Today, the association has 4,700 members in 30 countries (in the United States, there are 450 members in 30 states), identifiable by the pair of crossed golden keys pinned to their lapels. Earning the pin is no easy task. For starters, concierges must have at least five years' experience and be nominated by two members. Then the tests begin. To make sure that a candidate is worthy of the keys, a member might anonymously call with a question on the origins of an obscure statue in Buenos Aires; another might check into the applicant's hotel under an assumed name and behave badly or make obscure demands, such as requesting a list of all the art shops that sell Rotring pens in a 40–block radius. Finally, the applicant is subjected to a board review.

Why go through all that trouble? Besides the prestige that Les Clefs d'Or affords, the network allows members to reach out to their counterparts worldwide. "If I need someone in Milan or Geneva," says Kenneth Abisror, concierge at New York's Mandarin Oriental, "I look in my book, call, and say, 'Hi, it's Kenny from New York. I need your help.' And it's as if I've worked with this person for thirty years."

Many university hotel schools offer front office programs, and there's also the Merici International Concierge Institute in Quebec City. But concierge school is nothing compared with life experience and on–the–job training. Consider Maria Wittorp–De Jonge, the head concierge at the St. Regis in Manhattan and a member of Les Clefs d'Or. Born in Sweden to a concierge father, she speaks five languages, oversees a staff of 17 (who speak a total of 12 languages, from Arabic to Swahili), and is considered by many to be the best concierge in New York City. After studying hotel management in Germany and marrying an American GI, she was hired as a butler at the St. Regis in 1991. "It was because of my languages," says Wittorp–De Jonge, who is graceful and unpretentious.

"She develops a certain level of trust with the guest," says Scott Geraghty, general manager of the St. Regis, a hotel with a clientele that is, on average, 60 percent return guests. "And she's a factor in the decision–making of where they stay." On the concierge desk since 1993, Wittorp–De Jonge says that she thrives on the day–to–day tasks. It would appear to be true as she nimbly maneuvers behind the tiny desk, handling three phone calls at once, squeezing between two colleagues to grab a logbook, all the while smiling and making eye contact with her guests. She does everything from the mundane, like finding a particular brand of ladies' loafer socks in size 10–12, to the impossible—arranging a tour of chef Thomas Keller's kitchen at Per Se, where it's hard enough to get a dinner reservation months in advance.

HERE TO SERVE
The hallmark of the best concierge? He or she will provide whatever you ask and act like it's nothing at all. In fact, when it comes to making a request of a concierge, there's very little that's not fair game. Once, according to an oft–told story, when Salvador Dalí asked for a horse at the Ritz in Barcelona, the concierge quickly secured one and led it up to the painter's room. When Dalí protested that he didn't want a live horse, the concierge turned on his heel, found a stuffed one, and dutifully delivered it to the artist.