Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
As chief concierge of the butler floor at the Las Vegas Midas Resort Hotel and Casino, Brianna Mannion had arranged for a stylist to ensure perfect hair and nails for the bride and her seven attendants, all in poufy pastel taffeta gowns that would never be worn again.
The groom, while not as flamboyantly attired, nevertheless was handsome in a black tux. His concession to glitz was the crystal-studded bow tie designed to coordinate with the bride’s gown. There’d originally been plans for him to wear a top hat, but when he’d steadfastly objected, the bride’s harried mother had thrown up her hands in defeat.
“Well, I did want our princess to marry an alpha male,” she’d said to the bride’s father. Who, Brianna noted with a bit of trepidation, was pouring his third Scotch since arriving at the wedding preparation suite. Typically the suite was a women-only zone, but this was far from a typical wedding and since the bride’s mother (who had a strong alpha streak herself) had insisted her husband be there for the preparations, he’d apparently caved rather than risk a scene.
Because the Midas prided itself on the extreme level of privacy afforded to its guests, this particular suite had its own high-speed elevator that opened onto the ballroom booked for the event. Although it took four trips, Brianna managed to herd the party down the sixty-five floors to the ballroom, which took some logistics when a trio of bridesmaids, having lost patience during their styling, had begun nipping at each other. Fortunately, she was able to calm things down before the pink, yellow and aqua taffeta started getting ripped apart.
The ceremony, presided over by the top Elvis impersonator in the country—no mere local Elvises (Elvi?) need apply—amazingly went off without a hitch. And although the reception might have gotten a little rowdy, both the wedding party and the guests invited to this special occasion all seemed to enjoy the tiered white wonder of a wedding cake created by the Cordon Bleu–trained top chef. But it was the gilt doggie bags filled with a variety of gourmet dog biscuits dusted with edible twenty-four-karat gold that proved the hit of the party.
After escorting the happy couple up to their honeymoon penthouse suite that adjoined that of the bride’s parents, Brianna finally blew out a long breath of relief.
The good news was that the wedding of the tech mogul and his wife’s award-winning King Charles spaniel to a male belonging to a distant member of the British royal family (the first high-end dog ceremony Brianna had arranged) had gone off without a hitch. The bad news was that if word got out of its success, it might not be her last.
She’d just returned to her desk, which, like everything else in Midas, was heavily gilded, when a guest she recalled from yesterday came marching toward her. Unfortunately, the man’s lobster-red complexion, furious scowl and steam she could practically envision coming from his ears were not encouraging signs.
“I have a complaint,” he bellowed as he approached the desk. Like she couldn’t hear him from three feet away?
“I’m so sorry to hear that.” Brianna pasted on her most conciliatory, caring smile. “What can I help you with?”
“The concierge from yesterday was terrible. I want her fired.”
“May I ask why?”
“Because she’s obviously not working up to the standards of this hotel.”
“Sir, I’m the concierge you spoke with yesterday. And again, I’m sorry that you had a less than satisfactory experience. What’s the problem?”
He gave her a long, hard look. Leaned over the desk, and squinted at her gold-plated name tag. Then straightened, and squared his shoulders like a man about to go into battle. “It’s about that restaurant you sent us to last night.”
“Bombay Spice.”
“Yeah. That one.”
“You didn’t care for your meal?” Bombay Spice, located a block off the strip near the Taj Mahal, was one of Brianna’s personal favorites, serving deliciously prepared authentic Indian cuisine.
“It was fucking vegetarian!” His tone rose again with indignation.
Having grown up working on the Mannion family Christmas tree farm, Brianna had learned at an early age how to deal with difficult customers. She’d also discovered, while working her way up the chain of the hotel hospitality business, that in some cases, the higher the income, the more escalated the sense of privilege. Apparently this was going to be one of those cases.
“I believe I mentioned that when you asked about it,” she said with measured calm.
“Well, dammit to hell, I expected them to serve some meat dishes. None of the five-star reviews my wife read online said anything about them not at least having a damn rib eye steak.” His color rose to a hue that had her prepared to call 911 in case he keeled over from a blood pressure spike.
“I suspect the reviews didn’t mention the lack of meat because online diners were reviewing the restaurant’s vegetarian dishes.”
Brianna wished she had a dollar for every time a guest came up to her with a list of restaurants in hand, asking her to recommend one. The problem with online review sites was that they reflected only the experience of the person writing the reviews. She’d spent her first six months in Las Vegas eating at as many restaurants as she could, meeting the owners and managers, in order to get firsthand knowledge. Some guests might like a noisy, busy brasserie, while others might prefer a quiet, romantic dining experience. Some might like bright lights. Others might go for candles on the table. Her job was to ask questions to determine what restaurant might work for that particular guest. Which she’d tried to do with this agitated man yesterday.
“You shouldn’t send people there.”
“I did recommend two steak houses,” she reminded him, practically having to bite her tongue at this point.
“But Bombay Spice had great reviews,” he insisted. “Which is why my wife wanted to go there. She was determined to try the gobhi mattar masala with truffle rice because it had all five stars. But if a restaurant doesn’t have meat, you should warn people! You ruined our anniversary dinner!”
“I’m sorry you had a less than satisfactory experience.” The cauliflower/green peas/cumin/ginger/cashews dish was one of Brianna’s personal favorites. But she did find the truffle rice a bit rich for her taste.
“Less than satisfactory? It sucked! Of course we left the place, but by then it was impossible to get a table anywhere decent, so we just came back to the hotel.”
“We have several fine restaurants in the hotel,” she pointed out in her most cordial, professional voice. “All which have received excellent reviews by both critics and diners alike. I, or the night concierge, would have been more than happy to arrange for you to have dinner on us if you’d only let us know you were dissatisfied.”
“My wife had lost her appetite by the time we got back here and just wanted to go to bed.” He ripped off his black-framed glasses. If fiery glares could kill, Brianna would have burst into flames on the spot. “Which is why you owe me fifty fucking thousand dollars.”
That got Brianna’s full attention. “Excuse me?”
“My wife went to bed. Alone,” he stressed in the event Brianna hadn’t gotten his meaning. “Since our
