With Mel Gibson in the news lately -- thanks to his recent divorce and pregnant girlfriend -- I can't help but fondly remember the one and only time I served him dinner in Santa Fe.

I had been freelancing for NPR and local publications and was worn out from the daily hustle for new assignments and very little pay.

A friend, Mark Miller, had recently opened The Coyote Cafe on West Water Street, and agreed to take me on as a new waitress. I was grateful -- the extra income would help me pay off credit card bills and better support my teenage daughter.

Coyote Cafe had quickly become one of the best and busiest restaurants in the area, serving the rich and famous who were making Santa Fe their latest playground.

And its wait staff were among the best and most professional in the business -- mostly men, they often moved between high-end resorts according to the season.

I, on the other hand, had no experience except for the one year I waitressed at Friendly's Restaurants near Boston as a teenager. And was fired for putting coke syrup in the chocolate dispenser and chocolate syrup in the coke dispenser, which made for some very bad milk shakes and soft drinks.

The other Coyote waiters were appalled to have this bumbler among them -- what was Mark thinking?! I couldn't quite get the timing right and gained an overnight reputation for serving hot plates cold and cold plates warm.

Then one night, about a month into my new career, the head waiter rushed into the broiling, frantic kitchen where I was waiting for an order and trying to catch my breath.

"You won't believe who just came in!" he exclaimed.

Coyote was used to celebrities, and people took it in stride, only mentioning it as an aside after a shift, so I knew this must be a biggie.

We all waited to hear which star was in our midst.

"Mel Gibson!" he squealed.

And then his shoulders fell slightly. He looked at me with disgust. "And he's in your station," he said, pointing a long finger in my direction.

That's when I made the biggest mistake of my brief career as a high-altitude waitress.

"Who's Mel Gibson?"

It was 1989 and, being an impoverished single mother, I never went to the movies. I also had no television.

"Arggh!" the head waiter cried, throwing up his hands and rushing back out to the bustling dining room.

With only five tables in my station, it was easy to figure out which of the patrons was this Mel Gibson -- all eyes were on him. He was sitting across from a dark-haired woman I assumed to be his wife, and joined by an older couple.

I placed my hand on the back of Mel's chair -- because he was to my right and I did this at all of the tables. I carefully reviewed the specials, and answered
questions about the many exotic dishes on the menu.

Then I took their order and brought Mel the espresso he had asked to have served right away.

It was a Friday night, we were slammed, and I attended to the needs of the other diners, many of whom were getting antsy because their dishes hadn't arrived yet.

Some people -- no doubt tourists from big cities -- were furious, and I did my best to calm them down then check on what was holding up the chef.

Some time later, I brought Mel's table their appetizers and Mel ordered another espresso. I brought it to him as soon as I could.

When I cleared their table of the appetizer plates, he requested another espresso, which I was able to deliver more or less right away.

I later delivered their entrees, and he requested an additional espresso which I, of course, brought over to him when I had a chance.

They never complained about the delays.

After their meal and before and after dessert, Mel continued to consume espressos at what had become a superhuman -- dare I say a Mad Max? -- level.

Three, maybe four hours after their arrival, his wife handed me a credit card to cover the bill and left me a 35 percent tip.

"What is he like?! What did he eat?!" the other patrons wanted to know as soon as the Gibsons left the restaurant. Some of the women even grabbed my arm as I passed their table, hungry for every detail.

When I couldn't remember what Mel had ordered -- except that he had drunk his weight in espresso -- they rolled their eyes and returned to consuming their dessert and chatting excitedly with their friends.

The other waiters never spoke to me again, and a week later I quit that job at The Coyote Cafe, returning to the work I knew best -- writing for peanuts.

I didn't see my first Mel Gibson film until 1995 when I watched Braveheart with my now husband, David.

No wonder Mel needed all that caffeine.

Image sources in order:

1. topnewsin.in
2. self
3. napaman.com
4. imfdb.org
5. can't remember
6. ditto
7. imfdb.org