The Hatches came to town from Cleveland and wanted to see something you just can’t see in Cleveland. This was years ago, when the best answer was “Kahiki!”
We went to the Polynesian “supper club” on East Broad Street which from 1961 to 2000 sang a siren call to WW2 veterans who had served in the South Pacific. The fare was gourmet, but the decor was one-of-a-kind.
Mystery Drink arrives
We enjoyed the Mystery Drink and the Poo-Poo Platter. But, suddenly, there was the internal drumbeat of angry bowels and I knew: I must get to a bathroom now. NOW.
So, off I ran, hurdling through the lush tropical rainforest, dashing past the aquaria, sprinting beneath the parrot — “Men’s room that way. Men’s room that way. Awwwk.” I made it just in time.
That’s not much of a story, I know. But, here’s the rich Polynesian irony. At the end of our meal, the bill came. It was itemized and the name of each of the items was truncated to fit the receipt. For example, the spicy dumplings we’d enjoyed were abbreviated as “spicy dump.”
“It was a spicy dump, indeed,” I said. “But I can’t believe that they are charging for it.”