THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1996, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Monday, May 20, 1996 TAG: 9605190274
SECTION: DAILY BREAK PAGE: E1 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: BY STEPHEN HARRIMAN, STAFF WRITER
DATELINE: NEW KENT LENGTH: Long : 185 lines
AS FAST AS Herbert Williams and Roger Powe could unload things from the U-Haul truck - tables and chairs, ice chests and potted plants, even a ceiling fan - Lynda Mason, Theresa Moore and Sylvia Bonner were arranging it all under the shade of the twin-peaked tent.
These caterers from Norfolk had a reputation to defend here at The Races at Marengo, and they were behind schedule.
This was an example of what tailgating has become. No longer is it a picnic basket on the tailgate of an old ``woody'' station wagon. Tailgating, today's serious tailgating, is caterers working out of a truck large enough to move a small apartment. . . and out of the rear of an auxillary Grand Cherokee as well.
Before this breezeless, sunny Saturday had turned brutally hot, with humidity so heavy that it would knock horses to the ground, these caterers from It's All Good in Norfolk would transform a plot of grass along the racecourse's backstretch into a tailgate party showplace for Dr. Russell Carter of Virginia Beach and his guests.
If they got things just right, they would add another silver-plate trophy from the Tailgating Competition to their growing collection. Which would mean this group from South Hampton Roads would once again show this predominantly Richmond party crowd of more than 10,000 what tailgating is all about.
And tailgating, of course, is what steeplechase racing is all about. Well, mostly.
I asked a young woman journalist from Northern Virginia's horse country, who actually writes about horses, how many people here really cared about the horses. . . or even knew exactly when they were running one of the races. It's often difficult to hear the public-address announcer over the party chatter, you know, if it's a really good party.
Actually, I put it more succinctly than that. What I said was, ``Who cares?''
She guessed probably about 100. ``Mostly the people who own horses or train them or ride them.''
So, instead of cutting to the 'chase, let's stick with the caterers as they set up for Dr. Carter and his friends.
First the scene. In just four years, The Races at Marengo have become one of the premier social events on Richmond's spring social calendar - partly because it is held to benefit the Historic Richmond Foundation and partly because it has the corporate backing of many of the capital city's heavy hitters.
This is the place to be, and be seen, on a beautiful day in May.
What it is, is a big garden party on the sprawling grounds of a 19th-century estate on the Pamunkey River in New Kent County about 30 minutes east of Richmond. The present owners had a steeplechase course laid out over the rolling hills a few years ago, and the race was on. . . to party. The horses provide a very upscale backdrop.
It probably should go without saying that the competition, in the form of partying, is intense.
At the inaugural running of the races in 1993, Dr. Carter and his catering team had been first runner-up in the Tailgating Competition. After skipping in '94, they last year won both the grand prize and took first in a special category.
For that big winner, Mason planned a vegetarian-theme tailgate, and Dr. Carter sent out seed packets as invitations. Guests grew the plants and took them to the races. The tent setup was complete with a chandelier, festooned with lemons and artichokes.
This year, the theme was England. Anything England.
``We're having a Garden Tea Party,'' explained Moore. ``We're celebrating our return from the British West Indies.'' Which, I gather, explained the luggage, the four large pots of majesty palms and the potted ferns.
``It's a production, a major production,'' said Mason, who supervised the operation. Moore, her daughter, was in charge of the display. Bonner was responsible for the food presentation. Williams and Powe unloaded and moved tables and hung curtains and did whatever else needed to be done.
Certainly this was not a day-of-the-races thing.
``We started working on the idea the day after one of my daughters got married. That was March 30,'' Mason said, talking as she worked. ``Dr. Carter gave us the wrong theme at first. Then we got the right theme. We've been at it ever since.''
In addition to such touches as a bookshelf with travel books and a globe, and a wheeled tea caddie, there must have been upward of 100 pieces of silver plate: trays, ice and champagne buckets, punch bowl, tea service, mint julep cups that once belonged to an actual Kentucky colonel.
``I picked up most of this at flea markets and auctions,'' Moore said. ``That's my hobby. I got the mint julep cups at an estate sale.''
The layout was taking shape much more rapidly than I would have imagined. They got a late start, beginning about 10:15, because of a mixup at the entrance over tickets. Now they had been at it less than an hour, and the tent was being magically transformed.
Must take a lot of planning.
``Oh, yes, we run through this at home,'' Mason said. ``Trust me, the house is a mess.''
At 11:20, 65 minutes by my clock since the setup began, Williams and Powe rolled out an oriental-style carpet over the grass. It was done.
Dr. Carter, a retired surgeon, looked over the food layout on the tables covered with mock leopard skin and white linen lace doilies. It included:
Cucumber and radish tea sandwiches, smoked turkey muffins, deviled eggs with chives, English scones with jam, roast beef and herb butter, strawberries and powdered sugar, assorted tea cakes with lemon curd, Stilton cheese and crackers, cookies and tarts, and, to drink, tea, Bloody Marys and champagne.
At 11:24, a lady in a long yellow dress and a wide-brimmed black hat came by and said, ``I don't know who's in charge, but this is beautiful!''
``I don't know either,'' said Mason, smiling proudly. ``It's out of control.''
But of course it wasn't.
Two minuites later, a young man who had tailgated next to the Carter crowd last year dropped by. He was around the bend this year.
``We brought some wine but we forgot the corkscrew,'' he said. ``Y'all got one?''
Looking over the layout, he said, ``Y'all just keep the trophy. There's no contest.''
Four of the judges arrived. The decision would be up to them. Judging was based on food presentation, flowers - oh, I forgot to mention Dr. Carter's pink, white and purple larkspurs in white wicker baskets and silver teapots - and ambience, as well as the overall theme.
The judges browsed, said little, and sampled bits of food. One of them noticed the ceiling fan. Evesdropping, I heard one say as they climbed back aboard a golf cart to continue their inspection, ``The turkey biscuits were delicious, absolutely delicious.''
Actually, they were muffins. But, as I found out later, they were, indeed, delicious.
At 1:56 the winners were announced: Grand Prize to Dr. Russell Carter.
Again. But of course. There was a second and third place, for the record. But, as the man had said earlier, this was no contest.
Mason ought to change the name of her catering operation from It's All Good to It's All the Best. And Dr. Carter ought to book them forever.
Considering the partying - and all the alcohol consumed - the sweltering day seemed to take little toll on the human crowd. Not so for the horses, and occasionally the riders.
No matter how uncomfortable the spectators got - men sweating, women perspiring - the horses and riders were the ones who had it rough on a day like this. They had to perform, running for two miles or more over an undulating turf course made soft by recent rains and every so often trying to clear a dozen or more jumps over what are called National Fences.
These consisted of a steel frame stuffed with plastic ``brush'' standing 54 inches high.
In the third race, a horse collapsed at the finish line from what must have been heat exhaustion or whatever they call it in veterinary language.
He was brought around after what seemed an agonizingly long time - probably only about five minutes - after he was covered ice and hosed down by a pumper truck from the New Kent fire department.
In the next race a rider lost his seat after clearing the final jump and crashed heavily on the hard-packed road that runs into the Marengo manor house instead of the softer turf. Eventually he managed to walk away.
In the fifth race, a tightly contested affair decided by a nose after a run of about 2 1/2 miles, the winning horse collapsed in front of a large crowd, which surged closer for a better view just as if it had been an automobile accident.
``Oh, this is horrible,'' moaned a woman standing next to me as she watched the horse's chest rise and fall rapidly as it gasped for breath. ``I'm glad Sarah isn't here to see this.'' She moved to leave herself.
``Oh, bless his heart.''
This horse, too, was eventually revived with ice and the fire hose.
These mishaps are all part of horseracing. Sometimes injured horses have to be destroyed. People who go to horse races very often probably know that and expect it.
But knowing that doesn't make such a scene any less discomforting.
Maybe that's why most people choose to stay off to the side and party. ILLUSTRATION: PHOTOS BY BILL TIERNAN
The Virginian-Pilot
Jockey Charlotte Brooks, riding Gitmo Bay, clears a jum during The
Races at Marengo Saturday.
Sylvia Bonner (left) of Williamsburg, Russell Carter of Virginia
Beach and Roslyn Gross of Richmond celebrate their win in Marengo's
tailgate competition.
Barbara Rice (left) of Norfolk and Treena Moore of New York City set
up chairs for Carter's party along the track's backstretch.
BILL TIERNAN
The Virginian-Pilot
Russell Carter's affair in full swing. Carter, of Virginia Beach,
showed the predominantly Richmond crowd of 10,000 how to throw a
tailgate party. His party was awarded the grand prize - once again.
by CNB