I had graduated from Drexel University with a Master’s Degree in Interior Design with no job offers and no job leads.  I was working as a hostess at two high end restaurants in Philadelphia.

One of those restaurants was the steak house chain, Smith & Wollensky’s.  Summer being their slow season, there wasn’t much need for a hostess.  But since I had a need for a paycheck, I managed to sweet talk the General Manager (and best boss I’ve ever had) into allowing me to transition from hostess to food runner, despite my lack of experience in general and in fine dining in particular.

That summer was also the summer that they were filming the movie “Invincible” in the city.  And rumor had it that Mark Wahlberg was staying at the Rittenhouse Hotel (which, for those of you who don’t know, housed the Smith & Wollensky’s restaurant facility).  As luck would have it, the rumors were true; he WAS staying at the Rittenhouse Hotel and as a result, he ended up making fairly regular appearances at S & W’s bar and grill area.

Fun Fact:  Turns out he actually has an entourage.  It’s not just a clever TV show that I’ve never watched.

One particular hot and humid night, Mark and his friends came in for dinner and wanted to sit at the one and only outside table S & W had to offer.

While Mr. Wahlberg and his Funky Bunch (don’t tell him I said that) got settled at their table outside, me and the rest of the staff were in the kitchen singing “Good Vibrations” and speculating as to whether or not he really worked out with cinder blocks (and if you don’t get that joke, YouTube the video).  The server took their order and the kitchen got to work on the first course.  Everyone was on board with the idea that we, as a team, had to make his experience stellar.  With excellence and perfection being the goal, I’m not sure why I was allowed anywhere near him.  But as the food runner, it was my responsibility to deliver the food to Mark and his guests.  S & W is a fine dining establishment and so we had to do things like deliver guests’ food on a garidon, basically a rolling cart.

Admittedly, I was nervous about rolling up on Marky Mark.  I get all stuttery and weird talking to mortal men so I knew there was a high likelihood that I would say something stupid while delivering his food.  I think that was where my head was at when I approached the door to go outside.  In order to fully appreciate this story, you first need to understand the set up of the main entrance in relation to the outside table.  So, we need to return to the scene of the crime.

Here’s the layout:

As you can see, there is a revolving door and a regular door.  The main exit and entrance was the revolving door.  The regular door was usually locked.  I’m not a total idiot, so of course, I tried the regular door first.  And it was locked.  So, in my mind, because the regular door was locked, then I must be able to take the cart out through the revolving door.  Because, otherwise why would the door be locked?  Everyone knows MARK WAHLBERG is here.  OF COURSE you can take the cart in the revolving door.

After sizing up both the revolving door and the rolling cart, I decided it was best if I backed into the revolving door.  The hostess on duty (and now that I think of it, WHY was there a hostess???  I thought it was the slow season?!?) was watching me as I tried to angle the cart in such a way to get it to fit into the door with me.  The cart was about three inches too long to fit all the way in the door, regardless of what angle I tried.  “I don’t think that’s going to work,” said the hostess.

Just as the words had left her lips, before I could agree with her, the door moved.  I turned around to see what was happening and, sure enough, an older couple was trying to enter the restaurant by way of the revolving door.  The couple pushing the door forward had wedged the cart between the edge of the door and the wall.  It also trapped me in the revolving door, like an idiotic bug in a jar.  Seeing the ridiculousness that was taking place, the manager on duty came running.

“What are you doing?” he hissed through clenched teeth while trying desperately to pry the cart out from door and the wall.  While it took some doing, he was able to pry the cart free.  That’s the good news.  The bad news?  Revolving doors can’t go in reverse.  Which means, in order to get out, I had to complete the circle of the revolving door.  All this before I could get on with delivering the food (oh yeah, let us not forget, there has been food on this cart the whole time).  So I literally had to walk by their table, while still in the door.

I kind of leaned out as I passed by, held up a finger and mouthed the words, “I’ll be right back.”

The manager rushed to unlock the door, all the while quietly chastising me about the whole thing. I tried to kind of just play off the whole thing when I got to the table, as if they might not have noticed a girl getting stuck in the revolving door four feet from them.  I continued on with the presentation of their first course, passing out the appetizers to their rightful owners.

One of Mark’s friends ordered a lobster cocktail.  Because it was a fancy establishment, I had to shell the lobster tail and claws for the guest.  But here’s the problem; I don’t eat seafood so I had exactly zero practice in doing such things.  And I had the upper body strength of a two-year-old at the time, which only complicated the situation.  So there I stood, 36 inches from an A-list celebrity, wearing black pants, a men’s white work shirt, necktie and apron down to my ankles on a 90-degree night, struggling to crack the shell on a lobster claw.  Visibly sweating all over myself.  It was bad.  And I know it was bad because Marky Mark’s friend said to me, with pity in his eyes, “You know what?  I can do that.  It’s cool.”  But I insisted, “No, no sir.  I’ve got it.”

Sweaty idiot.

I handed the man a plate of mangled lobster meat.  But he was a real champ about it, smiled kindly, and thanked me sincerely.  I went back inside, caught some more shit from the manager, and then hid in the kitchen as long as I could.  Eventually, I had to go back out there to deliver the second course.  I took the cart outside, through the correct door, and again went about the production of handing out the food.  And as I did, I couldn’t help but notice that all four men at the table were sitting in silence, looking at me, smiling the kind of smile you have when a small child does or says something so stupid it’s cute.  Despite my best efforts to avoid it, I eventually made direct eye contact with Mr. Wahlberg.  He studied me for a moment, and then asked, “What’s your name?”

I was caught off guard.  What IS my name?  “Oh, uh, Raina.”

“Hi, Raina.  I’m Mark.”  Yeah, man.  No shit.

The rest of their visit played out pretty uneventful.  But I certainly made my impression.  They came back in many more times that summer.  And whenever they would see me, inevitably, one of them would get my attention and then ask, “Hey Raina, you gonna shell our lobster tonight?”

Yes, Mr. Wahlberg.  It would be my honor to shell your lobster.  Anytime.