‘Are you ready to order?’
‘Yes …’ the drawing out of the word belying her answer.
‘May I suggest the cured salmon with beetroot? Or the roast quail? They’re very popular.’ Popular among women, I don’t say.
‘Hmmm,’ she says staring intently at the menu. ‘Hmmm,’ she says again. I wait, I hover, I smile expectantly.
‘I think I’ll have the sweetbreads with beurre blanc to start with,’ she says eventually, drawing out the French vowels just a little too far. ‘Then the hanger steak with bone marrow.’
‘And how would you like that cooked?’
‘Rare, please.’ I cross out the ‘m’ on my pad. ‘What would you recommend to drink with that?’
‘We have a lovely Sancerre, a sauvignon blanc, by the glass, or perhaps a pinot noir?’
‘Hmmm,’ she says again. ‘I’ll have a glass of the Chablis to begin, and did I hear you tell those guys you were pouring a Cotes du Rhone?’
‘Yes, but it is quite rare so it’s quite expensive.’
‘Hmmm,’ she says yet again, gaze flitting from her lifeless phone to my eyes. ‘Why not.’
In a moment of rare quiet I stand at the pass snacking on bread crusts and watching her eat. She daintily spears a sweetbread on her fork and allows a drip of butter sauce to fall to the plate before placing it between her teeth. Chew, chew, swallow, pause, another. The nubbly golden balls disappear in a flurry of movement. The cluster of watercress she leaves until last, pushing it moodily around her plate like a small child before eating it as well.
The steak’s centre is sensually pink, not a drop of blood on the plate, its crust burnished to a scorched brown. A sturdy trunk of bone sits alongside, its marrow hidden by a crown of golden crumbs. Chef has hidden a lick of mustardy remoulade underneath the meat. She sneaks a globule of glistening marrow and her eyes drift close, as if to sleep.
I muffle a smile. I know that look! That feeling of blissful sin as you roll a piece of something fatty and wonderful around your mouth. Bone marrow does it to me too.
‘You got any of that marrow spare?’ I ask Chef.
‘Fuck off and take the parfait to 602.’
So much for that fantasy.
Bone marrow long demolished and beef gone shortly after, she sips her wine. Her phone is in her bag, her shoulders have relaxed into the cushioned chair back and her eyes are lazily drifting around the room, checking out the other diners, the décor, the kitchen, me. Her glass doesn’t touch the table again until it is empty.
‘Some dessert for you ma’am?’
‘No thank you, I’m quite happy.’
What did I tell you? She signs her bill and totters out on her heels. Her ankles wobble slightly as she walks, but she straightens herself and glides out the door into the evening, leaving her cloak behind.
Alone, together
Alyssa Fletcher
Part 1
In the corner of a sparkling white diner, a young couple ate together. The woman sat in a fog of vague discontent, her head of brunette curls sitting perfectly still as she stared out the window at the motor cars humming by. She fantasised about getting up and walking out. She wanted to stand up in a flurry, sip the dregs from her soda and, without a word, walk away from the table and out the door. She wanted to get away—away from the residual excuse-for-a-man that sat in front of her, teeming with indifference at her presence. How did they arrive at this point? When had the togetherness of sharing a meal become as bitter as the steaming espresso that unfailingly concluded every dinner? The two sat in a tense and deafening silence, and she felt solitude would have been a better option.
Unblinking and filled with disgust, she stared at him drinking his coffee. It was the same predictable manner that she could anticipate, down to each minute movement. Take one sip; place the cup down. Stare out the window. Pick up the cup; two sips, three. With a clunk as it misses the edge, return the empty demitasse to its saucer. Swallow. Exhale. Make a gesture in the air, a signal that the waiter seems to understand. Curtain close. She knew the script by heart. Only these days, there was no dialogue: just a dull performance that exhibited no words. Here there was only the presence of two people on a stage, staring vacantly and eating alone, together. She narrowed her eyes and glanced away. I may as well be dining alone, she thought.
It was the same strange ritual each time. While waiting for the bill, she stared into the tiny cup and noticed the espresso forming a stain in a perfect line, running from the china lip all the way to the bottom where it pooled in a grimy black mess. The golden-brown coffee that had once tasted so good was now unsightly, its coarse grinds resting in the base, bitter and cold.
Her mind wandered to times gone by, to the early months of their relationship when every date was a thrill. Every outing was spent absorbed in conversation and each other; the energy between them suspended their bond on a whimsical and timeless plane. They debated with passion over the best type of chocolate. He preferred the creamy richness of plain solid milk chocolate, while she liked hers jet-black and bitter, filled with almonds or flavoured with peppermint. Mornings were spent in bustling coffee shops, jammed like sardines on crowded bar seats, waiting impatiently for breakfast. Meals were presented to a pair of beaming, lustful faces that seemed not only in love with each other, but with everybody in the room. Confused waiters, accustomed to indifference from patrons, were bemused as the young couple greeted each dish with enthusiasm and zeal. But the pair never noticed the chaos surrounding them, only each other. They were young and carefree and moving too fast to notice where they had ended up.
But something went wrong along the way, and the sizzling passion they had rapidly cultivated slowly turned cold and dank as old bathwater. Perhaps they had used up all their energy, for during those first lust-filled months they had heard all the stories and it seemed there was nothing left to say. No new information, no desire to create conversation. Passion gave way to practicality, romance gave way to routine and all at once, it seemed, things had become stagnant. The man now seemed less than enchanted by her presence, and the woman felt abandoned, pining for his undivided attention. She identified within her a vague sense of bitterness. Gradually, that bitterness had transformed into resentment, which eventually became a serious discontent. As she glanced up at the man who she had come to know so quickly, so superficially, she wondered whether she had gotten herself in too deep.
She wanted to stand up, slap him with a sting across the cheek, and scream, ‘I may as well be dining alone!’ But something stopped her. As she touched a hand to her stomach, she felt hesitation and a pang of queasiness induced by the tiny life forming inside of her. She froze, petrified and breathless at the thought of being left alone as a young mother, as her mother had been and countless women before her. Even sitting there with her lover, she already felt distant and alone. Torn with the conflict that ripped her between a painful choice and two inevitably painful outcomes, she unwittingly made a compromise with herself. And she stayed, sitting at the table, feeling alone, as she mused: Well, better to be alone, together.
Part 2
In the corner of a 1950s-style diner, an elderly couple sat in silence, eating slowly. Occasionally they locked eyes in a half-smile that seemed to speak volumes louder than words could communicate. They really were quite old, and had reached the point where talking was made difficult for many reasons, not the least of which was deafness. They were tired but settled. A lifetime spent together had rendered them into a state of simple existence that was not at all bad, just very quiet.
The old man shifted in his seat, finding the chair to be uncomfortable and hard under his aching bones. He glanced at his wife. Her head of curls had turned from brunette, to grey, to white, but she kept the same wild beauty, if a little faded, from her youth. She knew that they both would have been more comfortable at home, in the privacy of their own lounge room, where they had their own lounge chairs, their own television and their own food. They both knew, tho
ugh, that dining out was something meaningful and important for them to do together.
The two had been married for such a long time that being together was intrinsically natural, each one acting as a quiet counterpart to the other: a limb, a leg, a silent but significant part of life. Each acted as the gentle machinery that kept the other running; it ran quietly in the background, requiring minimal maintenance as it hummed away over the years.
They had done all the talking. They knew all the information. They had done the screaming matches, the crying, the laughing, the jokes. They had done the family life, from that first pregnancy to the fifth bundle of love that entered their world. They’d had the children and pets and neighbours and tennis games. They had done the sing-a-longs, done it all, and done it for decades on end. They had even gotten past the point where the silence came as a relief; it was just the way of life now. There was love, of course, but there was no like or dislike between them. Just existence. Now was the time for quiet.
The food arrived and they politely thanked the waitress, moving in slow motion as the habitual creatures they were. The man watched his wife and smiled. There was no interaction between them, only an occasional piece of banal commentary on the meal or an offer of help reading the menu. Dining had been like this for a long time. There had been moments during their partnership when each one thought they would be better off apart. But as the downfalls of old age began to get more and more difficult, they soon realised that while at times they longed for a life of independence, they needed each other. And they had love. So they made an unspoken compromise, an unwritten promise to keep dining together.
The man sighed and pondered, I may as well be dining alone. In his waning years, he thought back to those moments and realised how detached they had become from each other. One really is quite alone in this world, he thought. Well, it’s better to be alone, together.
Greg
Camellia Aebischer
I look down at my wristwatch. It’s 5.30 pm. My hair is still greasy; I’ve been too lazy to shower. I still have half an hour before I have to leave for dinner. I don’t really even want to go because it’s just another one of those awkward set-ups. We chat about our jobs and laugh forcedly at one another’s lame jokes. But, no no, Sally at the office has insisted that her cousin is absolutely fantastic. Yeah, right.
I’m in a bad mood just thinking about this already, but whatever, time to jump in the shower. I rub a bit of no-name shampoo through my greasy thinning locks, then rinse. Not much comes out of the bottle but I figure the less I use, the less I’ll have to bother with replacing it. I’m totally not even going to bother with shower gel; I just wipe the shampoo bubbles down my torso.
Out of the shower and I towel dry. I can’t remember the last time I washed my towel actually, probably should do that. I go to get dressed and stumble through my tiny one-bedroom apartment to my room. All I can find are some black slacks I wore to my high school graduation; the two belt loops at the back have broken so they look saggy in the butt when I’ve been sitting down for a while. I put them on anyway. I couldn’t care less. On go a button-up striped shirt and a tweed coat someone must have left here on a drunken night.
As I exit my apartment I notice a box of Kraft dinner macaroni cheese staring at me from the outdated poo-green kitchen bench top. I gaze longingly at it for a moment before grabbing my metro card and trudging out the door. We’re meeting at the Olive Garden in Times Square, so cliché it hurts. She chose, of course.
I scramble off the train and notice that my hair is still damp, but I make it on time at least. Walking up to the entrance I can see women everywhere; maybe I should just go home. Next thing I know I’m turning around and heading back for the subway. No, wait, I’m going to suck it up. I turn back. Then that awkward pause-walk-pause happens because my mind is telling me to go but my body doesn’t want to. It looks like I just did some sort of convulsive dance and people are starting to stare now. Okay, time to get on with it. Sally from the office showed me a photo on Facebook but strangely never told me the woman’s name. We have a reservation under ‘Sally’ anyway so I clumsily make my way to the table through the crowded dining hall. The room is peppered with groups of young women, tourists and teenagers on fancy dates.
She’s here already; I can see her from the distance. And I mean seriously see her. That sparkling fuchsia halter neck top is shredding my corneas from across the room. I’m praying it’s not her but her face matches up with the photo I’ve seen so there’s not much hope. As I waddle closer trying to weave around tables my maître d’ signals me in the direction of the glittery beast and turns away. I’ve been abandoned. I feel like a socially awkward 35-year-old on a blind date. Oh wait, I am a socially awkward 35-year-old on a blind date.
I give her a half-wave and end up doing some sort of semi-squat in the process as I walk over. She bursts out of her seat and I notice that her sequined top also doubles as a set of maracas when she bounces up and over to me. ‘Hi my name is Cleo, you must be Greg! So good to meet you O-M-G I’ve heard sooooo much!’ Oh dear God. I got this.
‘Yes, I am Greg, hello,’ I respond. I don’t got this. I sound like some sort of robot. I can feel the sweat coming on. I sit down hoping that she’ll follow; she does. Phew.
It is only now that in the light of our personal table lamp I can see her clearly. Her lip gloss is sparkling; it seems to match her maraca shirt in both colour and shine. What a delight. We get to talking and I kind of zone out, I can hear her saying something about her trying out some new gluten-free diet but my mind is going back to that box of Kraft Dinner and my old scruffy sofa.
I nod and agree and try to listen as she drones on about her girlfriends and their husbands. She’s actually giving me her real life examples of shit she’s seen on the Doctor Phil show. I can feel myself getting dumber as I sit here. I wish I was at home. My eyes are closing, actually closing. Oh wow, this is bad. I realise that this is going nowhere fast and just as she starts on ‘What I want out of a relationship is …’ I snap out of my trance and look around, alert like a meerkat.
Next thing I know I’m running, running through the tight-knit tables trying to weave my way back to the door repeating ‘I’m sorry’ every second. I’m not sure if it’s directed to Cleo or the other customers. I hardly know what I’m doing. The butt of my pants is sagging, I feel like a cheeky schoolboy who’s dodging an impending punishment. I tumble through the door and glide all the way to the subway station. There’s brief pause in the train carriage but a few stops later I soar right off again heading towards my seedy old apartment.
I burst through the door to see my glorious box of Kraft dinner waiting for me on my poo-green bench top. I let out a sigh of relief and plop on to my crusty old couch with my pot of macaroni cheese, grinning as I shovel the orange clumps into my mouth. This is definitely where I’d rather be.
The lights in Paris
Jennifer Baily
Everyone has their favourite time of day in Paris. Some say the crisp start to the morning, when the pâtissiers are the only ones awake, and you can smell their nightly toils steaming out of the grates in the sidewalk. Others say mid-afternoon, when the city seems to slow down. This time feels mysterious, and if you are out on the street you wonder why you aren’t where everybody else seems to be.
Her favourite time was the minutes just before sunset. At different times of the year, this is experienced in different ways. In winter, it is bitingly cold, and people seem to rush in and out of buildings to make it home or inside a warm bistro before the chill really hits. In the summer people walk slower, enjoying the late rays of sun shining through the buildings and trees. But no matter what time of year, she loved the tension, the way the light hung perfectly in the air for the last few minutes before it set. She was certain there was something different about the twilight here. But more than the light, it was the way the streetlights all seemed to flicker on, swiftly and unnoticed. It was a game to her, trying to see if she could
catch the last millisecond before the day turned to dusk.
She had been here before, when she was young and travelling with friends. She had always wanted to return with someone, maybe a man. She would be older, wiser, and simply soak up the city. The city at a slower pace, without nightclubs and tourist attractions, without unbuttered bread in the hostel, without cheap cask wine.
She had suggested the trip and her enthusiasm had hidden his reluctance. He had been to Paris numerous times for business.
‘It’ll be different!’ she encouraged. ‘No meetings, just relaxing and eating!’
She planned it, she had booked it and now they were here. She wore cigarette trousers and a turtleneck and twisted her hair up into a bun, tying it loosely with a patterned scarf. With her shopping basket over her shoulder she felt perfectly ready for meandering around Paris.
He looked at her, grunting something about looking like an old housewife. A Parisian woman sauntered by, her midriff showing and her skirt barely covering her rear end. She noticed where his eyes went.
When he finally admitted he hated Paris, that he had only come because she wanted him to, she was not surprised. He had been trying to speed through their visit, and she was powerless to stop it. She wanted to sit, to eat, to enjoy the things in Paris that you could not experience quickly. She had tried once or twice to sit outside and simply watch, to try and catch the lights change, but he was always talking, always asking her when they could leave as he had found a bar that showed European football.
The previous night she had been sure they would relax. They were in a small bistro that she had seen earlier in their trip that promised ‘Une cuisine traditionnelle basque’. Its speciality was poulet basquaise, chicken browned in pork fat then casseroled in tomato, chilli, onion and white wine. She loved the idea of cooking one meat in another’s fat and cherished Paris for it. He hadn’t wanted any, saying being on holiday is no excuse to put on weight. He ordered plain chicken, no sauce, to her and the waiter’s horror. He said a firm ‘no’ to her suggestion of them sharing a bottle of wine with dinner.
Dining Alone Page 3
