Authors: Jerrilyn Farmer
D
espite the tens of traumas and dozens of crises that make up our little lives, for a caterer to stay in business, the party must go on.
Think, for a moment, about mah-jongg. It’s not something you probably ponder on a regular basis. But still. Maybe you picture a card table set up in a suburban living room. Four Jewish ladies, their hands busy, the sound of heavy jewelry clacking against the ivory of the tiles. There’s noshing. There’s laughter. Emily asks Minkie if her daughter, Marcia, is still seeing that cute anesthesiologist. For the past fifty years or so, that’s been mah-jongg in America.
But the world of mah-jongg is changing. With the Internet, on-line versions of the old Chinese game have popped up. Suddenly, a new breed of players has discovered the exotic flavor of this “game of one hundred intelligences.” Such was the case with our clients in the Sweet and Sour Club.
“That’s everything,” Holly said.
Holly and the guys had been unloading the truck, taking the food and cases of liquor and decorations up to Buster Dubin’s mansion. He lived only two blocks from me. His 1920s Spanish castle was situated in the better part of Whitley Heights, the part that didn’t border the Hollywood Freeway, like mine did. Buster, like so many of us, was infatuated with the romance of Old Hollywood.
It was almost seven-thirty, and we had a lot of work to do
to be ready by eight. Ray Jackson came down the front steps and met us at the tailgate of Wes’s white station wagon.
“I think that’s it.” Ray leaned against the wrought-iron gate. He was decked out in the same “uniform” all my serving staff wore for informal parties—black pants and white shirts. I believe in self-expression, so there was a fair amount of leeway at casual parties. In Ray’s case, he wore black Adidas wind pants and reflective Nikes. His spotless white sleeveless knit shirt exposed dark skin stretched over hard muscles. Ray’s shaved head and wide smile made him look more like a well-paid athlete than the just-scraping-by brilliant kid from South Central L.A. that he was. Ray worked many of my parties, earning extra money to help toward a UCLA undergrad degree.
“Are all the tables set up in the Chinatown room?” I asked.
“Yep. Four tables, sixteen chairs, and the buffet and the bar,” Ray said. “Hey, check you out, Holly. You’re looking fine.”
Holly also took liberties interpreting the standard server getup. Her white T-shirt was a tiny thing. With it, she wore low-slung black-linen pajama pants. On her feet were black patent thongs with tiny heels.
Once we were inside Buster Dubin’s house, Ray went on to the party room to get things started there. Wes and Holly and I stopped for a minute to talk over who would do what. A fat Buddha sat in the entry, grinning. Even he seemed to sense it was MJ night.
In his exotic decorating style, Buster Dubin didn’t just try for a
taste
of the Orient; he indulged in a whole glorious tencourse banquet. Antique bamboo screens sat behind low, black-lacquer tables. An impressive collection of Celedon pottery sat atop ebony chests. Fabulous old silk panels hung on the walls, cream-colored backgrounds featuring scenes of rice fields and cranes taking flight. One wouldn’t expect this spare, sophisticated Asian décor to work with the Art Deco Spanish architecture of Dubin’s home, but the rich subdued palate of black and cream with accents of pale green was a success. The bro’ was not only chillin’, as Ray called it, but he had exquisite taste.
How could a guy in his twenties afford authentic antique
Chinese art? you may wonder. This is Hollywood, don’t forget. There’s money here. In Buster’s case, the money could have come from his family. His mother was the daughter of some chemicals tycoon, and of course his father was Stu Dubin, who directed
Wyoming Drive
and
West of Here
and had a couple decades of wild popularity before he went out of phase. But I suspected Buster could afford to buy his own carved jade doodads with the money he earned himself.
Buster Dubin didn’t direct films, like his famous dad, but instead, started like many do today, by directing music videos. He rose fast. And along the way, he was persuaded to bring his hot visual talents to sell stuff. His commercials instantly connected with the young and the hip and the disillusioned. It was a notoriously hard market to capture with advertising, and therefore a decidedly lucrative demographic. Buster’s ad with cows flying won awards. His commercial with computer monitors doing the limbo was a hit. His thirty-second spot with the talking bras was featured on the Super Bowl. Lately, he was making a killing with dot-com commercials, like the one that crowned Mr. Geek Universe for GeneYus.com. His bent sense of humor had found a perfect video home.
“Dolls. Dudes. How’s it hangin’?” Buster, in a red-silk blazer, seemed to glide down the curved staircase to greet us in his entry hall. It was a clever parody of the sweeping entrances Hollywood stars of the past must have made, maybe in this very house. He was a handsome guy, late twenties, with tousled hair so dark and shiny it seemed unnatural. It probably was. His sharp jawline and angular chin were covered by one of those five-o’clock-shadow kinds of beards. The perfectly even, grayish black wash of stubble emphasized the rugged lower half of Buster’s face, like the precisely pointalized shading you see in comic books.
He kissed me on both cheeks, barely splashing the potent bright pink liquid in his highball glass, and then turned to Wesley with a wicked gleam in his eye. “Wes?” He held his arms out wide. “Kisses?”
Wesley half snorted a laugh, casting a quick eye at the jovial host. “In your dreams, Bus, my boy.” And as Wes disappeared down the hallway, we heard him chuckling on his
way to survey the party room.
“Ladies! Alone at last.”
Holly and I laughed.
“Anyone thirsty?” he asked. “Quita has been experimenting. She’s prepared the Singapore Sling.” He gestured to his own pink drink. “I’ve started to party before my guests arrive. I hope you’re not shocked.”
“Nothing shocks Maddie,” Holly replied.
I don’t know if I can actually claim that. But I do have a tendency to bounce back rather quickly. Which is a talent, I submit, in our worrisome world. The last couple of days were a perfect example. Look at this morning. Mugged by that chard guy. And look at the odd little scene at Wesley’s house with spooky Quita McBride and her tears and her fears. If we were scoring stress points, you might say I have been through rather a lot. And the night was still young, my friends. We hadn’t even begun the party yet. So, therefore, I’d have to say finding a host with a drink in his hand preparty was about the least shocking thing I’d seen all day.
“Don’t worry,” I said to my client. I said these same exact words in this same soothing way thousands of times. It worked like a charm.
Buster visibly brightened. If that was possible.
I said, “We’ll have to take a rain check on one of Quita’s drinks, though.” And I shot a look around. Where was she, anyway?
“Pity. But, then,” he whispered, “you probably make one that is infinitely better. Am I right?”
“You may be the judge,” I said. “So save some room.”
“Tonight’s party will be amazing,” Holly said. “Did you check your e-mail? Maddie sent out virtual fortune cookies.”
“Did you?” Buster looked up from a big gulp of Singapore Sling and smiled, delighted. “Fantastic. I’m going to go upstairs and log on.” He looked at his watch. “Guests will be here in half an hour. So, are you guys okay? Is everything set?”
“Oh, it should be terrific,” I said. Caterers must be up. “We’re having special and most significant Dim Sum. We have the steam cart and Holly will do the honors.”
“Excellent.” Buster took a closer look at Holly and his
gaze drifted south, seeming to focus somewhere near her exposed navel. “Excellent!”
“We have many surprises tonight—some special treats in honor of the New Year. We have coordinated every dish with its auspicious meanings and cross-referenced them to harmonize with the Chinese horoscopes of each of your guests.”
“You’re kidding.” Buster looked astonished.
“Well, okay, we didn’t do the horoscopes, but we’ve got loads of treats in store. And a surprise guest will arrive after dinner. My special New Year’s gift to you and your guests.”
“You are too hip, Maddie, which is why I love you.”
Holly, who was something of a fashion extremist in her own right, couldn’t keep her eyes off Buster’s amazing jacket.
“You like?” Buster ran his hand over his famous lucky red-silk smoking jacket and grinned a grin that resembled the one on the face of his Buddha. He was quite a character. He showed Holly and me the motto that was embroidered over the red-satin pocket. It read:
The Hand from Hell.
Holly laughed one startled, Ha! and asked, “Is that the name of a mah-jongg hand?”
She was just starting to learn the game and knew that many a winning hand or special combination of tiles carried a special name. “I’ve heard of
The Thirteen Wonderful Lanterns.
And
The Great Snake.
And isn’t one really lucky combination of tiles called
The Hand from Heaven
?”
“Very good!” Buster said, smiling at her. “You’re learning the traditional names. Aren’t they groovy? I just love the whole ancient symbolism and the rich Chineseness of MJ. It’s awesome.”
“But what’s
The Hand from Hell
, then?” Holly asked.
“My own invention, actually. My friends and I are always adding new nicknames of our own. We keep improving the game here at the Sweet and Sour Club. We are evil geniuses. What can I say?” He looked down again at the embroidered motto.
The Hand from Hell.
“Sometimes that
Hand from Heaven
for one person can be the
Hand from Hell
to his opponents. Know what I mean?”
“You don’t like to lose,” I suggested.
Buster Dubin laughed. “Maddie gets it. Life’s a bitch, and
then you die, right?” He winked at me as Holly giggled. “But every now and then, you can invite your friends over, kick back, play a little MJ, win a few bucks…you know? Just have a few smiles.” He slipped his arm around Holly’s bare midriff, which made me frown just a little.
I knew Quita was here, somewhere, and I don’t generally like my staff to appear to be upstaging the party host’s girlfriend. It is by just such judicious staff management that I have devised to keep on top of the L.A. catering heap. Angry girlfriends/wives/lovers do not make for repeat business. And some people think the quality of the gourmet cooking is the most important ingredient to catering success. Ha!
“Holly, can you help me in the kitchen?” I picked up my toolbox, filled with my personal collection of cooking implements and gadgets and accoutrements.
“Right-o.” Holly slipped from the light grasp of our host.
Just then, in a swish of taffeta, descending down the sweeping staircase came Quita McBride. How long she’d been standing at the top landing, I couldn’t say.
“Party time?” Quita asked, swishing pink-tinted liquor in her crystal glass, pale eyes dancing from me to Buster to Holly.
Well, wasn’t this interesting? Just a couple of hours ago, Quita McBride had told a heartbreaking story of her wonderful memories of old Dickey at the Wetherbee house, but she was now clearly marking her territory around her man.
For his part, Buster easily seemed to share his huge home with a parade of beautiful women. They moved in, they moved out. Quita had only been on the scene a few months. Perhaps she had a more permanent arrangement in mind. What is it about men that the more interesting they are the more messed up their private lives seemed to be? Ah, well.
In the looks department, Quita was quite a startling contrast to Buster, with her light hair worn long compared to Buster’s short shock of blue-black hair. And she was tanned a bit past the point of the current fashion in our health-conscious city, while Buster was quite fair. As for her long body, which was wrapped in a cream-colored slip dress, it was a knockout. Other than her overample chest, the rest of Quita was so wispy thin, she didn’t look entirely of this
world, while Buster was powerfully built, although perhaps an inch shorter than Quita. They made an attractive couple.
I watched as Quita stopped about two steps above us and took a sip of her brew.
“Hello, again, Quita.”
Leaning over the end of the railing, she said, “Hello, Madeline. How are you?” She held out her glass, still half-filled with the bright drink, in Holly’s direction without actually looking at her. “Would you mind?”
“Would you like a refill?” Holly asked, taking it from her.
“Not now, sweetie.” Quita slowly turned to her and narrowed her eyes. “Just take it away. I need to be alone with my guy.”
We took our cue, quickly making the trip through the large house, arriving at the kitchen.
“She’s thinner than…” Holly whispered, searching for just the right image.
I tried to help out. “…string?” I suggested. We crack ourselves up, sometimes.
“Thread,” Holly corrected.
And then, we heard something.
“What is that?” I asked.
Holly turned slowly. We both strained our ears to catch the sound coming from the front of the large house.
“Is that crying?” I asked.
“Shh.” Holly said, trying to listen. She opened the kitchen door and the sound improved.
“It sounds like a child’s voice—you know, very highpitched,” Holly whispered, as we tried to make out more.
“Could it be Quita?” I looked at Holly. “What is going on out there?”
“You’re right.” Holly grinned. “She’s yelling at him.”
I, on the other hand, sighed. Quita McBride was all over the map. First that incredible scene at the Wetherbee house, with the tears and the memories of her dear old departed husband. Then the mysterious stories and her fears and the pleas for help. Now this. The night had barely begun, and already fireworks. I turned to Holly. “Keep your hands inside
B
uster Dubin’s kitchen was cramped and old-fashioned, reflecting the lifestyle of a bachelor with little use for anything save a refrigerator to hold take-out leftovers and a microwave to reheat them. It was odd to still be able to find such an impressive older home with such a small kitchen. Remodels usually did away with the original narrow sculleries, which had been suitable enough, at the time they were built, for the help. In current times, these homes fall somewhere north of the two-million-dollar range. For those price tags, most had their old walls bumped out and new cooking palaces installed. But this room’s only beauty was the amazing artwork on the new floor.
Wes showed up in the kitchen as Holly and I unpacked the last of our ingredients for tonight’s Dim Sum delights.
“Did you hear?” Holly asked him.
“Trouble in paradise,” Wes said. “It was hard to miss.”
“Did you hear what it was about?”
Wes shook his head. “Something about money. I didn’t hear his voice at all. Just hers.”
I shook my head. “Exit Ms. Quita McBride. But I do hope they won’t go breaking up right now before all the guests arrive. I’m not sure what she would do. Her emotion-o-meter is pegged pretty much all the time.”
“Remember, she said she couldn’t stay here tonight, after the party?” Wes asked.
We talked that over a bit. It had happened before, the
hosts having a horrible row just before their big event. Actually, everything has happened before. We get through it.
“Oh, get this. Did I tell you?” Wes asked. “Dubin loves the floor so much, he wants me to help him remodel this entire room.”
Wesley had introduced Buster to Erin, an artist-friend who carves intricate designs out of linoleum. She uses a precise, hand-cut inlay technique to make graphic masterpieces using the same old-fashioned colorful flooring material that our grandmas favored. For Buster’s kitchen floor, Erin cut a stunning Asian-inspired border of pale green bamboo and set it into a jet-black ground. She adapted the design from a very old Japanese brush painting that Bus had given her.
“Aw,” Holly said. “So you’re going to rip out this one?” Holly looked down at the art beneath her shoes. “How much did it cost?”
“Seven thousand,” Wes said. “But Buster wants Erin to do another one for the new kitchen.”
It figured. Wesley was getting a reputation. His house projects were fabulous.
“I can’t imagine why he’s going to bother with a new kitchen,” Holly said. “Buster doesn’t cook, and Quita doesn’t eat.”
“Now, Holly,” I said. It’s a good rule not to talk about the hosts while you are still in their house. “This is a cool job for Wes.”
“That’s true,” Holly said. “Wes, honey, all your house jobs are whack.”
“Well,” Wes said, turning to her, trying not to sound old at the ripe age of thirty-seven. “Thank you?”
Holly, our designated pep squad, settled herself at one smidge of counter space and started putting together the Chinese Chicken Salad. This was the time that required the most intense concentration. Thirty minutes and closing. All of our creative spirits were engaged.
Our goal with every party, no matter how small or large, is to provide a unique experience to each jaded palate. Each diner’s senses must be flirted with, solicited, tempted, invited,
tantalized, enticed, intrigued, seduced, and flat-out propositioned before being brazenly indulged. Delectable aromas from the kitchen must waft through the house, greeting each guest’s sensitive nose. The soft seductive sounds of cutlery on porcelain should underscore the interweaving melodies of happy conversation, all of which provide accompaniment to the host’s favored musical background. Dishes must harmonize to provide a wide variety of textures and temperatures, flavors and ingredients. And, the eye’s delight upon first spying a dish must be equal to the mouth’s delight at how the thing actually tastes. Presentation is key.
Even for a relatively mainstream little item like our Chinese Chicken Salad, we enjoy giving it a unique visual twist. For this particular salad, we do a parody of Chinese take-out. I have white take-out cartons made up that are four times the size of a normal one.
Holly took one of these Giganto cartons out of our supply sack and tipped it on its side onto one of our large lacquer platters. The contrast of the white-cardboard box on the shiny black platter was lovely. Buster would get a kick out of it. The whole oversize scale was fun, and I suspected the idea of gourmet caterers creating fresh culinary delights and then putting them into a take-out container would strike our host as appropriately droll. The salad, when it was completely compiled, would be displayed in the tipped-over carton, spilling bountifully out onto the platter in a lovely large mound. To finish, we’d stick a pair of oversize gold chopsticks into the carton and sprinkle the salad with freshly fried wonton strips.
I watched Holly work, but my mind kept wandering. I usually consider myself a great judge of people. But Quita McBride had had me worried about several things. What was up with her? She had acted so strangely when we told her about the theft of the mah-jongg set back at the other house that she had me spooked.
I know a guy, a detective with the LAPD, and I gave him a call. I had to leave a message. I told him I hoped he might swing by and check out Quita McBride.
As soon as I hung up, I regretted having called. I shouldn’t have bothered him. It wasn’t his problem. Besides, he and I had a weird history. Why did I think I should call?
Angry with myself, I got back to work. The wok was placed over high heat, and the oil was now at the correct temperature for frying. I started placing the wonton strips into the oil.
As the wonton skins sizzled, I ran over some of the timetable items with Wes. “We probably shouldn’t start cooking the dim sum until the guests are here. And let’s not dress the salad until the last minute, either.”
“Right.” Wes had been absentmindedly shaking a large glass jar that contained the Chinese dressing we’d prepared earlier. By shaking it up, he freshly mixed the peanut and sesame oils with the pickled ginger and other spices. This salad dressing recipe was complex, mingling ingredients with varying tastes. It contained white scallions, Chinese mustard powder, and shallots for heat, honey for sweet, soy sauce for salty, and ginger vinegar for sour, along with the spicy chili oil for fire. It was a recipe we had borrowed from Wolfgang Puck and had changed a little over time.
Wes held up the drink Holly had taken from Quita.
“Ugh,” he said, eloquent as always.
“It’s Quita’s version of a Singapore Sling,” Holly said.
He took a tentative tiny sip. “Ack! I’m poisoned.”
I looked over at him, arching an eyebrow. Wes was deadly serious about every recipe.
Ray entered the kitchen. “What up?”
“Ray, my man. C’mon over here.” Wes waved him to the sink. “I’m going to teach you how to make a real Singapore Sling.”
“Excellent. They love that shit in the ’hood.” He gave us all a sly grin.
“Naturally.” Wes grabbed one of the boxes with our liquor supplies for the party and he and Ray set the bottles up on a table next to the sink.
“Oh, hey. Show me how to make one, too,” Holly said.
As Ray moved over and made a space for Holly, Wesley picked up what was left of Quita’s colorful concoction and poured it down the drain.
Wes was our resident mixologist. “Probably no mixed drink has been as mistreated as the Sling. The only thing most bartenders know about the Singapore Sling is that it’s supposed to be pink.”
“Ah.” Holly looked on as he rearranged the liquor bottles on the table.
“Singapore Sling,” Ray said, smiling. “Pleasing groins.”
“What?” Wes said, looking up.
Holly gave Ray a wicked grin. “Interesting fantasy life.”
“It’s an anagram.
Pleasing groins
is an anagram for
Singapore Sling.
Really.” He was all teeth. “Betcha didn’t know that, Holly.”
She was staring at him. “An anagram, huh? How’d you know that?”
“It’s just something my brain does naturally. I got the gift.”
“You’ve got the anagram gift.” Holly looked from Ray back to me. “Is he messing with me, Maddie?”
I began to laugh. “I always knew Ray was special.”
“Thanks, Madeline.” He winked at me and turned back to Holly. “
Pleasing groins,
see? Now you’ll have something to chitchat about with the guests tonight while we’re serving these fancy drinks.”
She burst out laughing.
“As I was saying…” Wesley waited for his students to settle down, then continued. “The drink was created in 1915 by a Hainanese-Chinese bartender named Mr. Ngiam Tong Boon. Originally, the Singapore Sling was designed to be a woman’s drink, hence the attractive pink color. Tonight we’ll prepare an adaptation of the original recipe from Raffles Hotel in Singapore.”
“That sounds authentic,” Holly said, pushing back her bracelets.
“It is. Now look. It’s perfectly simple.”
We all looked.
Wesley had set up a line of bottles, garnishes, juices, fruit, barware, and ice. “First fill a shaker with ice.”
“Okay,” Holly said.
She was wonderful. Although she’d never had formal cook’s schooling as I had, or had restaurant kitchen experience as both Wes and I had, Holly was a sponge and was always in a hurry to learn.
“Good,” Wes said, checking both his students. “Add six tablespoons of pineapple juice and two tablespoons of gin.”
“Which kind of gin?” Ray asked, looking at all the varieties we stock.
“Boodles is good.”
Side by side, Holly and Ray mimicked Wes’s actions as they built the drinks together. Each of them proceeded to measure the proper ingredients. As Wes instructed, they squeezed two tablespoons of fresh lime juice, and added one tablespoon of Cherry Heering. They measured one tablespoon of grenadine, one-half tablespoon of Benedictine, and then a dash of Triple Sec and three dashes of Angostura bitters.
“Got it?” Wes asked, watching Holly as she finished up counting her dashes. “Now shake for a minute and then strain it into a tall glass filled with ice.”
Ray and Holly shook their cocktail shakers with one hand while setting out twelve-ounce Collins glasses and filling them with cracked ice with the other.
In unison, they poured out their authentic rouge-toned Singapore Slings.
“Then you garnish with a flag made out of a lemon slice and an orange slice and a cherry on a toothpick, like so…” Wes demonstrated, and Ray and Holly did their best to follow.
He looked at their work.
“Wait,” Ray said, studying Wes’s artwork on a stick. “Now how’d you do that?”
“Never mind. I’ll make up a lovely pile of fruit garni for you to use later.”
“Thanks, man.” Ray twirled his sad skewer of fruit.
“Okay, then. Let’s see if they’re any good. Bottoms up.”
Wesley said.
In unison they each took a tentative sip.
“Ah.” Wes put down his glass, satisfied with his work. “A taste of the exotic East.”
“Ah!” Holly took another gulp, pleased with herself and enjoying the taste of her first authentic Sling.
“Ah…shit!” Ray put his glass down with a grimace. “Man, that stuff is nasty. I mean, that stuff is sweet. And it’s…pink.”
You had to laugh.
Ray caught my eye and shook his handsome bald head. “I suggest that this right here is the prime reason why the nation of Singapore will never be a world superpower.”
“Wussy drinks?” I asked, giving Ray’s cocktail-political thesis some thought.
“Well?” he asked. “Am I wrong?”
We all told him, “no.”
With his head for world politics and anagrams, Ray was sure to go far.
“I’ll stick with beer, Wesley,” Ray said.
“Well, there’s simplicity in that,” Wes agreed. “And for those at the party who share your simple tastes, there’s a case of Tsingtao on ice.”
“Hey, I’d better get to squeezing up some couple dozen limes or I’m gonna be killing myself come show time,” Ray said.
Wes and Ray discussed where to set up the bar in the party room and they huddled together packing the liquor bottles and accessories back into the cartons. Ray easily lifted two cartons at once. And then Wes turned to me.
“Madeline. I was just thinking, do we have enough cash to pay the staff?”
Ray, who was almost at the door, stopped. “No problem,” he said. “We took care of it.”
Holly said, “Maddie always has enough cash to cover the payroll. That’s why she’s the queen.”
It was true, I usually had that stuff wired. Earlier that day I had sent Ray to the bank to pick up the cash we’d need for the party. He brought back a stack of twenties. In fact, I had
to talk to him for defacing the bills. He had drawn a tiny frowny face in the corner of each twenty. I showed him my frowny face and he apologized, promising to keep his Bic capped in the future.
I tried to explain. “I had an unexpected expense, Holly.”
She looked at me, intrigued.
“I just gave Quita McBride a hundred dollars a little while ago. That’s all.”
“One hundred and sixty dollars, actually.” Wes could be very literal.
“Yes, well, she was a human in need. I just tried to do her a favor. She said she couldn’t use her credit cards and she didn’t have cash handy and…And now I guess I am going to run a little short tonight. Damn. No good deed goes unpunished.”
“You’re kidding.” Holly looked amused. “Quita McBride who could probably buy and sell us, not to mention she’s got a rich boyfriend who’s our client? You gave Quita a coupla hundred bucks?”
“Didn’t Mad tell you about our night?” Wes asked.
Holly looked at me, and her green eyes narrowed. “Maddie.”
I hadn’t wanted to upset her, so I hadn’t mentioned our bizarre evening at the Wetherbee house. Honestly, all I wanted to do was focus on the party ahead.
Just then, my cell phone rang from the bottom of my toolbox. I reached down quickly to catch it before the call was lost.
“Well, aren’t you going to tell me?” Holly asked, indignant.
“Toss the salad,” I instructed. Despite fumbling with the clasps, and rustling through the mess below, I managed to grab my phone and press the answer button just in the nick of time.