MICKEY ROURKE

I have begun a new series I’ve titled ‘Folks’. They include the myriad people I’ve met, cooked for, hung out with and more over the life. For other entries see that area of my site. It is under, “Writings”. You never know who you will bump into.

MICKEY ROURKE

The first time I met him he was unrecognizable to me. But not in the ways he became later in life, beat up and disfigured from both boxing and plastic surgery. And God knows what else. He still had his good looks but a). I had no reason to expect him suddenly standing next to me on a busy night while I was working sauté at my restaurant. And b). he had a beanie pulled almost over his eyes, torn bib overalls on and a t-shirt that looked like laundry day was long ago. He mumbled, “Novel told me to say hello”. Novel was the owner of the Betsy Ross Hotel on Ocean Drive, Miami Beach during this amazing transitional time in the culture and the extraordinary money shift of that haunted, gaudy, intoxicating place. It was 1992. The flames of the stoves illuminated the one-man tableau. His fists were balled up inside the chest area of his overalls. Something clicked in my brain, and I wondered, “is this the same guy from the movie ‘9 ½ Weeks’? And ‘Diner’. One of the line chefs threw a pan into a bucket of water near my feet. A loud hiss sailed up. Normal. The dish guy would come and get the pans routinely and keep us in gear that way. Mickey split.

The next day or maybe a week later, time was only a suggestion during that onslaught my life was in at that point, he was sitting in the casual “Stars & Stripes Café” across the art deco hotel’s lobby. Novel was slumped next to him in his chair of choice. At times Novel could surprise you with a nearly courtly manner. It was in direct opposite of his more often ‘Tony Montana’ style. He barked, “Chef!” It often sounded like “Jeff” with his accent. “Meet my friend Mickey!” The actor didn’t look up. Novel stood and then Mickey did too. Slowly. I shook his hand. Soft. Something in his eyes kind of shook me up. It was a look I saw in Mike Tyson’s eyes when I met him in L.A. a decade later.

At first it was an easy ‘nod’ when we’d cross paths. The hotel was small. I felt fine with bringing a menu over one day while he was sitting on a silly purple ‘colonial’ looking couch that was part of Novel’s sense of décor a hotel with the name it had. I handed him my menu and a pen. He quickly wrote on it and handed it back to me. I didn’t look at it, waiting until I was back in my solo in my kitchen. It was nearly illegible but then the words snapped into place, “Thanks for the slop! Mickey”.

Mickey was getting back into the boxing circuit. Kind of crazy at the age he was now. Same age as me. Forty. He moved into the Betsy Ross for a few months. The famous “Fifth Street Gym” where Ali trained back in the day was his spot to box. The hotel became a weird mix of swimsuit models and thuggish ‘handlers’ and wannabes now. The models preceded as the beach was becoming a new hot spot of European fashion photographers due to the magical backdrops and light Mother Nature bestowed on the island. Mickey brought in his girlfriend of time Carrie Otis. She was beautiful but her words were imperceptible, at least to me. She kind of cowered by his side. One morning she came down from their room to the Café. The black eye she had was not hidden by the large Ray Bans.

When I wrote my memoir, “No Experience Necessary” Mickey had a recurring role in the final chapter. I won’t spoil it for you should you want to read it one day. It includes a fist fight. Mickey was the ref.