Captain cooked, p.2
Captain Cooked, page 2
“Doesn’t he approve of your working at Ho‘oilina Kai?” My father seemed more intent on Michael than soaking in the assorted riff-raff tussling outside. It was the investigative legal beagle still in him. Before becoming a famed culinary TV star, my father had started his career as a lawyer, later a public defender in Chicago, skilled at dissecting witnesses for their core truths. More about that later.
I could see Michael’s grip on the steering wheel tighten. “My uncle did not appreciate my going mainland, off to Nevada to the UNLV Hotel School. He felt I would lose my ethnic heritage, assimilate to the iPhone culture. But if you want to succeed on island, the best jobs are upscale resorts.”
Jeffrey sliced further, the verbal sensitive surgeon with scalpel. No pain, no gain. “And, especially working at the Ho‘oilina Kai?”
“Would you like it if a bulldozer went to your family cemetery and scraped up your grandparents’ bones?” Icy silence filled the van. Hired staff should not be offensive to guests. I did my best to recapture the status quo of civility between driver and passengers.
“And those other groups? The orange shirts look younger than the green shirts, the white shirts more clean-cut. They all seem to be Hawaiian except the white shirts who have a few protestors who are…” Caught off guard at his abrupt rudeness, I wanted to find the politically correct word to use, so I said, “Anglo.”
Michael glanced my direction, resumed his ease and laughed, not so much at me, as realizing his own spouting diatribe. Okay, he gained my re-appraisal. Accepting that his college years at hotel school had taught him speech and manners, he did exhibit, which I had not caught earlier, a maturity more so than other goofball guys my age. Our age, mid-twenties.
“Those ‘Anglos,’ I rather call them haole trust-fund babies. They’re rampant up on this part of the island, living in the best neighborhoods of beach front properties. They all seem to need a cause, and the problems we poor islanders face give them justification to join the cause of the moment.” Michael seemed to internalize his frustrations, probably screaming for a speaker’s podium, for a sympathetic listener. My father kindly assented with a “go on.”
“Hawaiians,” said Michael, almost in a relieved sigh, “are as dysfunctional as Republicans and Democrats saying they are parties of unity. For two or three causes we have about one hundred different political organizations. The green shirts are run by a friend of mine, Larry Tutapu. They’re called People’s Party of Free Hawai‘i. They believe that the monarchy, King Kamehameha and his court, stole all the land from the High Chiefs who in turn were guardians in trust of the people’s land Konohiki. Some still believe the King never conquered them. On Kaua‘i, King Kaumuali‘i might have paid tribute to Kamehameha, but was never forcibly conquered. Hence, for the green shirts, the people own the land, not the state or wannabe royalty. Tutapu and his group splintered off from the Monarchy Society about five years ago. They try to be more youth-based hip revolutionary, picking up followers who have no moral foundation of their own. They pattern themselves after Jamaican rap posses, dress the part, get into local band culture where they can find angry lyrics to chant.”
Wow. I thought to myself, this guy is too uptight.
“And the white shirts?” I could see their banners, well printed catchy phrases, “Equal Rights,” “Improve Hawaiian Lives.” White shirts were not IBM-styled button downs, more free flowing cotton shirts. One tee shirt had Donald Trump’s photo, the caption stating, “Ho‘oilina Kai — You’re fired!”
“That’s the ‘Committee for Economic Independence.’ A bunch of opportunists. Their fondest dream is to bypass the laws of the Hawaiian Homeland Commission and seek inclusion in the Indian Gaming Regulatory Act. The purists like my uncle don’t want to be Indians.”
The van reached the guard gate, which seem to be manned to the teeth with security people; none armed if one ignored the side holsters of mace and billy clubs. They waved us through, recognizing the hotel van’s cargo as guests of honor.
“I get it,” said Jeffrey. “The white shirts are for casinos.” Michael nodded his head in affirmation and gave my father further study. Jeffrey surprised many people, a learned man who read beyond cookbooks. He was my ideal, which I would never tell him, of what today’s Renaissance Man should be. The mold, when he arrived on the scene, had been broken. I would never find my own passionate life mate with those characteristics and so my dating life lacked, my standards set too high for serious relationships. My physical needs, liked getting screwed with tingling satisfaction, whatever century that last occurred, had been one-nighters riddled with morning repulsion, at myself.
Back on subject, I gave my father a blank face.
“Madison, if the Hawaiians,” he explained, “gain inclusion into this IGRA, the main attribute being ‘quasi sovereignty,’ their status would be similar to the federal government having to deal with a foreign nation. As now with Native Americans and their reservations.”
“My uncle and his people believe history shows Hawai‘i has always been a sovereign nation. The U.S. government with warships and bayonets ignored international law.”
My father continued. “If native Hawaiians achieve sovereign recognition, they gain the right to negotiate for casinos on the island. I am guessing the white shirts are secretly well-funded by large mainland casino interests.”
Michael affirmed. “Ten times more cash in their Political Action Committee than the other two groups combined who live hand-to-mouth. This committee of future pit bosses would do a disservice to Hawaiian culture, commercializing it beyond the current perception of tourist tacky.”
Michael went silent. Maybe he said too much, spoke out of turn, to his job limitations. Definitely, he looked good smoldering. I found his character interesting, but he was not my type.
Chapter 3
Ho‘oilina
We drove through the manicured grounds of the Ho‘oilina Kai Grand Hotel Resort, newly opened, and on its inaugural shake-out first month. From my vantage, I immediately sensed this playground for the wealthy and those with zero balances on their credit cards was barely completed. Lumbering earth-moving equipment everywhere chugged rampant. Dump trucks hauled out excess lava rock, while graders and rollers were crushing the remaining lava stone piles (the hotel website had said this whole area was a recent lava field, only two hundred years old, still without topsoil). The project, I had read, was to build terraced pads for future housing, homes that I suspect would price list over $2 million for a townhouse starter. Closer to the main hotel sounds of hammers and saws rose from clusters of wood framing on uncompleted villas.
The golf course, in play, was immaculate, the greens smooth as if groomed by razor and the fairways meandered gracefully on rolling hills throughout the property. The clubhouse and main hotel toward the beach were in full operation. We pulled into the porte-cochere. A breezy banner announced “Tenth Annual Lū‘au Challenge,” and a subtext poster highlighted “Ho‘oilina Kai Welcomes Jeffrey Dayne and the Insatiable Delights TV Show.” The lū‘au competition was a day off and so my silent cry: “Where’s the beach?” Not achieved easily as we must make an entrance befitting a foodie star. Jeffrey is going to be the primary celebrity judge for the lū‘au food competition, which, in my associate producer capacity, I will Hi Def digitize. As in the past travel food shows, he will work with the hotel and various restaurants to jointly prepare meals. Give the locals a national P.R. plug through his television show.
Introductions were made. Greeting us at the front steps was the Resort’s General Manager, Mr. Mahon Cahill. With him was his head of Public Relations and Marketing, Desideria Cardoza. My antenna popped up full alert. Ms. Cardoza wore no wedding band. Stunning, thin and beautiful, late thirties, my guess. Her eyes, eye lashes, brows, all like her hair, raven black in coloring. And she said those words beguiling to any author and TV star, “Oh, Mr. Dayne. Can I call you, Jeffrey? I have both your cookbooks; I’ve seen your show. We are so lucky to have you staying with us. Call me Desi.” Anyone could read ‘Desi’ on her name tag. She might as well have flung herself into his arms yelling, “Take me, you brute.” I can translate feminine body language quite well, especially flaunting aimed at my father.
Mr. Cahill, impeccable in retro Hawaiian shirt and white slacks, spoke with an English accent. I could see a past life in the ladies department at London’s Harrods. As he escorted his guests into the lobby he effused sweet syrup explaining the resort services at our disposal.
The hotel lobby smelled of interior designer money spent without budget. Dark cherry and teak woods balanced and edged against white walls; the open promenades, arched bridges over lilypad koi pools, song birds in white cages, and artsy floral arrangements of Birds of Paradise, red and pink ginger, giant mums and hydrangeas. Delicate orchids were scattered in nooks and crannies in oriental cloisonné bowls. At the front desk we were offered moist heated towels, mint scented, to wipe our hands. From the long plane trip, I wanted to wipe my underarms, but I refrained.
“Everything has been taken care of,” extolled Mr. Cahill, actually finger-snapping, ordering bellmen to deliver our luggage and my camera equipment to our respective guest suites. As we headed toward the elevators I saw the ‘box,’ a simple white file folder carton, taped shut, heavy in contents. I know it carried cookbooks culled from my mother’s collection. Jeffrey maintained the cookbooks in their house, now his, as sacrosanct. I expect these books would be on Hawaiian cuisine, a mixture of historic with those more recently off the presses. These editions would act as reference and he’d spend as much time studying and cooking as he ever would be at play outside.
Manager Cahill deferred to his Public Relations executive that all pre-arrival requests were in place. Miss Hotty Pants wore a pink silk blouse, a navy blue skirt with matching jacket and embroidered hotel badge crest, perhaps the simple staff wardrobe, but on her the clothes draped in nonchalant elegance. Her features seemed Spanish, but perhaps, if a local, Portuguese was her lineage. The sugar plantations looked for cheap labor and historically experimented with human cargoes from many nations. I am sure she Googled my father’s life and recent tragedy of my mother’s passing. I fear her plans.
To my father she cooed, her voice dropping an octave.
“The hotel has given you a suite and a separate adjoining room with a full kitchen which you can use for your cuisine preparation.” Perfect for his perfection, his own testing, food creation lab. “Also,” said all sugar Ms. Cardoza, “I have taken the liberty of having a pūpū luncheon platter served in our private grotto at the beach for you and your lovely daughter. It will be there waiting for you around 1:00 p.m. Just ask any of our staff for directions.” I suspected she would be lurking nearby.
Manager Cahill gave a crooked-teeth smile, “Miss Cardoza has had Chef Lorenzo prepare your Lomilomi Salmon Salad from, I believe, your first cook book.” He effused self-pride at the personal service of his sharp PR Manager and the hotel’s fine dining Head Chef, not realizing this was a dish that Jeffrey and Elizabeth, my mom, had created together on one of their early romantic escapes to the islands. By past examples of his mourning eccentricities, I knew he wouldn’t touch any direct memory of her, especially her signature food dishes. I saw Jeffrey’s lips purse in a slight wince. Trying to be ever the gentleman, Jeffrey Dayne would have to find a tactful escape from this pupu predicament.
Michael led the bell hop brigade with all luggage to our rooms, situated on the hotel’s top floor. Five stories, no high rises around here. And not presidential suites, darn it, but my room alone had twice the floor space of my Santa Monica hovel. Michael told me not to tip anyone, management exception just for us. Out of curiosity, giving him a departing thank you, I did the girlish sort of mumble-stumble and asked if I would see him again. Not a big deal, just chitchat courtesy to the staff.
“Mr. Cahill has made me your father’s cultural attaché. If you have any questions, or your dad requires whatever, give the front desk a call, and they will track me down.”
He gave the impression, ever so slightly, that the task assigned to him, dignitary babysitting, even for one in the hospitality industry, fell beneath his capabilities. I did not feel offended; in fact, felt better for him, that he sensed loftier goals. And for the moment, thought no more of him.

Chapter 4
Great Daynes
I have to digress. I am keeping a journal of this trip for future reference, and to organize my rambles. In breaking in my notebook, stream of consciousness worked well, and while back in my California apartment, here is an excerpt of what I scribbled:
My name is Madison Merlot Dayne, Jeffrey’s wayward daughter. This will be my first official producer assignment with the Food Television Channel (FTC Network). Jeffrey found himself contractually pressured from the Network big boys to abandon his self-imposed mourning hiatus and finish one more year of food shows. My father requested my presence as one of his conditions of returning. As to the network executives I am on intern probation, shaky at best. They’ll have the professionals produce the actual cooking program in the studio with a fake set of the Dayne home kitchen. I have been relegated to shoot the B-roll footage of Jeffrey’s travels, tape color background, record Jeffrey’s comments for voice-overs. I alone am the walking everywoman of the food show documentary.
Here’s the quick history. Their ground-breaking cookbook, States of Epicurean Delights, came first. Those in food show television ratings, those advertising revenue number crunchers, took one look at Dad and Mom’s photo staged in their suburbanite kitchen and said, “Let’s make a show about and around these two upward and mobile traveling bon vivants.” The show’s substance of recipes hit a chord of public interest, extolling foods from different geographical locales (as in various ‘States’). The first season hit high marks, gained top reviews, viewers seeing beyond food prep, enjoying the fun-loving chemistry between the stars. Their Nielsen television ranking and viewer demographics insured a continued run. The television producers rushed out a second cookbook, adding show recipes and higher resolution color photos of food presentation. In negotiations, and under Jeffrey’s legal eye, the new book was ordained, Insatiable: Further States of Epicurean Delights. Sadly, though the book’s first edition press run and literary launch were a success, the only photo on the back inside flap was Jeffrey’s somber pose, the book dedication to his departed wife, my mother. I never bought a copy, though he did send me one, and thank God, not autographed. For as much as I saw him during her final year, an inscription to me would make me more the stranger, yet appropriate and well deserved.
The Hawaiian gig will be his return to the culinary world of good eats and fine dining. I assume he bears self-doubt if he can do this traveling without his TV partner, the stalwart, sensible Elizabeth, taken from us by the cruel, goddamn scourge called ovarian cancer. My invitation to join this pilgrimage sparks of Freudian nuances. Several of Mom’s features carried into my looks: curly hair and scattered cheek freckles, matching brownish-red hair, posed on facial bone structure, more rectangular than round. My body, proportioned well enough, certainly not a beanpole as I have daily fights against adhering ounces of body fat. Other similarities were in our speech and mannerisms. We flipped our hair alike, using head throws instead of hand flings. We both used the word ‘exactly’ for agreeing emphasis, and if in dispute, most invariably got in the last word. Whatever. That’s his problem. Trying to recapture her memories I would make a bad ghost for him.
I signed on, in retrospect, because I was an unemployed media school graduate with several years of bumming through boring assistant to the assistant director of home-spun corny used auto commercials, and more so, I had one parent left and had not done a very good job in being the loving, caring daughter. Or, maybe it’s this internal drive, the female chauvinist out to show up the production side of the entertainment industry. I want to someday be a damn fine producer. Doing a few segments of a nationally televised food show, even if a second unit for the color filler, would still be a highlight in my resume reel. I’ll do this trip, maybe another, then shop my talents to Hollywood. Kick open doors. Shove Spielberg and Scorcese aside.
Chapter 5
The Grotto
Within an hour of my arrival, after unpacking, bathing and primping, refreshed, though jet-lagged, I stood naked in front of a full-length closet mirror.
I wondered aloud. “Is this the body that could launch a thousand war canoes?” I gave myself credit for being shaped and toned. Lugging camera equipment and incremental jogging in wet Santa Monica beach sands gave me stamina and a hard-body physique. Okay, I feared the worst. I feared premature butt sag, and lately my food intake had gone more toward fast Mac-attack than gourmet. That was my secret life. I did not yet appreciate my father’s food creation as art, or morsel-tasting as sensual emotion.
My outfit for the afternoon had me looking like a jungle explorer. My straw hat went over a head scarf wrap to keep sweat out of my eyes and the camera lenses. My ensemble included tan shorts and well-worn tennis shoes. For beach attire, I would have gone braless and bounced, small bounces but as this luncheon meant work, expected filming, a sports bra served the purpose of not letting the camera straps rub my nipples raw. Three jostling straps to be exact: the video equipment bag, the sound case, and for still shots, my trusty digital Nikon D80. I had brought three still cameras: my Dad’s old Pentax with archaic 35 mm film, shooting 100 ASA for bright sun, an heirloom with good memories; the before mentioned Nikon; and a pocket digital, prepped and ready for any fast draw action.
A walking studio, I traipsed down the path toward the grotto for our afternoon luncheon snack. At several points I paused and took quick background shots of the hotel grounds, the marina in the distance, and various jungle exotic flower species. My still camera photos would be available for a future cookbook as well as create the show’s story board and document the food journal diary. Prepared, though weighted down, I turned the corner, discovered a screen of pink-white oleanders and walked into the garden grotto. Beautiful. Serene. Like a Garden of Eden hidden within dark lava rock, a view of whitecaps on the ocean, a perfect day for filming. And someone was eating our lunch!!
