As you probably know by now, me and my friends, Celeste, Rita, Betty, Dot and Shirley (or the Women Who Run with the Moose, as we call ourselves) get together once a week for a little girlfriend time. Been doing this since Moby Dick was a minnow. God, we have some laughs!
Like last week, we buzz on over to the all-you-can-eat-buffet down to the Hukilau Polynesian Restaurant. We just love going there. It’s so, I don’t know, exotic.
We order our usual: a couple of pupu platters, then on to the buffet for egg rolls, fried rice, lo mien, and some kind of meat on sticks (we don’t ask questions). The girls split a couple of Scorpion Bowls. I was the Double D (designated driver), so I was nursing a wine spritzer.
Have you ever had one of them Scorpion Bowls? It’s this ginormous drink, comes in a big, honking bowl, fire floating in the middle, and little paper umbrellas all around. I have no idea what’s in it, but, let’s just say, it packs a punch!
Since our last visit, the owners of the Hukilau had put signs up everywhere, in the lobby, by the register, in the dining room, over the sink in the bathroom, in the stalls, everywhere. They said, “Scorpion bowls are not souvenirs. Anyone caught taking one will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.” Clearly, the Hukilau was having a problem!
We made short work of the pupu platters and were chomping our way through the buffet, when Betty asks, “So how many Scorpion Bowls do you have to drink before you start thinking about taking one home?”
“Beats me,” Dottie says, “but we’re on our way to finding out!”
Always the practical one, Shirley goes, “Okay, say you wanted to take one. How would you smuggle this sucker out?”
“Geesh,” I says. “You’d need a pretty big purse.”
Betty adds, “I know! You could pretend you were pregnant. Put it under your shirt. Though it’s not really the right shape, is it?”
“Yeah, you’d have to hold it like the baby was on its way. It’d be tricky.”
“Well, some folks must have figured it out,” Celeste says. “I mean, by the number of signs, the Hukilau is in the middle of an epidemic!”
Rita pipes up, “You gotta admit, though, having your own Scorpion Bowl at home would be kind of special, you know? Like a trophy. You’d feel like, wow, the world is my toaster.”
We all stop, and look at her. Rita backpedals.
“What? I’m not saying I’d take it!”
“Rita,” Shirley says. “It’s not toaster. It’s oyster. ‘The world is your oyster.’”
“Oyster? That doesn’t make any sense. Why would you want the world to be your oyster? They’re all gooey and slimy.”
“Right,” Dottie agrees. “Like someone just hocked up a…”
“Hey, hey, hey! I’m still eating, here!” Shirley says.
“Geesh, my whole life I thought it was, ‘The world is your toaster.’”
Betty says, “Sound more appealing, doesn’t it? A toaster takes something cold and makes it hot.”
“Kind of like what Nelson, the bartender, does for me.” says Celeste.
“I’m thinking about trying to steal the Scorpion Bowl,” Shirley adds. “See if he’ll frisk me!” That got us chuckling.
Nelson comes over to our table. “You ladies are having too much fun! Can I get you another round?”
“You kidding?” Betty says. “We’re halfway under the table as it is.”
God, we have a good time! We were still giggling when we climb into the car, each sporting a little Hukilau umbrella in our hair.
That’s it for now. Catch you on the flip side!
Hear Ida Tell It: The World Is My Toaster