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Golden Go-fers

They'll walk the dog, book the trip, buy the car and be the friend

Life took a curious turn seven years ago when Derek Anderson, back then "a bottom-rung guy, a brother just trying to make a living," found himself aboard a four-bedroom pleasure boat on Lake Powell with none other than Robin Leach, former host of "Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous."

Anderson's grandma had always told the young boy who grew up in West Seattle and the city's Central District that he had "champagne ideas and a beer-bottle budget."

Now he was hobnobbing with the man who helped millions visualize their champagne dreams and caviar wishes.

"After four or five days, I was like, 'This is the best vacation I have ever had,' " Anderson, now 45, says with sparkle in his voice. "I was very excited, and I was impressed with myself."

What makes Anderson's good fortune even more bizarre is that he was not invited on this 10-day lake vacation as a peer among the wealthy, well-connected fellow passengers, though the enterprising, self-described "social chameleon" could schmooze with the best of them.

He was, to put it bluntly, the help.

His business, Final Touch Auto Detail, catered mostly to affluent Seattle locals who split their time between tucked-away mansions in the city's toniest neighborhoods and vacation homes in places like Sun Valley, Idaho.

Anderson's auto service offered them discreet extras that included house calls, help scheduling car maintenance and even assistance buying new vehicles. He was a concierge for cars, and thanks to good word of mouth among his clients, the business was taking off. He was, quite literally, going places.

It was one of Anderson's early clients, having embraced him as not just an auto detailer but friend, who recommended him to be captain and cook on Leach's boat.

Anderson was not a boatman and didn't possess any special credentials in the culinary arts at the time. In fact, he never got to be captain because Leach's sons had too much fun doing that job themselves.

Such is the "Upstairs, Downstairs" existence of the concierge, that most Old World of service providers who traditionally kept watch over apartment-building lobbies and hotel reception desks, granting their clients' most pressing requests, running their most mundane errands, acting as specialists in everything while being experts at only a few.

If today's workaholic upper-income crowd is in the midst of a new Golden Age, then so are the people whose craft is, simply, doing things for them.

The concierge field is still small compared to the more familiar messengers, personal shoppers and errand services, with only a few local agencies and a couple dozen free-lance providers. But the idea is catching on, drawing an eclectic class of professionals for whom resourcefulness and discretion are major selling points.

A New York company called Precious Time targets college students with personal valet services like restaurant pickup and delivery, house cleaning, grocery shopping and computer assistance. In Seattle and on the Eastside, condominium developers set themselves apart from the competition with 24-hour concierge services that do everything from walking pets to planning events.

But people like Anderson occupy a more ambiguous place in the social pecking order, a more complex role in the lives of their clients.

Gone are the stiff uniforms, stuffy Jeeves-like demeanor and rigid class divisions that have traditionally separated the servers and the served. Today's concierges are often indistinguishable from the people who employ them. In many cases, clients encourage it.

"I know people who have money who haven't been on a private plane before, but that's old hat for me," Anderson says.

The thought of it makes him chuckle.

The concierge operates in a world where class barriers frequently collapse, and Anderson believes that the Northwest's combination of social openness and modesty in wealth makes gaining access to those realms even easier.

As Anderson and client Jane Suzick, a senior vice president at Smith Barney, walked up the winding staircase of the palazzo-style Lake Union boat house she shares with husband and hydroplane legend Billy Schumacher, their chatty rapport made clear he was equal parts auto concierge and "very dear friend," as Suzick put it. They sat in the living room under a gently rocking chandelier and swapped stories about mutual well-heeled friends, while Suzick's dogs puttered around their feet. For Anderson, getting to know his clients on a personal level is good business.

Last summer, he helped Suzick purchase her silver Mercedes.

"He negotiated a terrific deal," Suzick says. "He told me all the benefits and drawbacks, and explained it better than the sales guy."

Suzick, who keeps a packed schedule most weeks, says she can't really say how often Final Touch comes to her downtown parking space or her home to work on her car, because the service is so efficient and discreet. If she had to take care of the car herself, "I'd be driving a pretty dirty car," she says. "I just don't think to get those things done. And living in the city, it's a bit difficult."

And when you get your car washed, "he'll give you his Mercedes. It's a very nice loaner car. He doesn't want his clients to step down."

This summer during hydroplane season, when Suzick and Schumacher were on their way back home to celebrate the Fourth of July on the lake, Anderson took it upon himself to organize the couple's holiday and fireworks-viewing party on their rooftop deck, going so far as to prepare the food. When they travel to their cabin in Sun Valley, Anderson often comes along as a guest, in addition to his capacity as detailer. He and Suzick met at the Idaho resort community 10 years ago through a mutual friend, Seattle businessman Les Rosenberg, Anderson's first big customer.

Working for Rosenberg was another of those through-the-looking-glass experiences.

At a party that Rosenberg threw back then at his Sun Valley place, Anderson ostensibly came to work as a bartender, dressed in a starched white shirt and bow tie to look the part. But midway through the party, Rosenberg insisted that Anderson ditch the tie, mingle with the crowd and pass out his auto-detail business card. He did.

"I got business right away," he says. This year, Final Touch will exceed $400,000 in revenue. Anderson, a single dad, brings home about $80,000 a year and just bought a house in Central Seattle.

His secret isn't just that he and his crew do good work, or even that he makes house calls.

"I learned hanging out with this crowd that they need other things done and they don't have anyone to do it," Anderson explains. "They could call someone, but it's better to have someone you can trust."

As Anderson is fond of saying, anybody can wash and wax a car or run an errand. But trust — "that's my biggest asset."

Along the way, you become invaluable, Anderson says; "you evolve from client/provider to friend."

IMAGES OF stress-free people living it up flash by on the Web site as text blocks appear with the come-ons:

Your evening bike ride. Callahan is doing your grocery shopping. . . .

Your afternoon swim. Callahan is picking up your dry-cleaning. . . .

You were there for his first steps. Callahan's entertaining out-of-town investors. . . .

Callahan Concierge is calling. Like many services in the field, the Seattle- and Bellevue-based agency conjures images of a benevolent old pal swooping in to make life less frenzied, less cluttered with concerns that get in the way of the good life. Callahan is at your service, promising the ultimate luxury — "being able to buy time" with the help of a "trusted professional."

The message suggests that hiring a concierge is the key to rising above the chaos of the daily grind.

"If it's in no one else's job description, they call us," says Callahan president and founder Ashley Clark, who started the business two years ago with just a couple of staff. Now she employs 23 full time, mostly female, concierge agents.

Clark says the business, like many concierge services, has grown so quickly because clients keep spreading word about the firm to others in their social circles.

Though it helps that most of Clark's staff have migrated from professional backgrounds themselves, from law to hospitality services to marketing, she says they all operate with the same marching orders: "Here's your clients. Make them happy."

Sitting in her Bellevue office, Clark and two of her associates are the picture of professionalism — in business suits, sharp dresses and heels — discussing what it means, exactly, to make clients happy.

"They don't realize until they see how much we're doing how much they were doing," associate Janaira Wargin says. Clark, who notes that the Seattle area has one of the greatest concentrations of millionaires in the world and one of the biggest populations of single heads of household, said many of her clients come with their own message: "I don't know what I need, but I know I need help."

With a background at Nordstrom, whose close attention to personal customer service is part of the department store's loyal following, she'd learned early on to abide by that company's motto: "Whatever you need, we don't say no."

Clark also worked in the fashion business for several years in New York City, where the idea of using concierge services was deeply rooted in Manhattan life, as natural as having a doorman stationed at every entrance.

Her business, she says, represents "the Nordstrom idea mixed with the New York City model."

About 20 prospective clients call each day to ask about the concierge services and the firm's "green housekeeping" program, which uses environmentally friendly cleaning products and contract housekeepers.

But Clark and others have the sense that unassuming Seattle, where the concept of concierge medical care was born 10 years ago, is still getting used to the concierge idea in everyday life.

Quite often, the first step is convincing the client that it's OK to assign certain daily tasks to someone outside the household.

As Patti Rainier, owner of Northwest Concierge, put it, Seattle is a very "hands-on" place where people take pride in being able to juggle the demands of work and home without complaint.

"People are like, 'Oh, would you do that for me?' " Rainier says. "People think it's a good idea but are unsure what all can come into play. So we have a back-and-forth about what they need."

The staff at Callahan sees it all the time.

When it comes to doling out tasks for Clark's staff to take on, the vast majority of clients, even those who can easily afford the service, clam up, she says.

"That's something that I didn't foresee when I started this business. People want to take care of everything. They love to cook their own meals. They love to clean their own clothes. They're so leery about saying, "Ashley, take care of this."

Or clients will say sheepishly, "I feel bad about asking."

Your life and home are personal, Clark notes, "and it's hard to give up control."

One way Clark tries to make her service seem less of an elite affair is to set rates at $30 an hour with a two-hour minimum — less than the price of a plumber.

She will meet face-to-face with each prospective client and come up with a list of daily duties that can be delegated. ("What do you love to do? What do you hate?") Since making the client comfortable with the service is key, she also will create what amounts to a personality profile to help her determine which concierge to assign.

Associate Wargin has learned what it takes to be all things to all people.

One morning, Wargin had to make a run to the veterinarian for a client's dog and, on the way back, she had to pick up another client who'd just been released from the hospital after surgery. So there she was, driving around town with a rambunctious Yorkie in the back seat and an anesthetized, post-op man in the front.

She has gotten in the habit of bringing a change of clothes to work because on any given day she could go from gardening at someone's house to, well, shopping for $135,000 cars.

At Ferrari & Maserati of Seattle on Capitol Hill, the low-riding, leather-wrapped Italian beauties are enough to induce heart palpitations, especially given the prices.

But Wargin is a cool customer, with notepad, pen and printouts in hand and a facial expression that means business.

(Not that she's an expert in cars. The job of the concierge is, after all, to be resourceful — to know where to go, what questions to ask and how to get things done. Clients don't like to be called or e-mailed with questions about how to carry out assignments, so Wargin and the rest of the Callahan crew often rely on intuition when it's time to make tough decisions.)

The Maserati salesman tells Wargin that the special pearl-toned paint her client wants will cost $8,000 extra and require a custom order that could delay delivery by months.

In this case, it was best to let the client make the final call.

"Once you start doing things for the client, you start to feel like part of the family," Wargin says. You get over-protective. "It's like, 'You're making my client unhappy,' " she says, feigning indignation. " 'You're making my mom unhappy. What are you doing?' "

In essence, Wargin says, she treats her tasks as if they were personal.

"You just shop like you're shopping for yourself — but with more money."

THE PERSONAL BONDS work both ways. More than a business transaction, hiring a concierge is like starting an intimate relationship. Agencies like Callahan sign confidentiality agreements with clients to reinforce guarantees of trust and privacy. Clark and her staff gather monthly to brainstorm new ways to go the extra mile for clients, deepening the connection with customers task by task.

Staffers have organized date nights for couples, waited in line at 5 a.m. for an art sale, "even purchased porn for clients," Clark says.

Jean-Paul Kissel is chef concierge at the new, 35-story Cosmopolitan condominium complex on Eighth Avenue in downtown Seattle, and, partly because of his connections in the city's restaurant scene, he's treated like a guru or local celebrity by many residents.

He insists that a true building concierge doesn't just sit behind a desk and sign for guests' packages. He is much more. "I believe that our job is to make people's lives easier," he says. "I work diligently to earn people's trust and respect so that they feel comfortable asking me for what they need.

"We become their confidants."

Kissel breaks the ice by holding a 40-minute orientation session with each new tenant. He keeps in touch with residents by e-mail, notifying them of special services, exclusive ticket offers for downtown entertainment and other goodies.

Over time, residents start asking Kissel for all sorts of other things, like gift recommendations for their friends. They come to rely on him for suggestions on caterers, house painters, interior-design firms and upholstery cleaners."These are things," Kissel says, "that only come from experience. . . . I vouch. I put my reputation on the referrals and recommendations that I make."

On a tour of the tower, tenant Lisa Sedor, who moved in shortly after the building opened in late spring, and friend Laurie Silvaggio join him in the elevator with big smiles on their faces.

"I heard about Jean-Paul before I heard about the place," Silvaggio beams.

With Gallic nonchalance, Kissel politely shrugs off their accolades.

But that sort of gratitude fills him with pride for a job well done.

"It's very important that people treat you with respect on an equal level," Kissel says. "It's not being a servant, it's providing a service."

That's a fine but hugely important distinction. The concierges learn to at least behave as if they belong to the world many of their clients inhabit.

It's why Callahan staffers do not wear uniforms, jeans or T-shirts. From all outward appearances, they could be friends or colleagues of their clients — a fashion sleight-of-hand that makes the traditional master/servant dynamic seem more like a pairing of equals.

The line between the personal and the professional is perhaps most blurred for Anderson, of Final Touch Auto Detail.

Still, he never forgets that despite appearances at times, he's running a business that only looks, on occasion, like a social network. Part of his job is knowing where he stands.

But where is that, exactly?

"I've heard some snide remarks, like, 'He's the token black person at this party,' " from guests at clients' social functions who wonder aloud how he got invited, Anderson says.

He doesn't let the offenses get to him. After all, he says, "It's that inner circle that took me in."

Anderson's mom had an inkling about her son's potential for upward mobility and taught him that if he wanted to be a millionaire he needed to hang out with some. When he was a kid, he was always dreaming up business plans, and when he shared them with mom, she'd respond, "OK, Rockefeller," and send him on his way.

Today, Anderson reels off the names of local blue bloods, as he likes to describe them, as if he was born into their world.

Holding your head high among millionaires is also part of his job.

But, he observes with lingering amazement, "I'm living like one," too.

Tyrone Beason is a Pacific Northwest magazine staff writer. Benjamin Benschneider is a magazine staff photographer.

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