Todd ‘n’ Sarah, the superheroes of weddings, had their third and final celebration a couple of weeks ago, just as you would hope, in a moody basement on a side street in Williamsburg. They asked me to cook up a mess of food in the Mid East vein–which to me means hella garlic, and that Turkish eggplant deeeeee-light, courtesy of Ciya, the super-delicious restaurant in Istanbul.

And for such a crowd, it also means Human Salad Bar.

It’s exactly what you think it is, people. (But not what you think it is, cannibal people.) To make your buffet dinner that much more appetizing, a yummy-looking human being is splayed out amid the cornucopia.

The Human Salad Bar is a gambit I learned from the late, great Barton Rouse, King of Terrace Flaming Club, to whom we all owe the simple yet essential wisdom of Food=Love. I feel like I should describe Barton in detail, but I’ve never tried–it’s hard. Handlebar mustache. Eyes full of glee, especially when saying, “I’m so proud [about the orgy].” Skinny, with checked chef’s pants flapping. Chain-smoking. Then just dipping, but hanging out with Chris in Jim’s room smoking joints and brainstorming party menus. Wallpapered office full of tattered cookbooks like White Trash Cooking. Writing out the menu board every day, mulling ecstatic adjectives and chalk colors. Advising Peter to trim his pubes–it makes your cock look huge. Making fun of the skim-milk-loving girls, who incidentally always had giant breasts. Generally teaching uptight college-age overachievers to get over themselves–perhaps with a dining-room floor full of raw chicken feet. And helping misfit college-age chain-smokers feel at home. He cared about us all so much. And we loved him for it.

Barton definitely rounded my sense of theatrical food presentation. Sure, when I was little we had a Halloween party where we made a corpse out of food (pasta salad for the guts), but Barton put a real, live person up there, covered in slices of deli meat or chocolate pudding (but Saran wrap first, of course–no one wants hair in their food). He pushed the cornucopia vision wherever possible–whether at home, which overflowed with wallpaper samples, tchotchkes and Pekingese dogs, or at a party, where there was always way too much cheese, booze, and Barbies stuck in theme cakes.

Anyway, there I was planning for Todd ‘n’ Sarah’s, and I realized…there was Karine, a veteran of these events. Here’s the proof:

That’s me on the left; Karine on the right. We’re both wrapped in colored Saran wrap (I don’t think they sell that anymore–too bad, as it was a great easy costume item), and I believe that’s Queen Helene Peppermint Mud Mask acting as pasties on our breasts. We’re mermaids, in case that’s not clear, and there’s a raw bar that’s going to be set up in front of us.

So Karine, it’s like I only have to mention I’m catering this party and that it’s kind of a costume-y crowd, and I swear she volunteers to be the HSB. OK, maybe I propose it, but we’re definitely on the same page. The best part is that really, all I have to say to her is “Cleopatra’s Barge,” and she’s on the case, costume-wise. Some people need a little more micro-management when they go shopping the post-Halloween sales at Ricky’s, but Karine has it all under control.

Tamara is my lovely assistant that day, and Karine shows up around 5pm, and gamely chops up cabbage and pops seeds out of pomegranates, for, like, 800 famished diners. (When, oh when will I be able to look at a cabbage and realize that it takes a good 20 people to eat one, especially when there are ten other dishes on the buffet?)

But soon she dashes off to effect the transformation. Tamara does the eyeliner. We arrive with the food; Karine is wearing a trenchcoat. Guests are champing at the bit, fondling their plates and asking what the food is–it’s like a freakin’ yard sale, where people are bargaining with you before you even wake up. But food cannot be served until the HSB is in place. Et voila:

Classy, right? She’s even got an asp on her breast.

What the heck, here’s another angle:

Karine is probably the best person for this job, and I’m not just talking about her svelte figure and willingness to wear nothing in public. She’s also extremely stoic about pain induced by lying in one position for a long stretch, and she’s pleasant to strangers–she was happy to distinguish the meat and the veggie versions of the eggplant stew for the guests.

But after everyone had eaten, and Tamara had fed Karine a few dates soaked in Jack Daniel’s, the HSB could just chill a little…

(That’s Sean K. jammin’ on the laptop in the background. Cleopatra’s Pleasure Barge never sounded so good.)

Tamara was so inspired by the pasties that she wore them (I mean, a brand-new set–Karine tore hers off and tossed them out the car window when we were going over the Williamsburg bridge) just a couple of days later, to a big benefit for The Moth.

And oh yeah–the food (labneh with mint and garlic, hummus with lots of lemon, baba ghannoush, cabbage slaw with pomegranate seeds, The Eggplant Business, rice pilaf with currants and vermicelli, and some awesome Greek pitas from Poseidon) turned out deliciously, and I wasn’t so exhausted I wanted to cry when it was all over, which is a vast improvement over some of my previous ginormous catering endeavors. I think it was the love I felt Todd ‘n’ Sarah, a lovely couple if I ever saw one, and from cooking the rice over a restaurant-level flame at the kitchen where we staged the last prep phase. And of course, the love of Barton. When he sees a woman in pasties with some pomegranates balanced on her thighs, I know he comes running, from wherever he is.