I called the Palmer House Hilton to set up an interview and asked to speak to the concierge. The woman politely asked if I would like to speak to the Chef Concierge, John Dowd. I paused, then asked if he dealt only with catering.

I didn't think the question to be insipid, since the title did include “chef.” The woman sighed. I could only describe it as the type of sigh a little girl would give when asked what the doily on top of her head was for and she, condescendingly, had to explain it was not a doily at all but a tiara. This is precisely the pretense I thought I would encounter in my interviews.

In defense of my naiveté, the Drake Hotel struck me as incredibly lavish, once I took in the bevy of chandeliers, antique end tables, overstuffed couches, the well-placed and well-sculpted flower arrangements the hotel displayed on its Internet walk-through with ambiance music from Tchaikovsky's Children's Album (to which I did a small dance in my bedroom with my pre-phone-call Old Style). The Palmer House created a similar reaction with its beautifully ornate ceiling that shelters its guests, as well as a Landau jewelry boutique. I quickly concluded that these details were symbolic of the hotels as well as the staff that ran them.

After my interviews, I still thought these details to be representative, but there was a shift somehow, in tone and in the reality. One would be how Dowd's title of Chef Concierge (Chef meaning head or boss in french) is gratuitously distinguished, while at the same time its etymological meaning is head fellow-slave . There is the history of the role that may seem somewhat contradictory, but this fact does not negate the job's present decorations, whether they be doilies or tiaras.

In regards to the reality of being a concierge, Dowd put it well when he said, “In this business you can drop names until the cows come home, but always keep in mind the nature of the relationship is you are picking up after these people, you're not yucking it up at the bar with them. It is simply a service relationship.” Indeed. And he should know. Having trained under Ivor Spencer (the gent who tended Queen Elizabeth the Second and runs an internationally recognized school for this trade, yes, that Ivor Spencer), Dowd has been a butler for Madonna, (take out Bill Clinton) Nicolas Cage, Conan O'Brian, and has Les Clefs d'Or distinction as a concierge. Um, that's keys of gold, and yes it's French. No, I don't know, but c'mon, gold keys, right? Right?

I asked him if he was ever personally intimidated by anyone he has served, the answer: “No, it's not in my nature. I give deference, summarily, but respect is something quite different. I do believe that deference is something that is upon me to dispense.” And it occurred to me then that; a) I did not know what deference meant, and b) This guy looks a lot like the father from Frazier, but when he was in his 30s.

For Dowd, having been submerged in various atmospheres of wealth and prestige have not produced the smarm that one might expect, but rather an earnestness and a strong sense of pride in the working-class he identifies with. “I'm a working class Irishman. For anyone to disdain me or mine because of social rank I would have a problem,” Dowd said without reservation, which made me wonder immediately how he is capable of dealing with the condescension that is experienced in any service industry position.

To this Dowd responded, “The truth of the matter is I'm paid to take that. And for the most part it is a rare thing. There are all sorts of things to control the nature of the exchange. If you are skilled you know how to control it.”

As Dowd said this, we were sitting in a back room of the Palmer House's lounge. Dowd had escorted me through not one, but two sets of curtains, and I could not help but enjoy being somewhere that felt exclusive. He seemed immediately comfortable except for his hands, which continued to rub each other throughout the interview. It was not done out of nervousness – the only anxiety in the room was clearly coming from myself – but they looked like hands eager to be doing work, not satisfied to let the mouth handle all the labor. I began to wonder about Dowd's sense of control, the pretenses and the layers of curtains.

Dowd's hand reached into a pocket to pull out a pack of Winston lights. Yes, I would have guessed something more distinguished too. He continued, “But there is a very thin line between charm and smarm and I will not straddle it. I do not feel that I am paid to be charming or smarmy. The truth of the matter is that people are not stupid, if you are being in any way condescending or pointed they will know.”

I asked Dowd what he enjoys to do. “I'm a distance swimmer. It's my own penance, my own rock of Sisyphus daily,” he says as his cigarette keeps burning in the ashtray that he moved to the window sill beside him. And this is where I left the trite butler character of some romance novel behind, once again reassured that the people of this world have written themselves better than we often expect. He also happened to mention that he is a writer as well. I laughed and said it must not be hard to get his work read, imagining the numerous scripts left beside the drawn bath in some producer's suite. But he dispelled this quickly.

“There was a director who gave me a royal bollocking when he found out I was an actor and screen writer and I had never pushed a script on him,” he says. “I often wonder if the next play I write is just going to sit on a shelf and collect dust. But it's never a quandary of ethics. I would never combine the two.”

But surely there is too much material in this line of work to just let slide by. And of course, there is. “The memoirs will [draw from my career],” yet Dowd is quick to put in the disclaimer, “but then again, being classically trained, it would never be a tell-all. I am quite sure I could fill a book with positives about celebrities I've taken care of. I don't want to trash them to be honest, even if I am in a position where I could do so. I'll let shock-jock journalists take care of that.”

Wondering if the last comment had been pointed at me, I asked him directly about the pretenses of his job, and he answered, “A lot of five star hotels – and I don't have statistics on this – hire with a certain aesthetic in mind. How you look behind the desk. I don't care if the chap has a boil that affected his balance. If you are couture in attitude, forget the look.” I didn't know what it meant. Couture literally means a designer or manufacturer of fashionable clothes, but you get the point.

Dowd continued, “In fact, I like to take a diamond from the rough and polish it. Although challenging, it is extraordinarily rewarding.”

Observing Dowd's grasp on diction, his well-defined sense of self, and not being able to see any holes in it had been a continuous surprise, something quite commendable. In fact, by the time I left I had the strange desire for his approval as though I were some young gentlemen asking about his job merely to be polite before I took his daughter out on the town.

Certainly, Mr. Dowd, we will be back by 10 sharp.

If John Dowd is the frank yet distinguished father figure of this article, Mary Skoubis is certainly the kindly mother. Born and raised in Mexico , Skoubis falls far from the stiff, British archetype of the concierge at the Drake Hotel.

“When you see the stuffy concierge, that's a certain prototype. We are not all the same,” Skoubis explained. “Everybody has their own ways. People tell me that I have a calmness. I think I get that from my parents.”

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