Thanks, but Isle Pass

On Sunday the Mermaids--Jenna, Annie and my daughter, Paige--are off to Oahu, The Gathering Place, to play water polo. Before they leave I suggest we go to a Hawaiian restaurant. Just for the heck of it.

The Mermaids, fresh from a workout at the pool, sit three across in the back seat of my car, their hair wet, towels wrapped around their waists like sarongs. They don’t respond to my invitation. Finally, Annie, the Mermaid in the middle--always in the middle--says, ‘Um, Dave, what exactly is Hawaiian food?”

I have to think about this. “You know, Annie, lomilomi. Kalua pig.” And then, after a long pause, “Spam rolls.”

All the Mermaids shriek at once. “Spam rolls! Yuck!”

“No, they’re great,” I lie, trying not to smile as I glance in the rearview mirror. “They put pineapple and avocado in some sushi rice, roll it up and put a big slab of Spam on top. You can buy them everywhere in Hawaii. Even at the gas station.”

“That’s gross,’ Annie says. “Besides, I don’t eat pork snouts.”

“Well, the restaurant probably doesn’t even serve Spam rolls,” I tell her, “except maybe as pupus. But they probably have sweet-and-sour pork. And tropical salads with mangoes and passion fruit.”

“I love passion fruit,” says Jenna, at 15 the oldest Mermaid and the most blond. “By my grandmother’s house you can pick all the passion fruit you want from along the side of the road.” Jenna’s grandmother lives in Kailua, on the north shore of the island.

“I’m not eating stuff off the road,” Annie says, frowning. Then, after a minute, she adds, “But I might try some Hawaiian food, as long as it’s not Spam.”

So a few days before their flight, the Three Mermaids dress in fresh sundresses and flip-flops, and I take them to the Royal Hawaiian in Laguna Beach, a pseudo-Polynesian restaurant on PCH that opened in 1947, 12 years before Hawaii became a state, 16 years before Walt Disney came up with the Enchanted Tiki Room and 38 years before any of the Mermaids was born.

Outside the Royal Hawaiian is a large tiki statue with red lightbulb eyes. All of the Mermaids rub the tiki for good luck.

Inside are walls decorated with grass mats and stiff starfish and old, idealized Polynesian paintings with lots of coconut trees and semi-naked fisherman throwing nets from outrigger canoes. There are little green ceramic tiki lamps on the tables and aquariums, full of yellow butterfly fish, everywhere.

The girls, enchanted, stare at the tropical fish swimming behind our table as our waitress, a middle-age woman in something vaguely resembling a Hawaiian dress, asks us if we’re ready to order.

I’ve looked at the menu, which seems rather heavy on steaks and such un-Hawaiian entrees as Icelandic cod fish and chips and Alaskan King crab legs, and ask her if there is anything a bit more island-oriented on the menu.

“Honey, nothing on the menu is really Hawaiian. Except the drinks.”

Hmmm. Well, that’s not quite true. Under appetizers there are Royal Hawaiian fajitas and an Aloha burger. And one of the beef entrees is called a Wiki Wiki steak (even if it is a petite New York.) Hmmmm.

Paige goes for the swordfish and Jenna orders the mahi-mahi, both of which at least have something to do with the sea (though for some reason the mahi is breaded and pan fried in oil), while I go for the most Hawaiian sounding item on the menu: Royal Hawaiian spareribs a la Moana. Annie, after much consideration, settles on the Wiki Wiki steak.

When our waitress brings the first course, Annie asks, “Is French onion soup Hawaiian, Dave?”

“Not really,” I tell her. “Unless maybe they make it with Maui onions.”

No such luck. Our best educated guess is that they throw a beef bouillon cube into a cup of hot water and toss in some chopped green onions and a single thick slice of raw onion and hope no one knows the difference between this and onion soup.

“You know,” I tell the Mermaids, trying to put a positive spin on things, “the Polynesians were colonized by the French, so maybe in 1947 when this place opened, they thought French onion soup was kind of Polynesian.” Jenna rolls her eyes. So do the other Mermaids.

Annie orders some Parmesan cheese bread and another Coke. I think about going for the house drink, the lapu lapu, but figure at $7.75 it must have some serious alcohol in it, so I ask for a beer. “One thing we do have is Hawaiian beer,” our waitress says brightly. A Pacifico will be fine, I tell her.

While we are waiting for our dinners, a woman comes by with a basket of leis. They smell fruity and look beautiful and if we were someplace on Oahu, The Gathering Place, I would happily buy one for each of the Mermaids. And then after dinner we would go for a walk along the beach and undoubtedly these little water sprites would kick off their flip-flops and run along the sand, giggling in the moonlight and I would sit on a lava rock feeling as if I were in the presence of the Three Graces.

But instead we are at a bit of a run-down Tiki Room in Laguna Beach, sans the talking parrots and the singing Birds of Paradise, and we are eating French onion soup and waiting for our New York steak and admiring the butterfly fish in the aquarium behind us.

The girls hurry through their dinners, eager to try one of the deserts like the coconut layer cake, but when we ask our waitress about it, she says, “We don’t have that.” Even though it’s on the menu. So we settle on a couple of slices of mud pie and Annie goes for the Pele, goddess of fire, after I tell her that it’s a flaming dessert and the house specialty.

A few minutes later our waitress comes out with a tiny little cup of vanilla ice cream with a flaming crouton on top. Very strange. Annie blows out the blue flame and pops the crouton in her mouth and then immediately spits it out. “Yuck!” she cries. “What is that?”

It’s probably rum, I tell her. You’re just not used to the taste. Annie frowns and shakes her head. We ask our waitress who tells us that they soak the bread cube in lemon extract.

Annie smiles at her. “Very Hawaiian, I’m sure,” she says.

The waitress just smiles and then turns on her heels and heads back to the kitchen. On our way out, Annie grabs a handful of mints and gives me one. “Thanks, Dave,” she says, giving me one of her big grins. “That was the best Hawaiian food I’ve ever had.” And then she whispers , “But I wish they’d had Spam rolls.”

Tuesday-Saturday, 5-10:30 p.m.; Sunday 4-9 p.m.

David Lansing’s column is published on Fridays in Orange County Calendar. His e-mail address is [email protected].