New Year's Eve Catering Hall "Riot" of 1973

In which the author describes working at a North Shore wedding factory…

    This catering hall has undergone several ownership changes since I was, rather strangely, called a “salad girl” when working there years ago*. The original owners had built it up from a clam shack in the 1930’s and as was often the case with folks who survived the Depression, were unwilling to invest money even when the situation desperately called for it.  That was why I was given a diluted bucket of ammonia and some old newspapers to clean the windows facing their million dollar harbor view, instead of hiring professional cleaners.  That frugality also led to the legendary dock collapse that sent a bride and groom plunging into the murky, muddy waters one warm June day.

     Those were the days of polyester halter dresses, groomsmen in electric blue tuxedos and wedding guests who danced the “hora” and “tarantella” as if they were the exact same dance.

      The hall had five rooms and the receptions were staggered. Usually we had about six weddings per weekend.  One room was called the “Cinderella Ball Room” and featured a giant pumpkin, in which the band played.  It was a favorite place for the mostly high school and college age staff to hang out and have, shall we say, meaningful conversations.

      Mixed marriages were often performed there, as a priest and rabbi would officiate together for a classic Long Island union.  One time this salad girl got in a bit of trouble for wearing a discarded hot pink yarmulke during a cocktail hour clean-up.

     Most of my time was spent making fruit cups with the requisite minimal amounts of mandarin oranges, pineapple shreds and one maraschino cherry. I was also supposed to jam butter into cups and make salad dressing out of ketchup and mayonnaise.  I seem to remember making salads out of cabbage and grated carrots with tiny bits of iceberg lettuce thrown on top. 

      During the post-reception cleanup I would load a tray with dozens of glasses and plates and then balance it on my shoulder.  The fun part would be handing it off to a busboy that would collapse because it was so heavy.  It was all in the weight distribution and we young girls were just expert at it.

     In those days people would gather in large groups for New Year’s Eve and dance and drink and “ring in” the New Year.  Everyone would kiss each other at the stroke of midnight.  Our place was sold out, and we thought we were ready.  There was plenty of alcohol, 5 bands and a full staff.   Unknown to the lower level workers at the time, it later appeared that the chef had vastly underestimated the amount of food needed for the full house.

     Hors’doevrs was prepared but not the main dishes.  We had serving trays and were supposed to circulate with them while guests sampled in a hopefully indifferent manner, leaving plenty for everyone.  However, after drinking and dancing for at least two hours they wanted more than a fried clam mixture in a tin-foil shell.  They wanted real meat and potatoes.

     This was long before any of the current food trends of “small plates”, tapas, local food or anything “artisanal.”  These folks in their thirties and forties who the staff thought of as “old” if not quite elderly, liked good old American, ( which also means  Italian) food. “Where are the meatballs, for God’s sake?”

     As often as possible I ventured out with another tray of Hors’doevrs and was mobbed/attacked/surrounded by and just ambushed by hungry guests.  I could barely get by one or two tables and was completely wiped out of food.  The other people started complaining that they weren’t getting their fair share, which was true.

     Back in the kitchen, our boys were madly slicing roast beef and slipping in the bloody juices on the floor.  At one point the chef sent a kid out for a box of instant potatoes.  It was a futile and empty gesture. He should have waved the white flag then and there.

     Two separate rooms of guests called the police who had no idea what to do. People were starting to demand their money back. There was pushing and shoving near the coat check and some shouting. The mood felt that there could be a food fight, but there was not enough food to throw. In an effort to placate everyone an open bar was declared which soothed some but riled others up. The bands kept everyone on the dance floor and finally it was midnight and people seemed to forget that they had paid for a certain quantity of mashed potatoes.

     Everyone staggered out fairly inebriated around two am.  For the first time in my life, as I fell into bed around 4am, I knew what it felt like to be too tired to sleep.  A life-long tradition of working that holiday persisted since as a teenager I babysat, then came the catering and finally the nursing. When people ask what I am doing for New Year’s my answer is always “Time and half, baby!”

     *It is now elegant and upscale where such goings on would never occur. Bummer.