Throughout my childhood, my parents took my siblings and me to dinner at restaurants on a fairly regular basis. Part of the motivation, I’m sure, was to give my mother a break from cooking, but my parents also wanted to introduce us to the world of dining outside our home. It was important to them that we learn basic manners, how to behave in a restaurant, how to order from a menu, which fork was used for what, and how to pay for a meal. There were a few restaurants we frequented fairly often, including the New Tivoli in North Beach, the Riviera on Taraval Street, Westlake Joe’s in Daly City, and Sabella’s on Fisherman’s Wharf. I have wonderful memories of all these establishments.
Another place we would go to eat, though not as often, was the Claremont Hotel in the Berkeley hills. There was a restaurant there which served a buffet-style meal — salads, meats, fish, veggies, pasta, and, of course, mashed potatoes. There was a separate buffet-style dessert table against the wall. To be able to go back for a second helping of anything was quite a treat. The restaurant had a sliding-glass door to an outdoor patio which offered a spectacular view of the Bay Bridge and San Francisco. They even had a couple of those large binoculars which, for 25¢, would offer a closer view of The City. Venturing out onto that patio was a regular part of my post-meal adventures.
The Claremont Hotel became a place we would celebrate special events. When my maternal grandfather retired after a 44-year career at St. Elizabeth Hospital in The City, he treated us all to dinner with his first Social Security check. In later years, the Claremont was where we celebrated our 16th birthdays. One of these birthday celebrations stands out above all the others. Whether it was my brother Tom’s or my sister Cathy’s, I don’t recall. Either way, I would have been in sixth or seventh grade at the time.
What made this particular dinner so memorable was the unexpected treat of a performance by a group of Tahitian dancers. Apparently, the dance group was in the Bay Area for some events and stayed at the Claremont Hotel. Perhaps in exchange for a preferred room rate, they put on a performance in the restaurant the night we were there. The music, colors, drums, and energy were engaging. So, too, were the coconut-shell bras being worn by the women dancers.
At one point in their performance, the group took a break, so I ventured out onto the patio, as I often did. Much to my surprise, the Tahitian group was using an adjacent room as their dressing room — a room with windows looking out onto the patio. Yes, you guessed it. This young adolescent was treated to quite a sight as the dancers changed from their coconut shells to different attire for the next part of their performance.
I don’t recall having much interest in the 25¢ binoculars nor the breathtaking view of The City that evening. I found myself pleasantly distracted by our island visitors.
When I reflect back on this experience, I can’t help but think of the youthful innocence of those kids in the movie The Sandlot. Yeah, I was old enough to know better, but such opportunities were rare in my childhood, and I was awestruck.
I’m pretty sure I “forgot” to mention this incident to Father O’Shaughnessy in the confessional the following Saturday afternoon.
