Del Mar Turf Club: From the Trenches, Summer 2006

Opening Day: From the Turf Club Trenches

Wherever there is a racetrack in Southern California, there you will find Jimmy O’Hara.  He is an almost mythical figure in these recreational epicenters of power, money, and horseracing.  Del Mar, Santa Anita, Hollywood Park: Everybody there knows Jimmy.  He is the Executive CEO, the Commander in Chief, the King.  He runs the finest part of these tracks as a patronage system, with the absolute control Louis XIV exercised over the royal dilettantes of Versailles.  Jimmy knows the regulars, the old timers, the up and comers, the barflies, the members’ wives, the foreigners, the intruders.  

At least, that’s the illusion.  For some reason, the beautiful, the accomplished, and the entitled believe if they could only curry Jimmy’s favor, then the best seat in the house could be theirs: A table with a direct view of the finish line, and an indirect but clear view of the comings and goings of the Turf Club glitterati.  Where is the best place to see and be seen?  That’s the table you want.

But it’s not like that.  You see, Jimmy is actually just a critical piece in a very delicate puzzle.  He receives a list of members and their assigned tables at the beginning of every season, and his unshakeable responsibility is to look after the members.  Magnanimous or miserly, the members must be looked after above all else.  It doesn’t matter if your mother baked Jimmy her most sumptuous chocolate cake, or if people know you, or if your fiancé is flashing a rock the size of the Hope Diamond on her finger.  Is your name on the list?  Do you have a reservation?  Okay, have a drink at the bar, and talk to me after the second race.  This is Opening Day at the Del Mar Racetrack!  What did you expect?!

To be honest, the horses are a sideshow.  The New Fathers of the Del Mar Racetrack must have realized this years ago when they reinvented their advertising campaign.  The old advertisements played to Del Mar’s traditional strengths: Thrilling horse races, dignified society, and the misty cool backdrop of the Pacific Ocean.  “Where the Turf Meets the Surf” captured it all.  Billboards boasted photographs of packs of horses vigorously vying for victory in the final straightaway-whips lashing, mud flying.

But something has happened at Del Mar that reflects the transformation of San Diego society as a whole.  In the middle decades of the last century, the fortunes of this Southern Californian sea town basically turned on the military-industrial complex on one side, and tourism on the other.  The science of war and the art of leisure provided the underpinnings of what was once a cozy coastal city.  All those years ago the Del Mar Racetrack was a retreat for the rich and famous of Los Angeles, famously epitomized by the irrepressible Bing Crosby.  San Diego “society” was a close knit clique that socialized together, conservatively, traditionally.

Opening Day 2006 would be simply unrecognizable to our restrained forefathers.  Some forty four thousand people descended on Del Mar this year for the social event of the season.  People flew in by plane, by train, by car, from all over the American Southwest, from Houston to Las Vegas to San Francisco, to be here for this day.  To gamble, to socialize, to flirt, to drink, thousands came. 

It would be my job to take care of all the needs of some of the day’s most prized guests.  I would not be permitted to fail.  Here is what it Opening Day looked like from the Turf Club trenches.

Sixty waiters, forty busboys, forty cooks, twenty dishwashers, ten captains, three chefs, one Maitre’d.  Our battalion of service staff was fully mobilized by 8:30 AM.  In fact, we were just one division in the entire army of men and women who work the Opening Day juggernaut.  But in some ways our job was the most important, as we would serve the elite clientele.  

The generals issued their orders: “Gates open in three hours!”  bellowed Major O’Hara.  “This is bigger than the Superbowl!  This is our biggest day of the year!  If you can do this, you can do anything?  This is excitement!  Go!”.  

One, two, three, break!  

We started swarming like worker bees all over the five hundred tables spread over six rows that cover the whole upper deck of Del Mar.  Tens of thousands people all over San Diego were at home, primping, preparing, sucking down mimosas.  They would invade our track in a matter of hours, and they would come sober and hungry, ready to eat, and mostly drink, for the entire day.  How could we satisfy so much demand, especially when half of our army consisted of privates- more first year rookies than any year in General O’Hara’s career?

Have you seen the silver?  I’ve got the linen tablecloths.  You, over there, bring me a hundred salt and paper shakers.  Where are all the menus?  We don’t have enough napkins!!  My swipe card doesn’t work!  I forgot my name badge!    Do you have a bowtie I could borrow?  Where’s my busboy?  How do I split a check six ways?  Do we get to eat first?  Oh my God, I’m melting!!!!

And the gates hadn’t even opened yet.  We gathered at 11:00 for a final inspirational speech, this time from Peter, Jimmy’s cool but tough right hand man.  He lined us up, thirty wide and patrolled the ranks, looking for a weak link.  Black bowties, white tuxedo shirts, and shiny black shoes-As we followed the leader, it looked like the March of the Penguins.  “Listen, guys.  I’m gonna make you money today.  Today is your day.  It could fall from the sky on a day like this.  You can do this.  Talk to each other, talk to your captains.  Help each other.  It’s gonna be intense.  These people are here to have a good time.  And they’re here to drink.  We’re here to make that happen.  Gates are open, everybody to your stations!”.

The first wave was manageable-the early birds, the old folks, the really eager.  It was almost a relief to seat a few people early, just to get their orders in early and out of the way.  Burl Stiff was patrolling with his notebook, scribbling furiously.  Film crews wandered the aisles looking for anybody who looked important, which today was everybody.

The second wave came right away.  All of a sudden, Jimmy’s desk was backed up and all the waiters were running.  I looked around nervously as I realized that my section was split clean in two by the Maitre’d’s desk.  In order to serve all my customers I’d need to run up three rows, over two sections, down three roughs, and back one section, a horseshoe detour that was about to test my legs, my shoulders, and my stamina. This was ludicrous!

From what magical land did these women hail?  Never in my life have I seen so many decorous butterflies as I saw cross Jimmy’s desk on Opening Day.  Women of the most impossible dimensions, the most languorous looks, the most perfectly wrought costumes.  Not a feather was out of place.  Wide brimmed hats tilted secretively over hiding eyes, while hemlines left little to the imagination and dresses threatened to burst at the seams.  All of a sudden I realized yet another hindrance to my mission to serve all my customers as expeditiously as possible-these coquettish ladies.  

As I dashed and dodged from the kitchen to my section, I would hear the most seductive cries for attention.  “Sir?  Excuse me, could you please come here for just one second?”.  Some tender flower would reach out and hold my wrist and look intently at me and cry, “Please, Andrew, I don’t know where my waiter is, but could you just bring me a Split of Vueve Cliquot?  I would be so grateful”.  I would stutter and begin to explain that I was slammed, I mean SLAMMED, and I had no time to chat, and I’d get her waiter’s attention, but she would hold my wrist, and then twenty dollars would appear, and now I was really in trouble. . . 

What did Jimmy say?  The two F words.  Focus and fu, I mean, fu, I mean, FUN!  Those were the right words, but not “Focus on fun,” it was “Focus” and “Fun.”  Okay, first, FOCUS. . . .

Trays stacked high, pandemonium everywhere, endless waits at the bar, ten minute backups in the kitchen, gridlock in the aisles.  The sharks were drinking heavily and cruising around looking for delicious minnows, and they were all IN MY WAY!  “Please, excuse me, could I just get by, um, sir, Can you just. . . !”  Ugh!  I felt like I was trapped in a real life game of Pac-Man and every turn I took I ran up against an impenetrable wall of people.  And this tray is so heavy, eight entrees stacked like Jenga blocks, and I’m sweating bullets in my tuxedo, and God don’t these people understand what I’m going through?

“Dude, are you guys slaughtering the cow back there?  Where the hell is my cheeseburger?”.

“I ordered a carrot cake an hour ago.  I don’t want it anymore.  Just bring me the check!”.

“What is this?  Vodka limon?  I wanted vodka straight with lemon!  Take this back!.”

No time to talk, think, argue, only to react.  Sweat poured down my face and my hair gel began to cake on my forehead.  My legs groaned for relief, but none was forthcoming.  This was a battle, and it wouldn’t be finished until the last race.  

“Come on guys, you’re halfway there!” cried Peter.  “Don’t fall apart on me now.  You can do this!”.

Champagne flowed, Beer bottles snapped open, the well was running at full speed.  Everybody was on their way to that thrilling place where the mind is so saturated, the body is so primal, and the spirit is lifted.  Food, sex, money, money, money!!!

The marathon continued for all of us.  The chefs worked nonstop to get all the food to us.  The dishwashers moved at a full clip to get fresh dinnerware back on the tables.  The captains rallied and filled in all the gaps that we were constantly opening up.  We were pulling together and pulling through.

My section moved from overflowing to a rolling boil, and I calmed down a bit.  I actually lifted my eyes to admire the butterflies flitting around me.  I slapped high fives with the other waiters and felt a booming camaraderie.  The end was in sight.  We were going to make it. 

Tables began to clear.  The Turf Club Bar soon became the place to be, and our sections emptied little by little.  I loosened my collar and looked out at the gorgeous track, at looming Black Mountain in the Distance, and at the crisp, cool Pacific Ocean.

The aftermath of opening day was surely more devastating than Woodstock 1969.  The entire track was littered with detritus.  The stately Turf Club Bar was utterly thrashed.  Drunken waifs slithered around in search of something they hadn’t found yet.  Forgotten cups and bottles covered every usable millimeter of table surface.  The ornamental carpet was stained and filthy.  It may be true that Hippies have made the successful transition into yuppies, then to aging Baby Boomers, but they are as messy as ever when it comes time for a massive party.

Bruised and battered by twelve hours of ceaseless action, I stumbled away from the Del Mar Racetrack like a wounded soldier.  My tuxedo shirt was untucked, unbuttoned, and covered with cranberry juice.  My impeccably styled hair had collapsed into a crusty and chaotic tangle.  As I climbed the final ridge before reaching my car, I looked back at the glistening lights of the Del Mar Racetrack, I grinned incredulously.  

“Where the Turf Meets the Surf, at Olde Del Mar. . . .”

What on earth would Bing Crosby say?