Beach Bad Boys Caterer Recalls Cooking For The Group, And The Wipeout After

In the early ‘70s, when Spokane was known for mining, logging, agriculture and unsophisticated palates, I was making food at my downtown restaurant that a young employee dubbed “down-home foreign.” Business grew steadily. Then, one day, a local concert promoter called and asked me to cater for the Beach Boys.

Naturally, I saw stars. It was the first time I’d ever catered, and it was for a nationally known rock group, even if they were past their peak. I got the nod because the Beach Boys were vegetarians at the time and the local promoter had eaten an all-vegetable moussaka at my restaurant, Moreland’s, and thought it wonderful. i

There were 10 Beach Boys, as I recall, and a few other musicians that I was to be responsible for serving. The promoter said the roadies were all “goons,” so they got tavern sandwiches; I needn’t worry about them.

The first test was meeting the national tour advance man. He looked at me and decided I couldn’t possibly know what I was doing. I looked at him and decided he was the roadies’ role model. We spoke essentially different languages, but we managed to strike a deal.

There were rules. The Beach Boys’ contract was specific about what they were to have. Besides the vegetarian entree, they wanted Uncle Dan’s dip with 10 carrot sticks, one sliced cucumber, five celery stalks and a bag of corn chips - no substitutions.

They specified spinach salad, whole-grain bread and chilled Pouilly-Fuisse. The food was to be arranged as a buffet in their private dining room at least 45 minutes before the Beach Boys were scheduled to arrive. They were not to be subjected to the presence of a lowly catering staff.

The day of the concert, my staff and I set to work. As I sculpted vegetables and carefully seasoned the moussaka, I imagined well-traveled sophisticates exclaiming, “I believe this is the best entree we’ve been served this tour!”

We exercised great care washing the spinach, determined to leave not a speck of sand. The carrot sticks were perfect, the bread hand-cut. We gathered china, silver and appropriate serving utensils and set out for the Coliseum.

I presented the bill to the advance goon. He took it, grunted a few times while he inspected it, reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out a fist-sized roll of bills. My first surprise was that a wad that size could have been in pants that tight. The second was he was going to pay me on the spot, in cash.

We proceeded to the private dining room, which turned out to be an athletes’ dressing room with dingy concrete walls and a floor complete with a drain in the middle. The buffet table might normally have been used for ping-pong.

We covered the table and carefully arranged the food, warmers and service. Knowing that dressing the salad prematurely would cause serious wilting by dinner time, we decided the Beach Boys must dress their own salad. After a final inspection to be sure everything was perfect, we disappeared.

I was not permitted to call for the catering materials until the concert had been over for at least half an hour. We passed the time watching the show, well to the back, behind all the standing teenagers. We waited through a meditation song, an ode to their guru, etc., until they got around to “I Get Around” and “She’ll have fun, fun, fun …” It was over, and we waited while all the teenagers left.

I was amazed and appalled at the arena floor. It was heavily littered with liquor bottles of all shapes and sizes, along with various other interesting sorts of trash. Shaking my head, I made my way backstage.

The arena floor was nothing compared to the “dining room.” There was spinach everywhere. The salad dressing container had not been opened. Relishes, chips, and dip had been flung around with abandon, along with a few bread balls. Only two or three of the stew bowls had had any food in them; the bulk of the moussaka still bubbled on the warmer. The wine bottles were empty.

The local contact assured me this was not an unusual sight. Nearly speechless, I gathered up my equipment. I had money in my pocket, they hadn’t thrown the china, and I didn’t have to clean up the mess.

MEMO: Billie Moreland, a Spokane food writer and consultant, will not be catering for the Beach Boys when they perform at The Festival at Sandpoint on July 27 and at The Gorge on July 29.