2002, San Francisco, California

By Laurie Gauguin

Josephine Tate turned 100 years old during the fall of 2002, and I was one of three staff members sent by the catering company to run her party.

“As you can see, I’m pretty nervous,” Josephine’s 65-year-old daughter, Ellen, told us, wringing her hands as she showed us around the dining room. “We have 30 relatives coming in from the East Coast today. This party is a very big deal.”

The bartender, sous chef, and I were used to appeasing frazzled hosts; you don’t work for five years in the industry without realizing that catering a party is more about putting the guests at ease than it is about the food.

Family members started arriving by the carload.

“Oh, Ellen, it’s been forever!” a long-lost cousin gushed as she squeezed the hostess like a bottle of ketchup.

Herds of children ran wild through the dining room and kitchen, leaving swinging doors and doting mothers in their wake.

“Here’s little Dominic!” one of the mommies exclaimed as she dragged her 4-year-old across the linoleum floor. “Dominic, this is your cousin Hannah!”

The kitchen quickly became the meeting place of long-lost relatives, a place for mothers to compare stories of childbirth, and an open space for children to be hellions. There was little room for the sous chef and I to do any cooking. Just before I was about to lose it, Ellen poked her head around the kitchen door.

“Great Grammy’s here!” she shouted joyfully.

There was a mass exodus of toy trucks, broken crayons, shouting children, and pampering mothers, off to see the birthday girl. Curious to see what a 100-year-old human looked like, I tiptoed into the living room, pretending to bring glasses to the bartender.

Grammy Josephine sat in her wheelchair in the foyer, crowded in by a throng of boisterous children. It was apparent that Josephine Tate had no idea who she was or why she was being surrounded by a hoard of screaming miniature humans. She might not have been able to remember her telephone number or the name of her first-born daughter, but her memory served her well in one area.

“You got any Scotch?” she asked me.

I headed over to the bar when daughter Ellen pulled me aside.

“Make it three-quarters water,” she said under her breath.

Dinner was flawless; guests raved about the food, and not a morsel was left on the buffet. The bartender herded dirty plates in the kitchen as I took the birthday cake out of its box and gently placed it on a glass cake stand.

“The cake looks lovely,” daughter Ellen said when she came into the kitchen. Although she was smiling, she still looked very tense. “Now, let me tell you how I want the cake ceremony to go.”

She looked at the sous chef and me with intense concentration. “My nephew, Ken, will be videotaping the whole thing. When I nod my head,” she said, looking directly at me, “I want you to walk through the living room with the candles lit on the cake while we’re singing ‘Happy Birthday.’ My mother will be seated at the front of the room. Lower the cake to her so she’ll be able to blow out the candles.”

We may as well have been strategizing the final pitch of the World Series.

“Do you understand everything I just told you?” she asked anxiously. The sous chef and I nodded. “Good. Now remember,” added the daughter, as she pushed through the door, “wait for me to nod.”

The sous chef and I rolled our eyes at each other. I lit the candles and headed to the dining room.

“Wish me luck,” I said.

As I stood in the shadow of the living room, I searched out Josephine’s daughter. When she gave the nod, I plastered on a smile and proceeded down the aisle with the gait of a happy bride.

There they were, all of Josephine Tate’s bloodline: daughters, sons, nieces, nephews. Women dabbed at their eyes as they sang “Happy Birthday” with quavery voices. The men all stood tall, hands folded respectfully in front of them.

As I stepped gingerly toward the front of the room, the cameraman followed me closely, focusing on the cake and the proud expressions of the beloved family members.

Josephine sat in her chair with her head cocked to the left, examining the pattern of the wallpaper. I knelt down in front of her with the cake, but she failed to see me.

“Mrs. Tate!” I whispered.

Josephine’s head slowly turned to meet my eyes.

“Would you like to blow out your birthday candles?” I asked, wide-eyed.

Josephine looked around for consultation, unsure why a young woman was crouched in front of her, barking orders. Daughter Ellen put a firm but gentle hand on her mother’s shoulder.

“Ready, Mom?” she asked. “One…two…three.”

Josephine looked intently at me, as her daughter feverishly blew out the candles. After the applauding and cheering subsided, I smiled at Josephine and turned to leave.

“Get me a Scotch, will you?” she called after me. “No water.”

The room fell silent, then everyone laughed loudly to cover up Grammy’s indiscretion. I scooted through the dining room, anxious to find refuge in the kitchen.

“How’d it go?” the bartender asked as I whooshed past him.

“Oh, fi…,” I started to say.

As I took my final step to the kitchen door, a wrinkle in the carpet caught my toe. I lurched forward, and the cake fell face first into the rug. The bartender and I stared down at the overturned cake, speechless, our mouths hanging open like porch doors without their springs.

“How did it go…” the sous chef started to say as she exited the kitchen. She ended her sentence with a loud, “Oh, shit!”

The three of us stood in horror, gawking at the cake as if it were roadkill. We whisked the cake into the kitchen before any of the guests could see.

As we were appraising the damage to the cake, the kitchen door slammed open, and the three of us scrambled into a human barrier.

“We’ve got to do it again!” the daughter cried out. “The kids were upstairs playing, and they missed seeing their Grammy blow out her candles.”

The blood drained from my face.

“The kids are on their way down,” the daughter said, one foot out the door, “so we have to do it now.”

I had to think quickly.

“We already started cutting the cake, so it doesn’t look that nice,” I said, hoping she’d take the bait.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, heading out the door. “Just bring it out now, while we still have the kids’ attention.”

The three of us looked down at the mangled mess of a dessert.

“What are we gonna do?” I asked, frantically picking cat hair and dust bunnies out of the frosting.

“OK,” said the sous chef, taking a motivating breath. “Let’s find some kind of garnish.”

“Go stall the daughter,” I spat at the bartender.

The sous chef and I raided the refrigerator and came up with a handful of walnuts and two tangerines. We scraped off the damaged frosting on the top of the cake and littered the bald space with tangerine wedges and walnuts. I took a deep breath as the sous chef placed the cake on the stand, and I pushed through the kitchen door.

“Wish me luck.”

All eyes were on me as I entered the dining room, arms enveloping the cake to disguise it as best I could. Every time the camera focused on me, I turned my back to hide the dings in the frosting. I was sweating like a steamy bathroom mirror as I walked down the aisle, and for once, I was thankful for the distraction of rowdy children. I walked up to Josephine and crouched in front of her, just as before.

“Mrs. Tate?” I whispered, my eyes bugged out, sweat beading my brow. “Would you like to blow out your candles?”

The birthday girl looked down at the cake, then up at me. Her eyes narrowed into two slits, her left eyebrow arched with doubt. Could it be? After all of this, not knowing who or where she was, pretending not to recognize her own daughter. All along, she knew. She knew I dropped the cake! She must have seen me!

Grammy Josephine tilted her head, eyes still fixed to mine, as the “Happy Birthday” chorus came to an end. Everyone stood, breathless, waiting for Grammy to blow out her candles a second time.

“Where’s my Scotch?” she yelled.

Laurie Gauguin has cooked professionally since 1996 and has written for 7×7sf.com, The San Francisco Professional Food Society, and The Chocolate Guide Western Edition, among others. Chronicles of Laurie’s life in the kitchen can be read on her blog.

Posted by Common Ties on Monday, January 7th, 2008 | Email This Post

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