Jon is discreet

Also soon to come... The story of Jon's goat killing safari in Tanzania.

Very early in my career, a client of mine bought a beautiful beachfront house in New Smyrna Beach, about twenty minutes from Daytona on Florida’s east coast. I was contracted to cater her house-warming party and provide food and drinks for thirty to forty people. I included my friend (and then business partner), Jon, on the gig. Jon is an analytical to the extreme. He is the consummate bean-counter. A managerial accountant who thrives on details. Someone who deals with all of the red tape that I am intolerant of. I wanted him to help me in the kitchen. I am trying to help him better understand the culinary underworld. I have also hired out a bartender and a few servers, stealing them away from their weekend schedules at restaurants that I used to work for.

This event is carte blanch. A very affluent couple who spares no expense at impressing their wealthy cronies. With no doubt there will be expensive wine to be had, cocaine trails on the bathroom counter, casual sex in the basement, and other varied acts of debauchery and lascivious behavior which frequently occur at parties of this calibre.

The ‘spoon tree’ is also to make an introductory appearance. The spoon tree was built by Jon who is an amazing craftsman and wood snob. This party will be it’s trial run. I pushed it on the host like a used car salesman pushes an extended warranty. It is a series of concentrical circles of cedar wood with grooves cut into the sides of each circle. Three hundred spoons fit into the grooves and are loaded with different appetizing nibbles, desserts, hors d’oeuvres, aphrodisiacs, drugs, whatever. Seven circles, about 3/4” thick, are stacked on pillars. Picture a red cedar wedding cake about three feet tall and four feet wide at the base. It’s value as a conversation piece is monumental. The idea is to pull a spoon from the tree, eat what is on it, then discard it in the provided bin. No plates. No mess.

We are building a sushi and sashimi spread on a mirror roughly three feet wide and six feet long. And we will send out about ten different appetizers intermittently over three hours. We will have a working, open kitchen during the party.
It is going to be overdone. The kitchen will be a beehive of activity. It will be breakneck intense preparation for about eight solid hours. We will either shit or shine. Jon is a nervous wreck. He is much more comfortable analyzing my budget and putting structure to my chaos than he is trying to devein prawns at the pace in which I have instructed him to. He is sweating profusely. He is shaking with nervous energy. His face is red. Not red like an embarrassed child. But patchy red like the alcoholics working the counters of your local ABC liquor stores. I’m not nervous. I am edgy. But somehow or another I always pull this type of shit off. I know it will work. So watching Jon is fun for me in a sort of sadistic, barbarous way. I occasionally fuel it a bit as well. I am in constant communication with him while working at my own frenzied pace. “How long prawns?” “Jon, I need prawns in five or we are going to crash and burn.” “Jon, where’s my fucking prawns already?!”
When my prawns are done I tell Jon to start assembling the spoon tree. I am decorating the sushi mirror with dragonfruit, banana flowers, and some funky greens that I found in a Chinese grocery store. I am feeling like a pimp. I have snapper, octopus, and two sorts of tuna sashimi; three different types of caviar; lobster, prawns, local blue crabs, and an untold variety of nori rolls all lined up. The wasabi is molded into a giant green Buddah and sits as the centerpiece. I decide that the sushi spread should be brought out towards the end of the night. People tend to be a bit more adventurous with food after putting down a few glasses of wine. My barman Tom does a good job getting people loose so hopefully we will bring the timid eaters out of their shells and put a bit of daredevil in them tonight. Besides, the owner is seriously questioning my octopus sashimi idea. “You’re not going to serve that are you? Nobody will eat it.” What I wanted to say was, “you just paid $90 for it so we should at least try.”

Jon has spent two incessant weeks building the tree. It was a Herculean effort in a very limited time frame. We had to buy and express ship the spoons two days prior to the event. You could sense his pride in the piece when he spoke about it. And it truly is an aesthetically arresting piece of work. Every single attribute was dutifully measured down to the millimeter. Every faint blemish in the wood methodically sanded out and beautifully finished. Every aspect of its design was given meticulous attention to detail. And for those reasons I went slack-jaw when Jon walked into the kitchen white-faced and stuttered out “the spoons won’t stay in the tree”.

“What the fuck are you talking about? Why?”

“The groove isn’t deep enough. They are falling out.”

I can’t be asked to listen to this. “Make it work, Jon. Go back in there and make the damned thing work.”
I thought Jon might cry. I wanted to cry. I just dropped seven hundred dollars on spoon tree construction. I pulled used car salesman tactics to get it to this party. The owner was finally enthusiastic about it, if not enthralled. And now that it is Go Time the tree is rejecting the spoons.

Jon returns.

“Can we tape it?”

“Are you shitting me? Tape?” I go into the living room to survey the situation. The spoons are sticking out of the tree at various irregular angles and are very insecure and unstable. I have a vision already of some maladroit drunken oaf trying to dance the macarena, bumping into my spoon tree, and sending twenty spoonfuls or so of escargot and soy-marinated tuna down the front of the brand new Versace cocktail dress that Ms. Stedman had just bought so she could show off her new fake tits at this ritzy soiree.

We try a few different approaches and figure that the spoons are most secure if we put them in the tree at a 45 degree angle. It levels them out as well. I even think they look better at an angle. All appears to be working out alright but the stress (and maybe the Red Bulls that he has been slugging) has triggered a shit in Jon.
He asks me where the restroom is a I tell him that it is right near the front door. We finish adorning the tree and head back to the kitchen.

Company is starting to arrive and the kitchen is fully engaged. Six burners are going with sauces or reductions, blanching water, stock for cooking prawns, ostrich stuffing for mushrooms, etc. The oven is fired and loaded with various pans. Jon is now whipping egg yolks for a mousse, his whisk moving at the pace of a Cessna propellor. His chef whites are already completely fucked up. He will eventually go through three jackets. Everything is on pace. A selection of cheeses with quince paste, olives, sun-dried tomatoes, and lavash crackers is served on a Boos block. Guests are oogling at the spoon tree and asking questions.

Jon asks me again about the restroom.

“It is right there, bro. By the front door.”

“Do you know if there is another one?”

Now I see what is happening. And as I do the owner walks into the kitchen and offers me a glass of wine. Brilliant. “Yes, please.” And perfect timing, I might also add. Then Jon drops an abominable bomb of a question on her.
“Excuse me, ma’am. Is there a restroom that I might be able to use?”

“Sure dear. It’s right by the front door.”

“Yes, ma’am. But perhaps you have one that is a bit more . . . discreet.”

I wish I could convey the look on this woman’s face before she sent Jon downstairs to the kids restroom. I also wish I could convey to you the look on my face. And Jon’s for that matter. The host left to get my wine. Jon left to ruin her bathroom. And I had to leave the kitchen. Six burners running. Shit in the oven. I was in hysterics. I went out the front door and around the side of the house and howled with laughter. I was crying. I was horse laughing. Uncontrollable, stomach pains, laughter.

I have never heard, nor will I ever, someone tell another person in so little words and such polite fashion: “I am going to fucking destroy your bathroom. I am going to raze it. It will be leveled. And the heinous stench that follows this devastation will be so vile and evil that Satan himself will wince in horror and shudder in repugnance. It will be distasteful. Nauseating. Messy. And shameful. Now point me to the proper shitter so that I might not offend your guests.”

When I finally could regain composure, which wasn’t soon, I returned to the kitchen. Jon was already back. My wine was waiting. I had a few sips. Nice wine by the way. It went surprisingly well with the vodka and tonic that Tom already had stashed away for me. A few more sips and then . . . I started laughing again. Out loud and without control. I was wondering about what sort of surveying looks were exchanged between Jon and our host when she returned with my wine and he returned from the ruination of her bathroom. Jon thought I went outside and got stoned off my tits.
It was all I could do to regain composure. Jon was peeling garlic and still operating at a feverish pace and sweating bullets. He looked flustered and nervous.

“Jon.”

“What?”

“Do me a favor. Go talk to Tom. Get yourself a glass of scotch or something. You need to relax.”
“Alright. How are we doing on time?”

“We’re fine Jon. Everything is working according to plan. We are going to look good and we are going to make the host look good. 100%. Go talk to Tom. Ok?”

“Ok.”

“Oh, and Jon . . .”

“What?”

“Be discreet.”

I was in hysterics again. Now he understood what I was laughing at.

More and more people are starting to arrive and things are in full swing. So far the party is a smashing success. People have formed a circle around the spoon tree. Others are gathered around the kitchen watching our dog and pony show. The sushi is being devoured. I joke with the host because the octopus sashimi has all been eaten. And then Christy, one of the servers I stole for the day, whispers in my ear, “Dude. Either that guy is hung like a fucking mule or he is chaffing like a motherfucker!”. I look up to see that she is talking about Jon.
Jon is still moving at full-tilt but he is now waddling around the kitchen like some sort of crazed Emperor penguin fleeing the pursuit of a hungry polar bear. I whisper back to Christy, “I hear that he is hung like a sonofabitch! When you get a minute can you get me a beer from Tom?” She smiles back. I had to throw him a bit of a bone. He is my friend after all. I finish my vodka tonic which is now watery and flat.

Rummaging through the host’s cupboards I find her cornstarch and then I motion for Jon. This is an age old trick that I picked up at an upscale Mediterranean seafood restaurant in Winter Park, Florida. When Jon comes over I hand him the cornstarch and give him the recipe for relief. “Take this to the bathroom that you violated earlier and dump a bunch of it down your pants. Don’t get it on your pants though. And clean it off the floor. Remember, you’re not socially inept. So be discreet.” He laughs and nods and when the coast is clear he heads towards his comfort station.
The party carried on until the early morning. We all booked a room overlooking the beach for the night and smoked some Montecristos once the party winded down. The host set me up with a tin of Iranian caviar for our bagels in the morning. We woke up on the beach, went to Coconuts for bloody marys, or “bloody breakfasts” for those of you in the know. And Jon caught a glimpse of what life in the culinary world was like. I would later get stressed out and suffer panic attacks when he explained and analyzed the event down to the cost of the gas in getting us there.