hour. The custom of offering bite-size morsels known as Dim Sum started in teahouses in China as a prelunch thing. But we were rather nonconformist in our food tastes at the Sweet and Sour Club.
Dim Sum was a popular treat, and the players looked up from their hands and chattered with excitement when they spotted Holly and her cart.
Dubin was the sort of man who fully enjoyed himself at his own events. Seated at the game table, he found Holly’sexposed waistline was but a foot or so from his nose.
“Do you know,” I heard him whispering up to her, “what Dim Sum means?”
Not a thing escaped Quita’s notice. She was also listening to this exchange.
“To your heart’s delight,” she answered.
“Ah.” Dubin winked at her.
On Holly’s cart, the traditional round metal containers, about five inches in diameter, towered up in neat stacks. A series of small holes, top and bottom, allowed the cart’s steam to pass through the tins and keep the fresh Dim Sum piping hot while they were delivered to all the diners.
Tonight, Holly’s tiny metal pans were filled with Shrimp Har Gow. These pinkish dumplings, packed four to a tin, contained the freshest plump shrimp wrapped in tender wonton skins so thin they were virtually transparent. Holly was also offering homemade Shu Mei, steamed dumplings made with spicy ground pork. Another stack of tins contained triangular packets of Sticky Rice wrapped in Lotus Leaves. In addition to the Dim Sum, Holly also offered guests a trio of tasty dipping sauces.
As we had figured, the mah-jongg players were ready to take a break in the action. Holly slowly pushed her cart, serving each table, as the S & S clubbers finished up hands in progress and cleared their tables in order to sample the Dim Sum.
Big cities with large Asian populations, like Los Angeles, were full of great choices to eat excellent Dim Sum. Chinatown and the eastern suburb of Monterey Park offered numerous noisy, happy Dim Sum palaces. There, at ABC Seafood or Ocean Star Seafood, women who still spoke heavily accented English pushed tiny Dim Sum carts between the tables, offering freshly cooked treats to each table as they passed by. Tonight, Holly did her best to keep up that fine tradition.
Steam coming from the wheeled cart wafted up as Holly pushed it around the room. Her face had turned slightly red. Her pale hair, I’m afraid, under the onslaught of humidity, had reverted to its natural stick-straightness. Alas, servingDim Sum is not a glamorous profession.
I winked at Holly. She didn’t notice. Instead, she stole a few seconds to blow her bangs back up off her sweaty brow.
As I moved around the room, following Holly’s path, serving the dipping sauces and helping Ray pass out plates and chopsticks, I noticed the gamers’ reaction to our little “heart’s delights.” There were comments on this one, and compliments on that one. The Turnip Cake was admired and sampled, as each of the evening’s players listened to the story of its portent of good fortune. All in all, a successful event.
I moved to the back of the room to help clear up some empty metal Dim Sum tins. As I approached a far table, I couldn’t help but overhear a conversation between Verushka and a man I hadn’t met before. He looked to be in his midthirties, which of course meant he was probably closer to forty-five, using Hollywood math.
I guess I had half expected to overhear some additional raves over the evening’s cuisine. The man, wearing black everything, bent his head close to Verushka, and said, “Okay. Just get it back to me, right?”
“You know I’m good for it,” she said, and then looked up with a start, noticing at last that I was standing there.
My eyes, however, were instantly focused on a twentysomething couple. Kelli, the daughter of that Channel 2 news anchorman, and Bo, the beach volleyball champion who did all those Miller commercials. Their passion was, uh, aflame. They were, in fact, making out with
Dim Sum was a popular treat, and the players looked up from their hands and chattered with excitement when they spotted Holly and her cart.
Dubin was the sort of man who fully enjoyed himself at his own events. Seated at the game table, he found Holly’sexposed waistline was but a foot or so from his nose.
“Do you know,” I heard him whispering up to her, “what Dim Sum means?”
Not a thing escaped Quita’s notice. She was also listening to this exchange.
“To your heart’s delight,” she answered.
“Ah.” Dubin winked at her.
On Holly’s cart, the traditional round metal containers, about five inches in diameter, towered up in neat stacks. A series of small holes, top and bottom, allowed the cart’s steam to pass through the tins and keep the fresh Dim Sum piping hot while they were delivered to all the diners.
Tonight, Holly’s tiny metal pans were filled with Shrimp Har Gow. These pinkish dumplings, packed four to a tin, contained the freshest plump shrimp wrapped in tender wonton skins so thin they were virtually transparent. Holly was also offering homemade Shu Mei, steamed dumplings made with spicy ground pork. Another stack of tins contained triangular packets of Sticky Rice wrapped in Lotus Leaves. In addition to the Dim Sum, Holly also offered guests a trio of tasty dipping sauces.
As we had figured, the mah-jongg players were ready to take a break in the action. Holly slowly pushed her cart, serving each table, as the S & S clubbers finished up hands in progress and cleared their tables in order to sample the Dim Sum.
Big cities with large Asian populations, like Los Angeles, were full of great choices to eat excellent Dim Sum. Chinatown and the eastern suburb of Monterey Park offered numerous noisy, happy Dim Sum palaces. There, at ABC Seafood or Ocean Star Seafood, women who still spoke heavily accented English pushed tiny Dim Sum carts between the tables, offering freshly cooked treats to each table as they passed by. Tonight, Holly did her best to keep up that fine tradition.
Steam coming from the wheeled cart wafted up as Holly pushed it around the room. Her face had turned slightly red. Her pale hair, I’m afraid, under the onslaught of humidity, had reverted to its natural stick-straightness. Alas, servingDim Sum is not a glamorous profession.
I winked at Holly. She didn’t notice. Instead, she stole a few seconds to blow her bangs back up off her sweaty brow.
As I moved around the room, following Holly’s path, serving the dipping sauces and helping Ray pass out plates and chopsticks, I noticed the gamers’ reaction to our little “heart’s delights.” There were comments on this one, and compliments on that one. The Turnip Cake was admired and sampled, as each of the evening’s players listened to the story of its portent of good fortune. All in all, a successful event.
I moved to the back of the room to help clear up some empty metal Dim Sum tins. As I approached a far table, I couldn’t help but overhear a conversation between Verushka and a man I hadn’t met before. He looked to be in his midthirties, which of course meant he was probably closer to forty-five, using Hollywood math.
I guess I had half expected to overhear some additional raves over the evening’s cuisine. The man, wearing black everything, bent his head close to Verushka, and said, “Okay. Just get it back to me, right?”
“You know I’m good for it,” she said, and then looked up with a start, noticing at last that I was standing there.
My eyes, however, were instantly focused on a twentysomething couple. Kelli, the daughter of that Channel 2 news anchorman, and Bo, the beach volleyball champion who did all those Miller commercials. Their passion was, uh, aflame. They were, in fact, making out with
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