One of my favorite restaurants in the Castro was South China Café. It wasn’t fancy, merely comfortable, warm and welcoming. One was greeted by Wayne Woo, or a member of his family, which had reportedly owned the restaurant since the early 1960s. Invited to sit down, I immediately checked to see if there was an empty booth. The floor-to-almost-ceiling walls of the wooden booths lining the restaurant’s two sides were coveted, at least by me. They provided cozy quiet and a modicum of privacy, always appreciated, especially on a date.
I don’t much remember the food, except that the standard Chinese dishes were tasty, copious and inexpensive. What I do remember are the plates. They were heavy, pink-rimmed and featured a caricature of a French chef standing atop the name “Robaire’s”. Immediately and incongruously I was transported to another place: South La Brea Avenue in Los Angeles, and another time: 1981.
My brand new boyfriend, Doug, had agreed to accompany me to Los Angeles for a momentous occasion. My grandmother’s younger sister had arrived unannounced from France, claiming she was being followed by a little green man with a horrible face. It was the first time the sisters had seen each other in nearly forty years. I had grown up with beloved grandmother whom I called Baba, and met her sister, Nane, who lived outside Paris, only a few times. After rendezvousing at Baba’s small studio apartment, we decided to go out to dinner.
A short while later the four of us were being ushered into Robaire’s. The large French restaurant’s big red leather booths dated from the 1940s, if not earlier. It was dimly lit, as if to suggest romance, but succeeded only in being campy. Along one wall a stereotypically Parisian street scene was painted. Trompe l’oeil windows opened onto wrought iron balconies with plastic geraniums. Only the Eiffel Tower was missing.
Because Nane had no teeth, ordering for her was a challenge. After some debate we ordered her mashed potatoes and cooked carrots. “Well cooked,” Baba emphasized. Doug and I insisted on wine, and the waiter quickly relaxed with this quirky quartet.
Baba broke the mood. “What are we going to do about her?”
“I don’t know,” I commiserated. “What can we do?”
Doug just shook his head and took a sip of his wine. Soon the meal arrived. All went well until I noticed that Nane wasn’t eating.
“What’s wrong, Nane? Don’t you like it?
“Les carottes ne sont pas bien cuites.” Nane complained about the consistency of the carrots. Just then the waiter returned to check on us. Before we grasped what was happening, Nane grabbed a carrot coin from her plate with her fingers and thrust it across the table toward the waiter. “Tiens!” she said, waiting for him to confirm her complaint. To our surprised amusement, the waiter took the proffered orange disk in his own fingers. The three of us were aghast. Then Doug and I burst out laughing. What could we do? Soon even Baba and the waiter had to smile. Nane failed to see the humor since, after all, it was her carrots that weren’t cooked enough for her to eat.
Nane eventually got enough of whatever she could eat, while Doug, Baba, and I continued sipping wine to get us through the unexpected evening.
As we left the restaurant, Baba quickly sobered. She remembered that Doug and I would be departing the next day, leaving her alone to deal with Nane. We discussed psychiatrists and dentists, but the thought of getting Nane to various appointments by bus or even taxi was daunting. Nane, dramatically inhaling the night air, remained unaware of the consternation she was causing.
The two sisters died two years later, within a few months of one another, one in Los Angeles and one outside Paris. That was likely their last dinner together. Robaire’s is long gone and so is South China Café. Doug and I remain great friends and we often reminisce about that memorable evening. I wonder whatever happened to those plates?
Jim Van Buskirk 