Da Door Jam

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She greets her patrons with “honey” and “sweetie” in a sugary, maternal tone, yet she’s been called the B word by many who have crossed her path. Jenifer Rosero is the diva of the door, the sovereign of the guest list, the ultimate traffic cop. From her perch on a stool beside the door of the Opium Den, the Hollywood club she co-owns, Rosero knows who’s who, who’s doing whom and who must be let into her domain. A petite woman with gold nails and lips to match, she controls the floodgates as L.A.’s night-life luminaries--movie stars, agents and record company executives--mingle with Aerosmith-style belly-pierced waifs and Details magazine poster boys.

“We don’t discriminate,” Rosero says. “I let people in just for being nice. But if there’s one thing I hate, it’s a club owner who doesn’t know what they’re doing. By running a club you’re taking on a big responsibility, and if you don’t know who people are in this town, you shouldn’t do this job.”

For the last six years, Rosero’s been a partner in Bolthouse Productions, which hosts a handful of clubs and produces celebrity-heavy parties. Yes, she admits, there’s glamour associated with her job, but it’s also work--work mixed with power and lots of good stories. She says she spotted Brad Pitt as a star long before he became “Brad Pitt.” And then there was the time Flea of the Red Hot Chili Peppers scrambled up the side of a hill to crash a party for Mick Jagger. What he didn’t know was that Rosero had already put him on the guest list.


Her mod print mini screams party girl, but Rosero says her favorite vices are Coca Cola and cigarettes. Thirty six years old, she doesn’t drink and is a vegetarian. Asked if she ever works out, she replies, “Never. I dance. That’s my workout. I’m an old disco queen.”

On a recent Friday night, Rosero cruised down Ivar Avenue in her shiny black Mercedes. She pulled into a red zone and jumped out, her open-toed faux leopard mules clicking and clacking down the sidewalk toward the Opium Den. In a split second, she surveyed the five-people-deep crowd at the entrance. A sea of forlorn club-goers, their expressions bordering on desperation, were vying to get in. By the time she reached the door, Rosero had spotted Tori Spelling wearing a black Courtney Love-inspired slip dress. Spelling and her entourage were immediately escorted into the club. No problem. Except that Shannen Doherty was already inside, and Rosero’s database of a brain flashed a warning. Get Tori a table, she told her staff, but do not, I repeat, do not seat her near Doherty.