“Okay, Li-ka-kay.”
“Gee, that’s the first time you’ve said my name right. You stick around long enough, and you’ll be a real Hawaiian!”
“What’s your name in English, Li?” Biff asked.
“Richard.”
“Okay, Dick—let’s go.”
The luau was being held in the garden in the rear of the Mahenilis’ home. Under gaily striped awnings, long tables had been set up. They were decorated with fragrant-smelling ferns, flowers, pineapples and bananas.
At each place setting, there had been placed a niu, a coconut with its top slashed off, still containing the wai niu, or coconut water, which would be sipped with the meal.
Hank Mahenili stood over the lua—the hole Biff and Li had dug earlier in the day—making sure that the puaa was done to a turn. A luau isn’t the real thing without a roast pig.
“All ready, everyone,” Hank called out, and started cutting pieces of the pig. The meat was so tender it fell apart. Hank placed the meat on ti leaves, and servants carried it to the tables.
“What a meal!” Biff said, finding his place beside Li. “Never saw so much food.”