Valentine's Day Dinner at the castle was dreamy. Twenty-four people, twelve tables of two surrounding the grand, candles and roses and nice people listening and being romantic, and, well, it gave me faith in the traditions of love. Musically, it was intense. My gigs almost always fall into one of two categories. Either they are background music gigs, or concerts. This job was right smack in the middle. I played four hours, standard length for a background gig, but the vibe was a lot more like a concert. I played two sets of covers and two sets of originals, all of it borderline lovey-dovey to match the occasion. 

So, that was the dinner. Bit of pressure, but I was happy and buzzed when it was over. The Taittenger Rosé may have helped.

Now I shall backtrack to the VD lunch, which I played at the castle earlier on the same day. Not as upscale as the dinner, but still pretty high-fallutin': Two hour gig, accompanying a champagne three-course lunch in the French Brasserie. 

Lots of middle-aged couples—women with puffy hair, red sweaters, and high expectations of getting a piece of jewelry, accompanied by men with thinning hair, red ties, and a craving for beer instead of champagne. Several senior couples topped off the crowd, including Frau and Herr Severins, who are in their nineties and still manage to show up at the castle once a month. For them, each day really is Valentine's Day.

We were cruising along at a nice champagne lunch tempo when the manager informed me that one of our regulars, a world famous porn queen named Buttercup Blondeau, would be joining us at any moment.

 

Now, Buttercup is one of those porn people who is on the radar of most German citizens—she has broken out of the porn box and appears regularly on talk shows as a celebrity guest.

"On Valentine's Day?" I said. I knew something was intrinsically wrong with this, but I couldn't figure out what it was.

"She's coming with a date," said the manager. "She's in love. Look! He has a rose waiting for her on the table." I glanced over at the one empty table in the restaurant.

"Here she is now," said the manager.

Well. Buttercup Blondeau the porn queen, giving Ginger a run for her money, posed in the restaurant's entrance like she was waiting for a team of waiters to carry her to he table. Had she stood there a second longer, I'm sure they would have complied. Ms. Blondeau, who has the most fabulous body imaginable—a waist the circumference of a coffee cup— was poured into a black cashmere mini dress cut down to here and up to there. Legs to the sky, aided by a pair of six inch heels. She had porn queen bed-head platinum hair, but you know, you can't get every detail right.

I held my breath as she entered the room, realizing that I was playing "Can You Feel the Love Tonight?" not necessarily the most appropriate choice for the star of a film called "Pass the Butter."

Aside from the piano music, the room shifted into silent mode. Really, I couldn't even hear a fork clink on a plate. The men were staring at Buttercup. The women were glaring at the men. Buttercup's date scurried behind her and, right before she slid into her seat, he kissed her—I mean REALLY kissed her—while grabbing her behind. It was at this point, playing in the key of D, I hit an F natural instead of an F#.

The room began to breathe again, but I could sense people looking sideways at Buttercup and her date. Heck, I was even doing it myself. You can't NOT look. Later, the happy couple got up to visit the dessert buffet just as Herr and Frau Severins were leaving.

"Auf Wiedersehen Frau Goldsby!" said Frau Severins to me as she passed the piano. "Interesting crowd you have here today."

I turned to answer her but she was bustling to catch up with her husband, who was stopped dead in his tracks, staring at Buttercup and the Date, who were making out like teenagers right in front of the creme brulée section of the dessert table. The Date was groping Buttercup's bottom (I mean, really, who could blame him) and she was leaning over, dangerously close to spilling unnamed body parts into the chocolate mousse. Not that I've ever watched a porn film—who, me?— but I could well imagine that the scene I was witnessing looked a lot like something straight out of Buttercup Takes Berlin. 

Poor Herr Severins had to be dragged out of the Brasserie by his wife. Buttercup and the Date calmed down and went back to their table. I played "Fly Me to the Moon" and called it a day. 

*********

Note: Buttercup is not her real name. But trust me, her real name is just as, uh, creative.