Name: Robert Pastore
Background: A native of Hammond, Ind., Pastore, 27, is a graduate of South Suburban College in South Holland and is pursuing a master`s degree in voice performance at Roosevelt University. He is a singing waiter in the Prima Verde Room of the Fairmont Hotel. He and his wife live in Hammond.
Years as a singing waiter: 4
Most people who study acting and singing probably are waiters somewhere along the line. It gives them freedom to meet a lot of people, to develop a talent for talking and for learning eye contact.
I became a waiter in Calumet City when I was 21. My greatest fear was carrying trays because I`m such a klutz. The musical part of my life goes back to 2nd grade when I started to play the piano. By the 6th grade I was into choral groups. My mother played the piano, and singing at home was part of our daily routine.
At the Prima Verde, there usually are six singing waiters each night and six non-singers. We cover all four voice parts-alto, soprano, tenor and baritone-I`m a baritone. When I arrive at 4 o`clock in the afternoon, I put on my Renaissance Italian peasant costume-knickers, long black socks, a puffed-sleeve shirt and red neckerchief.
After we get our table assignments for the night, we set up the tables, polish the silver, fill the candleholders with wax. The back waiter-a non-singer-is responsible for the side-work duties, such as cutting lemons for iced tea, stocking the ice, bringing out soup bowls. If there`s an unusual special for the evening, the chef comes out to explain it to us. The menu is in Italian, translated, but often people want me to read it to them in Italian; it seems to add a certain authenticity.
While they`re deciding what to order, I might go to the pianist, Jeff Panko, and ask him to play whatever I feel like singing. I`ll walk around the room as I`m singing, making everybody feel part of it.
When I finish the song, I`ll take the dinner order and give it to the back waiter. He does the actual work of bringing out the food while the singing waiter does the schmoozing, the selling. I`ve learned that being a good waiter probably adds up to 80 percent rapport and attitude and 20 percent getting the food to the table on time, hot and tasting good.
We don`t use any microphones here because the sound is more genuine without them. If I stand on a stage and you`re way on the other side of the room, you won`t get the same effect if I`m using a mike. I stand at your table and look right into your eyes-that was the hardest thing when I first started. It seemed like invading someone`s personal space. But usually, people feel serenaded rather than intruded upon.
Sometimes they stop eating and listen; sometimes they go right on eating, which is fine; sometimes they act as if we`re not even there. On Saturday nights, when we`re very busy and everyone`s talking, it`s almost a battle because the louder we sing, the louder the conversation gets. It`s something to combat.
Older people are more appreciative because they`re more in tune with operatic arias and Broadway music than the younger ones who grew up with rock, which I consider background music for cleaning out the basement.
I ask people if they have a special song they`d like to hear. Sometimes, if we can`t sing the song, the pianist can play a pretty good version of it. Generally, people request more famous soprano and tenor arias-Andrew Lloyd Webber music, such as ”Memories” from ”Cats.”
Most requested, probably, is the duet ”All I Ask of You” from ”Phantom of the Opera.” Twice since I`ve been here, men have come up to me and asked for that song, saying, ”I`m going to become engaged tonight. Will you sing this duet while I put the ring on her finger?” I`ll find a soprano, and we`ll sing it, standing right at the table through the whole procedure.
Actually, today, ours is a loosely structured arrangement. We used to have a program written out every night, designating which song for which singer. Generally, there was a piano solo in between the singing to give us a chance to breathe and take care of our tables because five minutes away from a station when I`m very busy is a long time. If I have six tables going at once, one person will need more butter, another will need a glass of wine and a third will want some water.
When we have enough people who know the parts, we`ll sing music that requires five or six singers, such as the quintet from ”West Side Story.”
We`ll sing a song like ”Tonight, Tonight,” around the room.
Once we sang 27 ”Happy Birthdays” in one evening. After that, we went to singing it on the hour, announced that it was for anybody celebrating a birthday that night. We have a great Happy Birthday song to the tune of the Alleluia chorus, written by Eric Barnes, our first musical director and accompanist.
I`ll never forget a party we did for a couple`s 60th anniversary. They were Russians who brought pictures from their wedding in Russia and placed them around on the tables. I sang ”On the Street Where You Live” from ”My Fair Lady,” while the couple held hands and the woman cried. She kissed me every time I walked by. I must have been the age of her grandson.
We do outside jobs like singing at weddings and parties when they don`t conflict with the work here. Our producer, Richard Mariott, who serves as an agent, too, flew us down to St. Louis recently for a meeting of the Jewish Hospital Women`s auxiliary. They`d had dinner up here in the past and enjoyed it so much that they wanted us to come down there.
People ask how we switch from waiting tables to singing, how we change personalities, assuming the character of whoever is singing back to being a waiter. I guess it does sound pretty hairy, but it`s something we have to learn to deal with.
Actually, the hardest part of the job is when customers make complicated, special demands, such as, ”I`d like that angel hair pasta, but instead of the cream sauce, can I have the red sauce?” Or, ”I`d rather have artichoke hearts instead of the zucchini-can you do that?” We can and, of course, we do.
There was one night when I nearly broke up and had to walk away. A couple was drinking lots of champagne and getting pretty toasted. The woman turned to me and said, ”You should sing some church songs, like the Gonad Ave Maria.” She meant Gounod, the French composer, of course. I don`t know how I managed to keep a straight face; I told her I couldn`t do it because we didn`t have the music.
The best part of my job is the happiness I see on people`s faces when they`re here. The music seems to make them exuberant, almost radiant.
