Tales of the City 04 - Babycakes

reported a rush on Union Jacks, while no less than three bars in the Castro had set about the task of organizing “Betty Windsor” look-alike contests.
All this and more had been painstakingly documented by Mary Ann Singleton—and a thousand reporters like her—in the grueling days that preceded the royal visit. Mary Ann’s own quest for queenly minutiae had led her from tearooms on Maiden Lane to Irish bars in North Beach to storefront bakeries in the Avenues where rosy-cheeked Chicanas made steak-and-kidney pies for “Olde English” restaurants.
It was little wonder that Her Majesty’s actual arrival had come as both a profound relief and a disappointing anticlimax. Tormented by the incessant rain, Mary Ann and her cameraman had waited for almost an hour outside the St. Francis, only to discover (after the fact) that the royal limousine had ducked discreetly into the hotel’s underground parking garage.
Mary Ann salvaged the story as best she could, telecasting a live report from the entrance to the garage, then dragged herself home to 28 Barbary Lane, where she kicked off her shoes, lit a joint and phoned her husband at work.
They made a date to see Gandhi later that night.
She was warming up a leftover pot roast when the phone rang.
“ ’Lo,” she muttered, through a mouthful of cold roast.
“Mary Ann?” It was the crisp, patrician voice of DeDe Halcyon Day.
“Hi,” said Mary Ann. “Don’t mind me. I’m eating myself into oblivion.”
DeDe laughed. “I saw your newscast on Bay Window.”
“Great,” said Mary Ann ruefully. “Pretty insightful, huh? I figure it’s all over but the Emmy.”
“Now, now. You did just fine.”
“Right.”
“And we all loved your hat. It was much prettier than the mayor’s. Even Mother said so.”
Mary Ann made a face for no one’s benefit but her own. That goddamn hat was the first hat she had worn in years, and she had bought it specifically for the royal visit. “I’m glad you enjoyed it,” she said blandly. “I thought it might have been a bit much for a parking garage.”
“Look,” said DeDe, “why aren’t you down here? I thought for sure you would be.”
“Down where? Hillsborough?”
DeDe uttered an exasperated little sigh. “Trader Vic’s, of course.”
Most rich people are annoying, Mary Ann decided, not because they are different but because they pretend not to notice the difference. “DeDe,” she said as calmly as possible, “Trader Vic’s is not exactly a hangout of mine.”
“Well, O.K., but … don’t you want to see her?”
“See who?”
“The Queen, you ninny.”
“The Queen is al Trader c’s?” This was making no sense whatsoever.
“Wait a minute,” said DeDe. “You didn’t know?”
“DeDe, for God’s sake! Is she there?”
“Not yet. But she’s on her way. I thought for certain the station would’ve told you….”
“Are you sure?”
“Somebody’s sure. The streets are crawling with cops, and the Captain’s Cabin looks like opening night at the opera. Look, Vita Keating told Mother, and Vita heard it from Denise Hale, so it must be the truth,”
Mary Ann’s disbelief lingered like an anesthetic. “I didn’t think the Queen ever went to restaurants.”
“She doesn’t,” DeDe laughed. “Vita says this is her first time in seventeen years!”
“God,” said Mary Ann.
“Anyway,” DeDe added, “we’ve got a ringside seat. I’m here with Mother and D’or and the kids, and we’d love for you to join us. You and Brian, that is.”
“He’s at work,” replied Mary Ann, “but I’d love to come.”
“Good.”
“Are there other reporters, DeDe? Do you see any television people?”
“Nope. If you haul ass, she’s all yours.”
Mary Ann let out a whoop. “You’re an angel, DeDe! I’ll be there as soon as I can grab a cab!”
Seconds after hanging up, she phoned the station and alerted the news director. He was understandably skeptical, but assured her that a crew would be dispatched immediately. Then she called a cab, fixed her face, strapped her shoes back on, and scrawled a hasty note to Brian.
She was striding through the leafy canyon of Barbary Lane when she realized what she had forgotten. “Shit,” she muttered, hesitating only slightly before running back home to get her hat.
As she climbed from the cab at the entrance to Cosmo Place, she marveled anew at the enduring mystique of Trader Vic’s. When all was said and done, this oh-so-fashionable Polynesian restaurant was really only a