being a hotel concierge might just be the perfect job.
If you gave it your all, pulled in every possible favour in your power, you could make people so happy. I imagined the holiday-makers turning up at my little desk requesting cakes and ribbon shops and show recommendations.
Leave me with a gift list for your hard-to-please relations! Sure I’ll do a chocolate-and-almond cake (with chestnut purEe) for your grandma’s birthday tea! Doctors with bedside manner, doctors with no bedside manner; priests - severe - who are fluent in ancient Greek, priests - relaxed - who do Elvis impersonations; kindly beauticians; soft-hearted seamstresses, East End and West End; a man who’s brilliant with cracked skin on hard heels - I have their numbers. My friend Alex will take you on a midnight walk through London, her brother could sort your visa problems, her mother find you a beautiful handblown glass vase. Amy could help you curate a meaningful museum of yourself. Her sister can translate most languages. C could do a beautiful drawing of your family, if the timings suited. S would frame it. M would take you shopping for antiques.
I was saying all this to some French friends in Paris. We were discussing our perfect jobs, eating some wizened goats’ cheeses which, arranged on an old French wooden board in a circle, looked a little bit like Stonehenge. One wanted to be a street musician, only he despised the accordion.
Another wanted to be a jewel thief. I painted a nice picture of my little bureau of joy for all-comers.
“We had a friend,” they said, “he was a concierge for a while in this big palace hotel and it wasn’t much fun for him at all. He didn’t get all these special requests for care and everything like you say. Mostly people asked him for drugs and girls.”
Oh.
ft
