The time I met Paul Simon from behind

Notes from a reformed bartender at the Royal Albert Hall

A decade ago, still wet behind the ears and fresh out of uni, I fumbled through my first job as a barista-turned-barman at the Royal Albert Hall. I barely knew the difference between a Martini and a Manhattan, and I thought “muddler” was a disparaging nickname. By the end of my time there, I was ready to submerge myself in all things wine.

It often feels that people are born into the industry, sipping on claret long before they’re onto solid foods. In reality it takes us all a while to find our feet. For me, there was no magic first bottle or special wine moment – rather, my love for wine was born out of a necessity to pay my rent and to be able to go to the pub. My time at the Hall, however, helped shape the drinks person I am now. It taught me the pleasures of drinking in a new context, alongside great food and great music, shared with fellow fans. More importantly, it has given me a deep appreciation of hospitality because, simply put, these experiences don’t exist without the people sweating their souls to make them happen.

When I think about that first job, I have surprisingly fond memories. Here, I go back in time to one of the many nights of madness working at the Royal Albert Hall.

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“This isn’t anything like the Bellinis they serve in Harry’s Bar,” the customer spits at me as she tries to free the wasp stuck between her molars with her tongue. No shit, I think to myself. If you look outside, you’ll see it’s not Venice either. She rolls her eyes and tuts as she walks off with her power blend of non-descript Crémant and a peach purée base that is better suited for six-month-old children with no teeth. This isn’t Harry’s Bar, after all.

Instead, this is a restaurant in the Royal Albert Hall. Here, the chandeliers are made of acrylic, the chipped corner edges of tables have been filled in with a Sharpie, and £81 buys you the privilege of wolfing down three courses before the red-coated fascists on the door have a chance to refuse entry. Speed is therefore of the essence for all involved and indigestion is all but guaranteed (Rennies are served as petits fours).

From the Proms season until Christmas, the restaurant is fully booked. Even for a matinée show of The Philosopher’s Stone in Concert, there are still plenty of grown men and women looking to wine and dine before they get their fix of alchemy and questionable child acting.

Tonight is no different. Paul Simon is in the house and it’s the hottest ticket in town. Ian McKellen has just ordered his second Cucumber G&T in ten minutes and is cupping the fishbowl with both hands as if he’s comforting a hobbit. No doubt this one will be on the house – show business needs its freebies – and the team’s tronc will take another hit. Sold-out Saturday nights also mean that the probability of encountering fussy customers increases tenfold, customers who have been told too many times that they are always right. Good taste in music doesn’t equal good manners, it seems.

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We are over an hour into service and the restaurant is fizzing. There are few more satisfying moments than being a member of a restaurant team in full flow. I’ve not been part of a title-winning club (not counting 5-a-side on Wednesday nights) but I imagine that it’s as close as, if not better than, any of that. Waiters, runners, chefs, porters – everyone working in sync like the human nervous system. Connected. Intuitive.

Tonight isn’t one of those nights. Some sadist decided to put the bar in the middle of the room and I’m getting hit from all angles. The ticket machine is spewing up orders like a magician pulling ribbons from their throat. Table 4 has sent back a latte because the tulip in the foam was too Georgia O’Keefe for their liking. I take that as a compliment.

To give myself some respite, I ask my manager if she can help stem the flow of walk-ins. In a bid to show that she cares about what I think, she stands in the corridor hollering at anyone and everyone to come for a drink. Roll up, roll up, the best Bellinis in town.

Walk-ins are the worst. Tickets can be managed, tickets can be ignored. Joe Public and its many trying guises pose a much more immediate problem. The Bellini-drinker is one, a disrupter, meddling with the service’s natural flow. As is the next walk-in who orders a beer. Old Speckled Hen? I ask. He flashes an empty bottle of Heineken at me and tells me he can’t mix his drinks. I’m unsure if he’s joking, but when he later confesses that he’s always been more of an Art Garfunkel kind of guy, I struggle to give him the benefit of the doubt.

At that moment, one of the waiters steps behind the bar – my bar – to fix himself a coffee. I give him short shrift, muttering something unsavoury in Neopolitan that he himself has taught me. He pretends not to hear it before rifling through the bunting of tickets. He plucks one from the vine. On an order for an Espresso Martini, he writes ½ shot espresso ½ shot vodka. I pour the shaker down the sink and start again.

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It’s gone 7pm and I’m nearly at breaking point. We’re all nearly at breaking point. If anyone orders an Irish coffee now then it’s game over. I’m on the brink of screaming when a walk-in asks for a glass of white wine. It’ll have to be in a plastic cup, I say. No problem. Chardonnay? Eww, haven’t you got anything else? Chablis? Ooh yes, I love Chablis!

At 28 minutes past, the stragglers are forcibly removed from the restaurant. Their hands are the last part of them to leave, reaching through the diminishing crack like zombies thirsty for flesh. I hand out plastic half-pint glasses of Cloudy Bay to appease the masses before the door closes and my manager bolts it shut. The restaurant exhales a sigh of relief. The blood trickles back down from the skull and begins to circulate around the body again. The worst of it is over.

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In the gap between end of service and the interval, colleagues scurry in and out of the restaurant. Refilling ice buckets, restocking the fridges for the interval, loo breaks. Each time the door opens I hear another snippet of Paul Simon’s set filtering through. Short gasps of songs, musical gusts of wind. The lyrics are fragmentary so I complete them in my head: these are the days… (of miracle and wonder) … need to be coy, Roy… (just get yourself free)… playing games with the… (faces)…

“Do you want to see something cool?” my manager asks me, appearing out of nowhere like a migraine. I’m wary at first. The last time she asked something similar, she proceeded to show me a new feature on the glass washer. Eventually I say OK. I follow her out of the restaurant and down the corridor. Now I can hear the songs in their entirety, even though Paul’s voice is slightly dampened by the walls. Muscle memory means that my mind can do an audio cleanup, fixing the distortion and making his voice sound brighter.

As we reach the end of the corridor, there is a black panel. The black panel turns out to be a secret door. My manager puts her finger to her lips and tells me to follow. I feel like we’re on a spy mission. Or a drugs bust. As we step through the panel my brain finally makes the connection with where we are in the Hall. The sound of Paul’s voice becomes clearer, more intimate. There is a clarity and a crispness as if we are in the same room. Hang on, we are in the same room. As the darkness dissipates, I suddenly realise we are at the back of the stage.

We shimmy along the narrow gantry. I look down and there he is. Paul Simon. The back of his head in all its fading glory. Paul is in a black suit illuminated by a full moon of light. His band is washed out in a midnight blue. From here, I can see all the faces in the front row. The Bellini-drinker is there, smiling. I smile back. Can she see me? Can everyone see me, hanging from the balcony like a grotesque in awe? Feeling shy, I pull my apron up to cover my starch white shirt for fear of sticking out like Sirius in the night sky.

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Paul does a silent slow waltz with his guitar, holding the neck like it's his dance partner’s hand. The crowd whoop. As he floats towards the front of the stage, he begins to play. His fingers crawl across the strings, the music falls in raindrops.

mmm a poor boy… story’s seldom told…

He momentarily forgets the words. The crowd still applaud, as they should. With each chord change, I hang a little further over the balcony. My manager tells me she doesn’t understand the hype, that he’s just some old guy singing old songs. I don’t humour her with a response. One by one, the rhythm section join in. The audience begin to clap. I think of my Dad, a music teacher – he’d hate their non-existent timekeeping, and I scowl on his behalf. Paul and the band are unperturbed, however. The applause fades, the amateurs know their place. Their lack of stamina is telling.

Come the chorus, the crowd bursts into life again. The Hall sings lie-la-lies as one. My manager has gone. She has someone higher up to answer to. I should probably leave too but I take her departure as permission to stay. To enjoy a musical hero of mine, and share the moment with 6,000 others.

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Hospitality can be tough at times. It’s physically demanding, mentally taxing. The hours, the customers, the colleagues. But at the Royal Albert Hall, you’re reminded of why it all matters. It’s a destination people go to, to share their love of music, where the food and drink is all part of making an experience even more memorable. Perhaps, that’s what sets it apart from any other restaurant or bar. Not the quality of food and drink. Definitely not the quality of the staff. But everything coming together to create something truly special.

It isn’t Harry’s Bar after all.

An artist’s impression of the back of Paul Simon’s head