Waitressing seemed like the best way to make money. I’d met Brian while traveling with the Mardens in France, and he’d mentioned he was opening a restaurant. I had left New York as a hip urban waif with short dark hair and pale skin. I returned curvy and brown-skinned, with long hair that had turned blond in the sun. I wore no makeup and had no interest in fashion, feeling I’d done all that as a teen. I wore vintage ’40s dresses from flea markets, and plastic jelly sandals. When I dropped by 420 Lafayette to ask for a job, Brian looked me up and down and gave me a sly wink. “Yeah, you’ll do.” The question of waitressing experience did not come up.
On opening day, I arrived to find the staff running around frantically with hammers and paintbrushes; stenciling palm leaves on the walls; putting up wallpaper; accepting deliveries of banana trees, ducks, orchids, MSG, and Champagne. There was no way in hell we were going to be ready. I grabbed a brush.
Indochine opened that night, walls still wet, with a private party for Julian Schnabel’s opening at the Mary Boone Gallery. Art dealer Pat Hearn sang Patsy Cline songs wearing a tight 1950s gold brocade dress. Warhol superstar, writer, and genius-about-town Taylor Mead got up on a table to give a hilarious impromptu speech. The crowd danced all night. With one private event after another, opening night lasted a month.
Brian was truly brilliant with people. He made everyone feel like they were in the right place at the right time, and that they were clever, sexy, witty, charming, or all of the above. He was just as comfortable with Henry Geldzahler as he was with Madonna. He could converse on any topic and did so with an easy British charm and lack of pretension that disarmed even the worst snobs.
Moira Hodgson gave us two stars, but other critics found the food “rather ordinary” or “unspectacular,” and everyone agreed that the service was appalling. Ironically, as Brian pointed out later, this became part of the charm of the place. Brian had a strict policy of never refusing a reservation, no matter how overbooked we were. He knew the frenzy at the bar and long waits for booked tables only increased our status as the most sought-after restaurant in town.
When Brian told me my shirt was wrinkled, I said, “Brian, chill out. This is linen. It’s supposed to be wrinkled.” In fact, the shirt could have done with a quick press, but I had only one white shirt and no intention of buying an iron or paying for dry cleaning. Fortunately the waitstaff started to add increased personal touches to the black-and-white dress code until it disappeared. Brian stopped objecting when he saw that the stylish staff was becoming one of the draws of the place. Soon most of us were unrecognizable as waitstaff, leading to many a black-suited banker being called upon for drinks or the check while navigating his way to the bathroom.
