A Foodie Flubbed

OK—as promised, a look back in my foodie closet:

In 1999 my husband, Brett, and I planned a trip to Hawaii. This would be my first jaunt over the water to the exotic landscape some Americans actually mistake for another country.

A few weeks before leaving for Hawaii, I came across a review in the Los Angeles Times for a new French restaurant in Honolulu. (Our trip included a one night stay on Oahu before heading over to a resort on Maui.) Since the review was really positive and we wanted each experience during our short trip to be memorable, I called to make a reservation. A really sweet sounding voice picked up the line at the restaurant, one with a very thick French accent. I remember gleefully thinking, “how authentic—French staff; this place is the real deal!”

I explained that I had seen an article in the Los Angeles Times about their restaurant and wanted to make a stop there when we were in Honolulu. She happily recorded our reservation. I didn’t give it another thought other than remembering to write down the address and phone number to take with me on the trip.

After arriving in Honolulu (which was shockingly Vegas-like crowded—people & smoke everywhere) we went straight to our hotel, the Sheraton Waikiki. We were looking forward to our first vacation dinner at the lovely French eatery that evening. It was sure to be a wonderful start to our five days in paradise. (My apologies, I cannot remember the name of this great restaurant!)
We grabbed a taxi over to the restaurant, and once inside marveled at the ornate paintings and rich décor, very savoir-faire. We were greeted by a woman in her mid 50s who spoke in broken English with a heavy French accent—I recognized the voice as the same who had taken my call weeks earlier. I gave our name and said we had a reservation.

Immediately, her demeanor changed. She became a little giddy as she led us, menus in hand, in that kind of hopping walk I have seen in older, cherubic woman. She surely seemed a happy camper at her job! As we sat down, she muttered in French something to the waiters that passed. Brett & I just looked at each other, puzzled, and with a shrug of our shoulders simply decided whatever was going on didn’t have anything to do with us.

The service was perfection at this restaurant! We enjoyed each course, along with delicious wine all while being well-attended to by the wait staff. As we lapped up the remainder of our crème brulee, the older French hostess came by and told us the chef would like to meet us, and would we like a tour of the kitchen.

Brett looked at me, oblivious, “The kitchen," he whispered to me in a question. "Why would we want to see the kitchen?!”

I hushed him, “No, you don’t understand,” I whispered. “Being invited into a chef’s kitchen is an honor!”

“Of course,” I nodded to the older woman, “We would be honored to meet Chef (whatever his name was).” I was thrilled, though had no clue as to why we were chosen for this special peek behind the scenes.

We were then led past the wait staff and into the kitchen.  The chef introduced himself, again a very thick, French accent—I could hardly make out what he was saying. And, by now, I had come to see that the hostess was most likely the chef’s mother, and a very proud parent at that!

Chef took us all around his kitchen explaining the layout and showing off all of his gadgets from special mixers to large ovens and the prep areas. I still remember so vividly the huge table where they prepared homemade pastries and desserts. It was all new and quite impressive. Since we really could not understand much dialogue between the pair of them due to the “Frenglish,” a long conversation was impossible, so after the tour, we headed back to our table and paid the bill.

By this time, it had become quite late. As we approached the front of the restaurant, we inquired of the French hostess about a taxi. She smiled, again the French muttering and the hop-hopping leading all three of us out the front door. The evening surprises continued with a shower of rain coming down outside. The hostess motioned for us to just wait near the entrance to the restaurant, and she went skipping down the walk towards the busy street. Before we knew it, this lovely woman was waving her arms wildly in the rain in an attempt to capture a cab for us. It was really quite funny, and so sweet, too; though at this point we were really wondering what had led up to this exhaustive display of service.

My last memory of this restaurant was this adorable lady standing in the street waving goodbye at us as we looked out the back window of the taxi. Wow—if that wasn't the best service ever! It was clear that we were give the royal treatment; no other customer was given that much attention.

Then it hit me! I think she thought we were restaurant critics from the LA Times!

When I first called, maybe all she could make out was LA Times and "reservation." With her poor grasp of the English language, that explanation made perfect sense... the attentive wait staff, the chef, the tour of the kitchen—and best of all, the sweet woman at the heart of the misunderstanding flagging down a cab for us in the pouring rain!
What a great night. Brett and I have a hearty laugh when that memory comes up. The only thing I feel bad about is the absence of any review in the Times after our visit! Our French hostess was most likely tres disappointed.