Lizz Lund - Mina Kitchen 01 - Kitchen Addiction! (48 page)

As
we rounded the corner, we saw what seemed to be an exceedingly reputable
apartment building, and well-paid professional residents entering and exiting. 
We smiled.

In
the vestibule K. rang the buzzer for apartment #1A.  The buzzer answered
cheerfully and we were admitted into a spacious and newly updated lobby.  There
was a glorious blast of cool air, and the heavenly fumes of basil and garlic
and a myriad of other spices teased us toward the elevators.

We
advanced, but K. stopped us.

“Oh,
no, we don’t take the elevators up: we take just one shortsy-wortsy flight of
stairs down,” he said, and motioned to the other side of the lobby, toward what
looked very much indeed like a service door.

We
made Walter descend first lest he tumble and kill us all.  Then the rest of us
followed down some very ordinary cement steps and even more ordinary cinder
block walls. At the bottom we amassed as a small congregation, and collectively
stared at the single door ahead of us.

K.
skipped forward, smiled happily at us and said, “Here goes!” and knocked on the
door.

From
the other side of the door came the clicking of high heels, then the unlocking
of what appeared to be a great many dead-bolts and chain locks.

The
door opened and we were greeted by a large round elf.  Or at least she appeared
to be a large, round elf – middle-age-ish, round, bleach blonde hair in a
whispy pixie bob, wearing a lime green chiffon kaftan and matching day-glo
green drop earrings.  I looked down and saw she was wearing very sleek,
stunning heeled sandals, which I admired.  Then I realized the fat cow was
wearing the same sandals as mine, but in lime green.  And worse, apparently her
brutes hadn’t gnawed her feet as their shiny black cousins had mine.  The blues
of my toes whined in agreement, pulsing angrily at the elf’s unscathed hooves.

A
small, skinny male elf, wearing all black with a large gold peace-sign necklace
leaped out sideways from behind the large, round green elf.

“Greetings,
and welcome, one and all!  Welcome to our little Supper Club!” the male elf
sang.  “I am called Groggin,” he said, with a hand on his chest to indicate
himself.

“And
I am Perpetua,” the green elf said, following suit identically.

“And
we are delighted to have you here!” they said in unison, with arms
outstretched.

I
was unsure about whether or not they meant the Royal We or the Plural We but
that would have to wait.

Perpetua
said, “Besides having a wonderful supper planned for you, we’ll all learn a
little bit about each other.  We might even enjoy a virtual ‘6 degrees of
separation’ experience!  It’s possible that by the end of this evening we’ll
discover we are all connected!  Now then – do please come in.”

Her
unmauled feet clicked happily down the hallway as she led us inside.

“Now
that you’ve arrived, our party can begin!” Perpetua waxed hostess-like.

“But
first let’s dispense with the formalities,” Groggin added.

So
we did the obligatory round-robin introductions and obligatory writing of
checks to ‘cash’.  I noted Ida’s confusion at not knowing who Mr. Cash was
while she was writing and made a mental note to advise her much, much later.

The
other parties in the room consisted of a middle-aged gay couple, an elderly
woman and her retro-punk granddaughter, what appeared to be a streakily
‘tanned’ used car salesman type grinning wildly like the recipient of too many
facelifts, and newlyweds from Nebraska.

As
we shuffled into the main room, I tried to take heart that perhaps this might
not be so grim after all.  This studio/condo/thingy was like a loft, but
underground and shorter.  The cement floor was badish but an exposed brick wall
gave it a nice feel.  The remaining walls were a normal white wallboard, hung
with absolutely gigantic paintings in bright oranges, fushcias and blues. 
Because there were some soft green streaks stemming from the bright blobs,
Walter and I guessed they were flowers.  Recessed lighting focused on the
paintings to ensure good, even blob viewing.

Toward
the back, against another exposed brick wall, were several long, worn, wooden
picnic tables hemmed in by various types of chairs, loveseats and benches.
Old-fashioned milk jugs and pump pitchers held sunflowers, gladiolas and
snapdragons, dotting the caravan of tables. Every place had some version of a
Mason-jar drinking glass and each setting was a hodgepodge of antique china.
Nothing matched and it all looked lovely.  Things might not be so bad after
all.

We
were invited to sit down, and we all did.  There was a momentary heightening of
alarm as Walter lowered himself down onto his own bench, which required the
bringing of some additional chairs for the rest of us.  Then all of us sat and
grinned sappily at each other. Of course the facelift salesman had little
choice. But a sense of calm and expectation settled as it slowly dawned on us
that somehow we were all on the inside loop because of this very private,
hush-hush party.  I felt better for that. I actually started to feel a bit
special. I even started not minding the $150 prefix.   I started to befriend
what remained of my toes and slid my sandals off underneath the table.  My feet
plumped up like ballpark franks.

We
began our rounds of introductions.  The grandmother and punk-daughter were
enjoying a silent auction prize from an anti-puppy mill benefit.  The gay
couple had friends who had attended Perpetua and Groggin’s ‘Barbados Bash’ last
month and happened to have a pet-sitter in common with Perpetua.   The used
car/facelift salesman was actually an anesthesiologist whose nurse introduced
him to Groggin (in the hopes of a raise no doubt).   The newly-married couple
from Nebraska were on their second marriage.  Each had grown children from
their first marriages, one of whom knew a friend of Perpetua’s, and had
purchased their dinner tickets as a wedding present.  K. waxed lyrical about
our little van load and Gillian, who is Groggin’s hair stylist.  I stared at
Groggin.  I hoped Groggin’s hair styling was intentional because his head was
shaved clean.

“Now
that we’re a weensy bit acquainted – let’s begin!”

Perpetua’s
paws pounced upon a bell and rang in the feast. From someplace in the back we
heard a heavy metal door open, the scuffling of feet and the squeaking wheel of
a trolley.  My Lancaster friends and I sat stupefied in horror as an Amish
couple approached us.  We stared blankly at each other wondering if they were
lost, and where would they have found parking for their buggy anywhere near
Bank Street?

“Here
we are!” peeped Perpetua.

The
woolen-clad bearded man in the straw hat sulked toward us and thunked a 15lb
block of cheese onto the middle of the table.  Next to him, his wife (or
sister? they looked uncannily related) shuffled a plastic basket somewhat
filled with Trisquits next to the cheese, along with a platter carrying an
extremely large and phallic-looking summer sausage.  She, too, was clad in
black wool and looked very hot indeed. (What else could she be, wearing black
wool in August in New York?)

Walter,
Ida, Armand and I stared pointedly at K.  Were we really in the right place? 
But K. was engaged in a serious interior design discussion with the
anesthesiologist (Dr. Brad, apparently soon to be K.‘s next client).  I heard a
snort and gazed at the punk grand-daughter, who was convulsing and nodding to
her grandmother at the uncut summer sausage.  Her grandmother sniggered.  I
looked down at my place setting and silently hoped that neither they – nor
anyone else – would go all schoolgirl on us about the giant wiener.

Whistler’s
father and mother went back to their cart and returned carrying two very large,
worn wooden handled knives.  Brandishing these toward us, they simultaneously
stabbed the cheese and whacked the sausage penis in half.

“Be
careful, they are very shc-aaararrrp,” the man glowered at us, sounding a bit
like Colonel Klink from Hogan’s Heroes.  Ida held her napkin over her nose in
reaction to Col. Klink’s wool clad armpit reaching across her face.

Col.
and Mrs. Klink went back to the
cart, looked reproachfully at us, and squeaked back with their trolley.  We
heard the opening of what we assumed was the kitchen door and the very loud
bang of its closing.

“There
now! Isn’t this wonderful!” Perpetua piped.  I crossed my fingers and my
bleeding toes and wished for a logical explanation and a decent meal. 
“Welcome,” Perpetua beamed, “to the Amish Affair!”

Amish
Affair?  Talk about coals to Newcastle.

Silently,
in one accord, my car load slowly and Children-of-the-Corn-like gazed at K. 
All the blood ran out of K.’s face, leaving it white as flour.  Armand looked
pointedly at the summer sausage, then at K.  Ouch.

“Gee,
to think we drove – all the way up – from Lancaster – for Amish food – in New
York,” Walter puffed, sucking on his inhaler.

“Oh,
well that’s marvelous!” Perpetua preened, “Amos and Angie are from Lancaster!  They must be one of your six-degrees!”

Again
we stared as a unit at K.  The white in K.’s face was replaced by a slightly
greenish tinge.

“My,
my,” twittered Ida, slipping back into a Tara Ophelia drawl, “sometimes what is
common sincerely is just that.” Her arrow flew straight and true and sank right
into K.’s chest.  He flinched.

“Zees
are not vaiters,” growled Armand, reaching for his cigarettes.  “Zees are
mammas and pappas.”

“Oh,
no, no, no – we are a no smoking facility!” Perpetua proclaimed.

“K.,
you vant come outside for smoke, yes?” Armand directed.  We gazed from Armand
to K., wondering if K. would return home with us.

K.
burbled, “Actually, I’ll just nibble on a little piece of this delightful
cheese.”

Armand
gnawed on his unlit cigarette.  Suddenly I realized that K. was clearly as
embarrassed and disappointed as we all were.  However, as no one knew the
‘theme’ for this evenings fare (or unfair) I realized we couldn’t quite blame
it all on K. – directly, at least.  Indirectly would have to do.

But
looking around I saw everyone else was chatting happily and truly enjoying the
anticipation of Amish food.  I sighed.  Alright, so the menu wasn’t exactly
what we’d hoped.  I shrugged.

“Hey,
you buys your ticket, yous takes your chances,” I said.

K.
leaned forward to our little group and whispered, “I had no idea!!”

Walter
said, “It’s alright. Amish food, if it’s not tourist food, is very good; simple
home cooking.” We looked at him.  “It might lean toward the country side, but
if it’s good it’s all made with very fresh, all natural ingredients,” he
explained.  “Seriously, I just edited ‘Cooking for 20 – Everyday Amish
Dinners’.”

We
all nodded effusively, and pulled up our respective big girl and big boy
panties and behaved as much like adults as we knew how.

As
the cheese and sausage were far too heavy to pass amongst us, we passed our
plates around for those closest to the Flintstone-like food to hack and serve. 
The cheese and sausage weren’t bad, just usual – for us at least.  We fell
silent, chewing.  I wanted mustard.  And I definitely wanted a drink.

“Excuse
me, Perpetua,” I said, “but could we do with a bit of something wettish?”

“Cert’ly,”
our hostess gobbed through her cheese.

Groggin
tinkled the bell.  Again we heard the response of the banging door and
squeaking cart.  Angie appeared, looking as though she’d just taken a shower.
But she hadn’t.

“What
would everyone like to drink?” Perpetua proffered.

“Vodka
tonic,” I began, chimed in by the others, “Merlot”, “Cosmo!” and “Fuzzy navel!”

Perpetua
pouted.  “I’m afraid that because this is a supper club, we are not quite that
well-stocked except with whatever complements the meal. Groggin and I highly
recommend the sparkling water.”

Everyone
at the table, particularly the punk grand-daughter who had just turned 21, met
Perpetua with steady, angry gazes.  Even the punk’s grandmother frowned.

“And
of course we can’t sell alcoholic beverages to anyone, so we offer what we have
– complimentary – on the house!”

I
thought maliciously of how much of my $150 to Mr. Cash would be consumed by
complimentary beverages if I hadn’t been the driver.

“Uh,
what exactly do you offer, dear, beverage-wise, that complements the, um –
Amish Affair?”  K. ventured.

“Well,
actually, to savor a truly Amish experience we wouldn’t want to suggest
anything alcoholic – so homemade root beer would really be the beverage of
choice,” Perpetua began, then realized the not-so-friendly-stares radiating
toward her and wishing her demise.  “However, as apparently we are not Amish,
and in keeping with the flavor of the experience, we’ve struck a weensy loophole
and are pleased to offer you – Amish Beer!”

Perpetua
puffed proudly, plunking back into her seat.  We sighed and placed our orders
with Angie.  No one – including Gramma – ordered root beer or water.

Amos
appeared carrying large pitchers of what appeared to be a dark, thick beer and
set these along the table.  Most of the attendees leapt upon these
enthusiastically. But our company held back; we were all too familiar with
Bauser’s Amish beer.