Adventures In Fine Dining, Hawaiian Style

Hula In The Rain. Snacks In The Gas Station.

So off we go to the Old Lahaina Luau. Several people had told us that this one was top notch as far as these tourist events go. And from the outset, it seems like they're right. It's well organized, beautiful, and there's an open bar.

We immediately try to make up for the $90 fee by stress testing the open bar concept. And we wind up corrupting the woman from Fresno (shout out to you, Diane!) sharing our table. I'm not going to say we were blotto ... but they may have had to place service call on their frozen drink machine the next day.

So it's going swimmingly. Then it starts to sprinkle. "A little island rain," we tell ourselves. Immediately, there are six tourists behind us having a panic attack and grilling our server (shout out to you, Pua!) about the cancellation policy. We dismiss this handily and have another lava flow. (Frozen pina colada + rum-spiked strawberry swirl = Aloha!)

The wind picks up, and the Texas couple who rounded out our merry band disappear faster than you can say "stay the course." But they visibly blanched when we said we were from San Francisco, so good riddance to the Republicans.

Then. Well. How to describe it. Rain. Not the heaviest we've seen. But in the spotlights for the performance area, you can see it coming down horizontally. And then there's the wind. And our lava flows are quickly becoming soupy.

They bravely send out a couple of young women, who clearly lost the coin toss in the break room, to do an opening hula. In fairly nothing and smiling all the time with rain pelting them from every side. These women clearly came from the Rockettes' "smile even when you're wearing nothing in inclement weather" school.

There are throngs of soaked aloha shirts heading for the exits at this point. Emboldened by the rum, we vow to stick it out come hell or high water.

The two young women hobble off the stage ... still smiling, God bless 'em ... and the announcement comes that they're cancelling.

We're drunk, soaked to the bone and starving at 6:30 p.m. But it was a great night. (And we returned the next day without incident. Except for the two couples who shared our table were terrified of us. Seriously. The man next to Don jumped out of his seat when Don reached for the coffee creamer. Calm down, Mr. Cheney. It doesn't rub off on you that fast.)

We also went toward Hana to see some waterfalls. Lovely. But on the way back, I decided that the way to cure our car fatigue was to clear out the gas station of all of their Hawaiian snacks.

Now I have an adventurous palate. When given the chance, I prefer to hunt down and eat whatever the locals eat. Because I think it helps you understand where your backgrounds intersect and where they depart. And because sometimes you should break out of your little mold and see what you can discover.

I'm not going to say that all Hawaiians are feasting on "Kamaaina Snacks." At least I hope not. But clearly some are, because the Shell gas station had a whole shelf full of the stuff ... so someone other than curious tourists must be consuming it.

And my condolences to them. I give a little description of each in the photos. But good God, man. They're horrible. The salt factor alone was more than any human's blood pressure can withstand. And the lemon peels taste like the dried out part of a lemon-scented Airwick that got kicked behind your grandmother's night stand.

Foul. Foul, foul, foul. But they make a mean mahi mahi. So all is forgiven.

---

---