Hard to believe it happened in America’s Paradise – on the island of St. Croix.
It’s harder to believe is happened at a luxury hotel – the Hotel on the Cay. And it’s hardest to believe is that my Favorite Daughter and Favorite Son orchestrated the fiasco.
All I want is my traditional Thanksgiving 5-mile run – and then my traditional Thanksgiving dinner with plenty of white-meat turkey.
That day starts with my traditional Thanksgiving 5-mile run.I drive out East, park at Divi Beach, then run along a picturesque course. I start along the beach, then go up and down a couple hills, and around some twists and turns in the road – all the while overlooking the sparkling Caribbean down below.
It’s a great start to the day.
Then I drive home. Grab a beer, hop in the shower, and grab another beer. Get dressed, meet the kids, and grab another beer for the ride into town.
Making this Thanksgiving dinner more special is the fact I’m sharing it with my two favorite children – Favorite Daughter Stevie and Favorite Son Ed.
Making it a party of five are Stevie’s boyfriend Matt and Ed’s girlfriend Gia. Both of whom will wind up becoming the parents of my two favorite grandchildren Zack (my spelling, not his) and Allie.
We drive into town, park, and take the ferry across to Protestant Cay. It takes about two minutes from one wharf to the other wharf.
We enter the restaurant, and pay. And, yahoo, we beat the rush. It’s not that busy.
A hostess seats us, then a waiter comes around for our drink order. Now, between you and me, I don’t give a shit about drinks at this point. I just ran five miles and already drank three beers. My stomach’s growling and my blood-sugar’s low. So I want some white-meat turkey ASAP.
But the rest of my party sees it differently. They tell me to sit tight, then they order a bottle of wine.
I’m getting testy as hell, and keep eye-balling the sumptuous buffet table. I see white-meat turkey, dark-meat turkey, ham, roast beef, fish, shrimp, mashed potatoes, stuffing, cranberry sauce, vegetables, salads, and a buncha desserts.
Twenty minutes pass.The bottle of wine’s gone. It’s way past time to eat – but no. The kids order another bottle of wine.
“Are you shitting me?”
They tell me to relax. But I can’t now, because – pardon my French – it’s too fucking late. I take a look at the buffet table and guess what? There’s no white-meat turkey left on the buffet table.
I look around, see a rush of people still coming in, and they’re paying for a Thanksgiving dinner. So, I flag down the maître-d. “You’re outta white meat,” I tell him.
He tells me he knows.
“When are ya gonna bring out some more?”
He starts hemming and hawing – giving me some shit about turkeys in the oven – and they’ll be ready soon. But it sounds like bullshit to me.
“How many turkeys ya got in the oven?”
He’s not sure.
“And how long until I see white meat on the table?”
He’s not sure.
“Are you fuckin’ shitting me? It looks to me like you underestimated how many people would show up for dinner – and you ran out of turkey. Admit it. But you’re still charging people – full price – to come in for Thanksgiving dinner – even though you’re out of fucking white-meat.”
More hemming and hawing.
I’m pissed at the Hotel on the Cay, pissed at the kids, and pissed at myself for not digging into the white-meat as soon as we first walked in.
The maître-d tries to kiss my ass with a complimentary bottle of champagne.
“You think this makes up for it?”So he brings another complimentary bottle of champagne.
I eat some roast beef, some ham, and a few shrimp. Also mashed potatoes, stuffing, and cranberry sauce. But I’m mumbling and complaining the whole time. I eat pumpkin pie for dessert – two pieces – and keep washing it down with the blackmail champagne until every drop is gone.
More than thirty years have passed. I’m no longer pissed at the kids, but I repeat this story every year on Thanksgiving. And those damn kids helped make it my most memorable Thanksgiving on record.
Thanks Kid – your dad still loves ya.
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