The Real Hotel

By Mike Addison

Once upon a time a noted author wrote a fairy tale about hotels that became a bestselling novel. It continued on as a movie and finally a successful television series. I would be the last to question Alex Haleys research, but he simply did not live the life. This book is no fairy tale. It is written by a bartender that lived the life and knew the people. The managers were not all brilliant or considerate. In fact, many could be referred to as downright rude and not all that bright. I hope you have as much fun reading this as I did writing it and living it to get the material. I would not trade anything on earth for the experience.
Mike Addison

The Real Hotel tells you the behind the scene stories of the small army of employees that take care of the guests in the historic old hotels that lie just off the Quarter in New Orleans. The author, Mike Addison, spent almost two decades working in the old hotels beside the numerous Cajun and Cuban workers, sharing their lives and stories. Combining humor and pathos, he tells their poignant stories in an earthy narrative that is very realistic and a pleasure to read.

G.R. Williamson, Texas historian and writer

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 24, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499041750

Mike Addison

Mike Addison was born Herbert Mills Addison Jr., quite a mouthful for a little kid, but my father had a plan for that too. (My father loved to plan things.) He had to name the first male baby after himself, hence the Herbert Mills, but he had always wanted a son named Mike. Therefore, the baby was called Mike. Family and friends in Crystal City still call me “Mikey,” go figure. If a man wanted to be successful in Crystal City during this time, he usually did not wish to buck my father. My dad ran the local Del Monte Cannery and that was the main place to get a paycheck in good ole Crystal City. He did not have that much power, but I remember one day in the drug store he was having a cup of coffee with a man I knew vaguely had something to do with Crystal’s politics. I found out later he was the county road commissioner and also owned the only farm pump repair company in town. My father was relating how difficult it was to get the trucks from the cannery to the end of the conveyer belt due to the recent rains. The problem was holding up canning operations and that was bad for everyone. I noticed the man was sweating even though the store was air conditioned, and he seemed to be nervously waiting for something. My father offhandedly mentioned he had noticed some road equipment sitting idle. Did the man think he could possibly pave the dirt road from the cannery to the waste dump? The poor man was really sweating when he replied, “Mills, you know that’s county property we are talking about and it would be a breach of my oath of office to use it for commercial purposes.” My father reflected for a few minutes, then told the man how much he admired his ethics and how proud he was to be his friend. The man kept acting like the “other shoe” was about to fall. Sure enough, my father asked him how much business Del Monte did with his pump company last year. No threats, nothing nefarious! The man managed to stammer, “I think we can have that equipment over there tomorrow, Mills.” This is the best true story I can tell about the way I turned out. I have always been a maverick and suppose I always will be. Maybe it was not all my fault. I now live with my wife Carolyn and our three children in beautiful Helotes, Texas. Some people think our children look a lot like dogs, but we know better. My little Bichon Surprise is the light of my life. My dog Jack is the son I never had. Boomer rounds out the threesome. I never knew you could get so attached to an animal. They sleep with us, eat with us and travel with us. In the future I hope to return to New Orleans, get together with some old (really old) friends, and write a second book including more than than the memories of this formerly intoxicated bartender. I know it could be a bigger success than this offering.

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Copyright © 2014 by Mike Addison.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

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Rev. date: 06/20/2014

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Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Prologue

Chapter 1 Funny Stories About The Roosevelt Hotel

Chapter 2 Mr. Pete

Chapter 3 Raul The Fool

Chapter 4 Bartenders

Chapter 5 Waiters

Chapter 6 Bartender Road Trips

Chapter 7 Gambling At The Beautiful Roosevelt

Chapter 8 General Managers

Chapter 9 Addison, The Bartender

Epilouge

About the Author

Dedication

If there is a person to whom this book should be dedicated, it would have to be the man I most respected at the Roosevelt Hotel. His name was Mr. Jerry Ursin, but everyone who knew him, or had any contact with him, called him either The Chief or the Big Guy. He received the nickname not so much for his stature as his demeanor. One could not help but be in awe of him while in his presence. He commanded respect. Anyone from the dishwasher to the top CEO in the country felt they were the most important person in the world when talking to him.

He told me on several occasions he wished he could buy just one more CD to insure his retirement and then do what he really wanted to do with his life. This was a man that had influence with people of great responsibilities in the most exciting resorts in the world. Mr. Ursin could have done almost anything, but he wanted to retire and continue to go to the hotel every day that something was going on such as big conventions. He wanted to take notes and even tape record to make sure he got everything for posterity. He wanted to write a book for future generations about the Roosevelt Hotel.

I do not pretend to put myself on his level, but I have made an effort to fulfill his wish. I believe the world needs something to remember the old days. Those days were not perfect, but they will never come again. Maybe that is a good thing.

Acknowledgements

I would like to acknowledge the woman most responsible for people being able to read this book. Her name is Carolyn, my devoted wife of the last seven years. We have known each other since I was fourteen and she was thirteen. We dated a while during our high school and college years. I did not find out until many years later that her dad and my mother dated when they were in high school. I owe my life to her as she came back into it when I was about at the end of my rope. She gave me hope, which is what alcoholics need most, and something to live for. She taught school for some thirty-seven years and is a genius on a computer. I, on the other hand, just know how to turn it on, type, and turn it off. She worked her magic with my thoughts, ideas, and pictures in ways that I plainly do not understand. It took her longer to edit the book than it did for me to write it, but there was good reason for that. When I write I assume everyone knows what I am talking about. She assures me this is not true. I was drinking a bit during the first of the book, but due to a heart problem I no longer imbibe. She says she can tell the difference as she is now able to edit twice as fast. At any rate, thank you Carolyn.

Another woman I must thank, I have never met but feel like I know her. Her name is Nancy Brister. She has a website depicting pictures of old New Orleans. I really liked them, but not knowing anything about copyright laws (or much of anything else for that matter), I e-mailed her and asked permission to use them. I did not really expect to receive an answer, but she did and we began a correspondence that has lasted to this day. We had an underlying bond. Her father’s first job was at the St. Charles as a bellman. It is quite possible we knew the same people. I have to credit her for giving me confidence. I hope someday Carolyn and I get to meet her.

Then there is G.R. Williamson, a western writer that I grew up with in Texas. He has written three successful books which got me to thinking. If he could do it, why couldn’t I? So what if he is a retired pharmacist and I have been kicked out of some of the best schools in the South? He gave me a lot of encouragement and I will always be grateful.

I would be remiss if I did not thank Bob Kingsbery and his father for their help. His dad, Jack Kingsbery, wrote a book entitled Yes, I’m Still Alive at the age of eighty-five. The book was his second about growing up in South Texas. Bob is a retired publisher and editor. Thanks, home boys. I really needed the advice and especially the confidence boost.

Special thanks to my cousin Don L. Carr who has always been there for me in good times and in bad. I could not have done it without him.

Mr. Gary (ex-captain Gary) challenged me to write a book almost two years ago when we spent a weekend in Bandera, Texas, the Cowboy Capital of the World. It was a fun weekend hashing over the old hotel days. His encouragement motivated me to write this book The Vidrines made the Roosevelt Hotel a decent and fun place to work. I thank them for many of the memories that made this book possible.

I cannot forget my Grandmother Mommy-Nell that taught me about the softer side of life. God bless you, Mommy-Nell.

Last, but certainly not least, are ALL the old captains that are no longer with us… Old Gun Smoke, Mr. Pete, the Old Man, Juno, and of course the person to whom this book is dedicated, Mr. Ursin-the Chief, and all the others that made the Roosevelt the greatest hotel in the world.

Prologue

Once upon a time, there was a wonderful novel written about a fine old hotel that had everything necessary to achieve the desired setting for an intriguing book. The hotel was not only the oldest in New Orleans, but also had the bragging rights to being the Army Headquarters for both the Confederacy and the Union. In addition, thousands of young white ladies from New Orleans made their debut into society in its elegant ballrooms. (And no, white ladies is not a misprint. The hotel, as well as the city, was not without its faults.) We will never know how many proud graduates had their class pictures taken or their portraits painted on its beautiful flowing staircase. To sum up the hotel, they do not make them like that anymore.

The author was rather unique himself. He was a very well educated and talented writer by the name of Alex Haley. His famous novel depicted the romance, intrigue, trials and tribulations in the lives of its employees as well as the guests of the hotel he chose to name the St. Gregory. After talking to employees that actually knew Mr. Haley, it was probably set in the St. Charles or was a combination of the St. Charles and the Roosevelt. In a short time the book became a best seller, then an acclaimed movie, and as is customary for blockbusters, a television series.

The hotel was perfectly located just a block from the French Quarter so as not to disturb the patrons by the noise, but within walking distance. It took up the entire two hundred block of St. Charles and was directly across the street from a bank that had been there as long as anyone could remember. Legend says the manager of the bank gave New Orleans a word that is purely Norlens. Before the Civil War there were two districts, the French Quarter and the Spanish Quarter. The two sections were divided by Canal Street and even to this day the street is called neutral ground. The division was fine with everyone except the boatmen that brought goods down the river to New Orleans. If they sold their goods to a French merchant, they were paid in French money which was good only in the French Quarter. It was worthless in the Spanish Quarter.

A smart French banker printed a ten dollar bill with a Dix on one side for the French and Diez for the Spanish. Thus the money was good in either Quarter. The boatmen would say, I’m going down to Norlens and spend some of them Dixies.

Alex Haley did his research at the St. Charles during a time when men of color were not welcome to stay at a fine hotel in New Orleans, use their bathrooms, or God forbid, have a drink in the men’s bar with the portrait of a naked WHITE woman hanging over it. The management seemed to show Mr. Haley what they wanted him to see. To New Orleans credit, race relations have had a complete turnaround in the last four decades.

The best novel in the world cannot compete with Hollywood. In the movie the manager was suave, debonair, and fluent in several languages. Above all he was compassionate; he actually cared about his employees. He knew their names, their children’s names, and all their wants, needs and troubles. He knew the old man that inspected the garbage! He actually told the chef what to do. Told the chef what to do in his own kitchen? In a real hotel, the manager’s life expectancy would not be too long. In a real hotel, not only did he not associate with the trash man, he hated trash so much he put up a metal partition between the trash truck loading dock and the employee entrance so no one had to look at it. For employees it was the perfect place to put anything stolen during the day and pick up when leaving work. Some cleaning ladies often stole a television a day.

After knowing scores of managers, few if any were ever hired because they had a big heart. No heart maybe, as a heart is a handicap in this business. Quite a few managers could not pour water out of a boot if the instructions were printed on the heel. They were dumb. Why some of the managers were hired was unknown, perhaps family influence.

The real manager did not know his employees’ names and he could care less about their problems. He seriously did not want to know why his catering staff was called Gun Smoke, The Doctor, The Chief, The Old Man, Mr. Pete, and last but not least, Little Hitler. He REALLY did not want to know why their staff was called Raul the Fool, Addison just plain Addison, Disco Duck, Carlos the Cobra, Speedy Gonzales, Jake the Snake, Brown Sugar, or some names that cannot be mentioned.

I hope everyone enjoys these stories. I sure had a lot of fun living them. They are all true as I was either there or knew the person well that repeated the story. What is the saying? Fact is stranger than fiction. The stories told here support that old axiom.

Chapter 1

FUNNY STORIES ABOUT THE ROOSEVELT HOTEL

Any time there were more than two bartenders together, the topic of conversation usually got around to the same question. What was your craziest or funniest party? Of course, one of Addison’s parties usually won out. Count on him to be part of something crazy.

One of the funniest parties was a prestigious luncheon organized for charity. It was a Naval Relief fundraiser, and the day was aptly called Naval Day. It involved not only the richest women in town, but also some of the most powerful men. The VIP roster read like a Who’s Who of New Orleans. There were Navy captains and admirals, all levels of politicians, and even a Catholic Bishop. There were Marine generals as well as a variety of lower officers. There were also smatterings of comely young female Marines. To a Marine they were known and referred to as B. A. M.’s (big ass Marines). Some did not like the nickname, but they did brighten up the room.

The luncheon had the standard cash bar, but they never sold much to the women. However, the VIP’s were a bit different. Every year there was a small meeting room for the VIP’s that included the head table. All the VIP’s were given three tickets for free drinks. The women in charge wanted them loosened up, but still be upright.

Addison had worked this bar for the last seven years and knew the people on a first name basis. They knew him and really tried to get him to over pour so they could loosen up and feel good. This was the one bar that Mr. Pete insisted Addison use a shot glass to measure the booze. The guests would plead with poor Addison, but his hands were tied. Addison would have been just as happy to send them all knee walking back up to their head table. Addison had a weird sense of humor. As it turned out, it did not wind up that far from actuality.

When Addison set up his bar for the luncheon, there was only one item missing. Water pitchers! It might not seem like much, but these folks only drank Scotch and water or bourbon and water. The waiters had taken all the water pitchers. Mr. Pete yelled at Addison to get behind his bar before the VIP’s stole all his liquor. Addison spied two full water pitchers behind the banquet bar and did not bother to wonder why they were hidden. Why would anyone hide water? Oh well, bartenders are all crazy. Everyone knew that! He did not question his good luck.

When the bar opened, it was the same old thing. Come on, Addison loosen up a little. You know we are the head table.

How well he knew, but had to say he was sorry. There was nothing he could do. These poor VIP’s only got three drink tickets. After all, they were only there to chat and find their place in the entrance line for seating at the head table. It should have taken less than an hour. Three drinks should have been enough for any normal person.

After the first drink, Addison noticed they did not drink that fast anymore. In years past, they had inhaled their three tickets worth in a few minutes. Now a drink took a good fifteen minutes to consume. Something was going on. People were getting drunk on two drinks. It seemed rather hard to explain or even accept. Something was wrong for sure.

Finally one little female came up and apologized. She said she just could not drink her drink; it was too strong. Addison looked at it–- a Scotch and water and it was obviously weak. He purposely made women’s drinks weaker so he could pour a little more into a man’s drink. He took a whiff of the drink and almost gagged. It was Scotch mixed with straight vodka. He rushed back to the banquet bar to tell Mr. Pete. Mr. Pete’s response was quite surprising.

They can’t prove anything, Mr. Pete chirped ever so weakly.

It was the only known time Addison lost his temper and cursed Mr. Pete. He could not believe his supervisor’s reaction and yelled at him, You stupid son of a bitch, I could have killed somebody in there. They could have been poisoned!

He felt badly, but meant every word of it. The two of them never mentioned the incident again.

When Addison returned with real water, the bar looked like a scene out of Dante’s Inferno. Female officers had their blouses unbuttoned and were flashing their breasts at the male officers. There were two Navy captains fighting a duel with their swords. When the activity director tried to get the group assembled to march up to the head table, it was anything but a grand march. They wanted to stay and party. When Addison stopped serving liquor, these powerful men and women began arguing like a bunch of schoolchildren. They each wanted to be first in the lineup. Addison had no idea why their ties were all crooked or missing and bits and pieces of their uniforms were gone. The housecleaning crew found parts of uniforms for the next two days after this fiasco.

Strangely enough, Addison was not asked to work this party the next year. One might wonder how such a snafu could happen. Actually, the two pitchers of vodka were easy to explain. The pitchers were part of some bartender’s plan to outsmart a convention coordinator’s attempt to control liquor costs.

There were always convention coordinators that thought the hotels were out to cheat them. The coordinators thought they were smarter than any poor slob who had to tend bar for a living. They insisted their own stickers be placed on each bottle before a party and would personally initial the tags. After the party the empties would be counted, charged to their bill, and then destroyed. The coordinators believed there was no way to beat their method. Infallible! The only problem was when a New Orleans bartender was told he could not do a procedure his way, it was like telling your teenager daughter she cannot go out with a hippy outlaw biker. It just does not work. The bartenders would find a way, if it hair lipped the Pope. What that phrase meant no one knew for sure, but it was used often during banquets.

No problem, the bartenders simply stashed empty water pitchers under the bars. When things really got going, the bartenders would empty the bottles of rum, gin, or vodka into the waiting pitchers. The pitchers appeared to be full of water and were carried back to the banquet bar, stashed, and used to refill empty bottles later.

The same liquor was bought and sold several times to the same coordinator. It was not nice to fool with Mother Pete and his bartenders. The more experienced coordinators learned that it was better to join with the staff, because they could not beat them. They would meet with the major banquet staff from the captains down to the bartenders and give each of them a tip according to their level of importance. No one received less than a hundred dollars. Only denominations of hundred dollar bills were used. In the end, this practice saved the coordinators money and everyone was happy.

The women’s brunches were usually well designed and overseen by females. The brunches were held to benefit a cause. It is rather doubtful the women knew or even cared what charity was being benefited. However, it gave the women an excuse to show off their finery and catch up on all the gossip. They were predictable. The women normally got one drink, usually a diet drink, and stood around in a bunch talking while waiting to be served something to eat. One morning they fooled the hotel. The women had placed Ramos gin fizzes and bourbon milk punch on the menu. Jake the Snake and Addison set the bar in advance and believed they had enough punch and fizzes for five hundred women. Who would expect them to drink more?

The fizzes were not that popular, but the punch turned these beautifully dressed women into animals, actually wolves. The supplies ran out in ten minutes. Addison made another five hundred drinks. They went almost as fast. First the banquet bar ran out of milk, then the service bar, and finally all the regular bars. The women would not stop drinking.

When they finally ran out of every source of milk, half-and-half, cream, or anything white, three cases of almost spoiled half pint containers were found in a kitchen. When these drinks were served, it looked like there were pads of butter floating in the glasses. Addison and the Snake just poured more bourbon in the bowl and more nutmeg on top. When questioned about the clabber, the women were told it was just nutmeg covered with powdered sugar. The strange thing was that no one refused a drink. It was a wonder no one got sick or died of food poisoning.

Addison always seemed to get the strangest people at his bars. Whether that was by design or not, it was highly questionable. A good example was the cocktail party for the IRS agents. The menu said a certain person was hosting the party. That meant a particular person was paying for the party, and that person was responsible for all charges.

Addison found out the hard way the menu is not always correct. When he explained to the