Manhattan Kansas

I don’t recall when Charmaine arrived at my catering company. Oddly, neither does she. But all of a sudden it was as if she had always been there.

A lot of the staff come and go without much fanfare, but you always know when Charmaine is in the house. Big head of platinum blonde hair, laugh as loud as a police siren, bright red lipstick, loud clothing to match the color scheme of the wedding and an armful of bracelets, Charmaine doesn’t even consider blending in.

In the catering business, we have what’s called “a captain,” the person who is in charge of the front of the house, meaning the waiters and bartenders. There is also a “sanit” captain, in charge of organizing the dirty dishes and glasses behind the scenes, and the bar captain in charge of all the bartenders. I’m not sure how others feel about the term “maître d’,” but to me it means the person in charge of everything short of God. If there are several captains, a team of acrobats and an elephant, our maître d’ Charmaine will be in charge of all of them.

Char (as I like to call her) is the queen of front of the house. In the 30 years I’ve been catering, I’ve worked with some good (and not so good) maître d’s, but Char swims circles around the best of them.

“Let’s get this shindig rolling!”

I suppose if the guests always arrived when they were supposed to arrive, sat down and ate when they were supposed to eat, if it never rained when it was supposed to be a beautiful day, if the ice never arrived an hour after the guests, if the bride never decided to buy her own tablecloths and all of them needed ironing, if the groom never hired his DJ pal who thought the wedding was tomorrow, if the bride never neglected to mention that 30 unaccounted for (and unpaid for) guests would show up looking for their seat, if the bridal party never arrived drunk, if the bride and groom never went out to the park to take 20 minutes of photos and came back two hours later and if the rentals of tables, chairs, glasses, plates and in short everything you needed to turn an empty loft into a dining room never arrived five hours late, you wouldn’t need a maître d’, let alone one with the charm of a country girl and the mouth of a carnival barker.

“It’s raining; what do we do?” asked the bride’s father who had refused to pay for a tent.

“We’ll just crank up the music and start passing margaritas. In 10 minutes, nobody will care.”

At the wedding with no tables, chairs and glasses (due to the rental company catching on fire and neglecting to let anyone know), Char had the staff set up a makeshift bar and pass prosecco in plastic cups.

“Start passing the hors d’oeuvres. We’re gonna have a cocktail hour if it kills me!”

“What are you gonna do?”

“Refuel!”

Refuel, by the way, meant applying more fire-engine red lipstick, pretending nothing was wrong, rolling up her sleeves and helping the rental company get the rentals out of the elevator.

The rentals finally arrived, and the guests were so busy enjoying the cocktails and hors d’oeuvres, they never noticed anything was amiss.

Running the front-of-the-house for a catering company that specializes in weddings is daunting. Add to this mix that Charmaine is also the client liaison, in charge of designing the floor plan, placing the rental orders and subjecting herself to months of emails and phone calls from nervous brides, grooms, their parents and occasionally even guests.

In 30 years of catering, I only once gave a bride my personal cell phone number. She proceeded to ruin 6 months of my life. Char gives all our clients her cell number and manages to answer even the most frivolous of calls with her own blend of charm.

“I have a cousin coming who’s allergic to wheat, dairy, sugar, and nuts. She’s also pescatarian. What do I do?”

“You could accidentally lose her invitation in the mail, or we can grill her a piece of sea bass.”

There are bride’s mothers who had bad divorces with bride’s fathers and have to be kept apart.

“That’s what tall floral centerpieces are for. Didn’t you know? We will place them on opposite ends of the room with a floral barricade between them.”

I think of Char as the secretary of state of catering. Send her to the Middle East if you really want peace.

You might think with all this pressure on her shoulders, Char wouldn’t have enough time left to walk her dog, but as it turns out, she not only walks her dog and the second dog she just adopted, but she also walks at least six of her neighbors’ dogs.

When she’s not walking dogs, she rescues birds and any other lost or injured animal that wanders into her path.

Our normal work day starts at 9 a.m. By 9 a.m., Char has walked eight dogs, taken a dance class at the gym, answered 55 emails and called her actors.

Actors?

I’ve yet to fathom how, but Char is also a writer, director, producer and actor. She can often be found at the ticket booth at one of the small theatrical productions she produces off Broadway or perhaps in the sound booth, or even, if needed, making drinks at the bar.

“Doll, the bartender had the flu. The show must go on!”

After a matinee, at an Irish pub, (her favorite, second only to dive bars) Char nibbled at a shepherd’s pie.

I looked at the program and noticed that the plays were based on short stories by Damon Runyon, who was from Manhattan, Kansas.

“There’s a place called Manhattan, Kansas?”

“Yes, girl. That’s where I used to live. Didn’t you know?”

“No, Char, but somehow that sums it all up.”