I’m standing on the boardwalk between teahouses, looking down at the koi glistening in the Honolulu sunset.

I am so thin that everyone thinks they’re being original by calling me Twiggy. This evening, we are celebrating my 8^th birthday at the Pagoda Restaurant.  August 3, 1967. We didn’t know it yet, but I would soon be diagnosed with a serious thyroid problem that was rare in kids. 

There were not enough calories to keep me unhungry.  I was never sated.  Never full. My metabolism was always on overdrive due to my hyperactive thyroid.

My father, a career Marine, had been transferred to the Marine base in Kaneohe.  We – my mother, brother, and I – joined him there in May.  We also didn’t know it yet, but my father would soon ship out for another year in Vietnam.  He had just gotten back from his first tour. By the time he left the Marine Corps, he had been through four combat tours.

But on the night of my 8^th birthday, we stood on the boardwalk of the Floating Pagoda Restaurant waiting for a table to open.  I was entranced by the fish, but hungry.  As usual.

I think this was my first experience with fine dining. It’s the first one I can remember. The open-air restaurant was all white tablecloths, glistening china, and cold ice water in the first goblets I’d ever seen. The Asian waitresses wore exquisitely embroidered kimonos that gleamed in the light. 

My father was finally back, and we were all together again.  I was so very happy.  I was a Daddy’s girl until the day he died at 79.

Once seated, we were presented with that day’s menu on a sturdy broadsheet of thick and luxurious linen paper.  The lettering was a fine cursive script, but I could make it out.  I no longer remember why, but I chose mahi mahi which is a kind of dolphin.  No, not those dolphins.  The genus. Or maybe the species. I don’t quite remember.

My mother questioned my choice, and my father said, “She can have what she wants.” 

While waiting for our food, I discovered the basket of crackers on the table.  This used to be a ubiquitous custom – every restaurant had them along with chilled pats of real butter. I don’t know when or where it started, but I was a fan of Fat Lady Crackers.  This is what my dad told me melba toast – a crunchy form of rye bread – was called.  I was embarrassingly old before I knew the real name for the delectable morsels.

I slathered butter on my Fat Lady Crackers and ate every single piece of melba toast in the basket.  Eventually, the waitress placed a plate of perfectly grilled fish dressed in a lemon butter sauce with wedges of island-grown lemons and sprigs of parsley.  There may have been almonds or if there was a nut garnish, it was more probably macadamia nuts. I’m sure there was a salad before this gorgeous entrée.  And I’m sure there had been side dishes, but I just remember the mahi mahi – a beautiful presentation on white china during a Hawaiian sunset.  The crisp linen napkin was carefully spread across my lap as I was shown how to do, and the island trade winds ruffled my hair. 

Our beautiful waitress, who looked like one of the geisha dolls for sale in the tourist shops, lit the table candle.

My dad teased me.  He said I was eating Flipper. That television show was popular and one of my very favorites.  I watched it faithfully each week on our black and white console television. It would be years before we bought a color television – long after everyone else had one. My dad was usually an early adopter of technology; I don’t know why color television took so long, except perhaps because we lived in brilliant technicolor.  Maybe our eyes needed a rest.

Anyway, I adored Flipper.

But if this was Flipper on my plate, it didn’t matter. The taste was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. Before this meal, I’d only ever had fish sticks.  Frozen, often freezer-burnt, but still a favorite. 

After this repast, I gave up fish sticks.  They were an insult to Flipper and fish everywhere.

I’m sure there was dessert.  It was my birthday, after all. 

Eventually, we were back in the car and headed from Honolulu to the windward side of the island to the Marine base where we lived.  We took the Pali – a highway that ran through the mountains – rather than the road hugging the coast. 

We didn’t have air conditioning in the car, or in our house for that matter.  The car windows were open, and the fragrances of the island filled the car. The air in Hawaii was magical.  It was the first thing everyone noticed when disembarking from the plane at Honolulu International Airport. The scent was that of a million blooming tropical plants and of the ubiquitous lei stands where garlands of flowers, usually plumeria or orchids, were handmade by the islanders and worn by islanders, locals, and tourists alike.  There were also the scents of the ocean and the lingering effects of hundreds and hundreds of tourists slathered in coconut suntan oil. All those fragrances mixed with that of the pineapple farms, ripening mangos on wild trees, and the incense burnt at the many Buddhist shrines.

Riding home in the dark, we were listening to the radio.  We had left the urbanity of Honolulu and were high in the mountains – the lights of people’s homes glowing in the neighborhoods lying in the valleys beneath us.   I heard Petula Clark sing “Downtown” for the first time – crystal clear and wafting on that fragrant and ethereal air. The lyrics seemed perfect for the night.

I don’t remember much after that. Due to the thyroid disorder, I was never sleepy either.  Nonetheless, I am sure I was bundled off to bed the moment we got home. I’m quite sure my dad said, “Give me a bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck.”  Those words were part of the lyrics of an old song, and he said them to me when I would lean in to kiss him goodnight.

Every night. 

I am also quite sure I went to sleep eventually feeling loved and safe.

I fell in love with fine food and the old school fine dining experience that night. Since then, I have enjoyed going out to dinner in establishments with thick carpet, soft lighting, white table clothes, and obsequious servers. I hate it that this sort of restaurant experience is now considered passé. I don’t want to sit in a restaurant listening to a television blaring some game or another. Or people walking across cement floors that echo and magnify every sound. Or stark lighting that does none of us any favors.

I want to wear a cocktail dress and ridiculous heels while sporting heavy eye-makeup and an inappropriate evening purse. Something with sequins or rhinestones. Or both. I want candlelight and a floor-standing ice bucket holding a bottle of champagne with a napkin wrapped around it.

Several years ago at Myrtle Beach, we went to my belated birthday dinner at The Library. It was like walking into a 1960s supper club. It was just luscious and we capped dinner off with crepes suzette prepared tableside. It was extravagant, expensive and well worth it. We had been there for hours, but weren’t ready to leave. We ended up being ushered through a secret hallway to the piano bar next door, where a grand piano was played by a talented guy in a tuxedo, and a bartender at the ready who could make anything.

I wish they’d bring back piano bars too.

This means I’m getting old. Right?

Right.