That’s the only instruction.
At 1 p.m., Benicio Del Toro wanders, a little hesitantly, into the Peninsula Beverly Hills. He has no entourage. He’s wearing a black windbreaker, an Oakland A’s cap pulled low over his tousled hair and those famous drowsy eyes. At 6-foot-2, he’s an unmissable presence in this gilded foyer. Then again, it’s Benicio Del Toro. He’d be unmissable in a snowstorm.
He scans the sun-drenched lobby: society ladies in Chanel suits nibbling cucumber sandwiches, a harpist drifting through afternoon tea. Then he veers toward a dim, wood-paneled bar off to the side and slides into a banquette.
“I’ll have a light beer,” I tell the waiter.
Photographed by Myles Hendrik
Del Toro does not order a beer, leaving my “few small beers” bit — a reference…
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