Grilled green peppers, skins black and blistered. Moussaka, eggplant baked the colour of mince, thick layers of potato shiny with béchamel. She needs it. It all comes, it keeps coming, out of the kitchen, off the grill. Onto her plate, into her belly.
A child squeals and laughter breaks out. She glances up again from the white plastic table. There are other people here. Two big families, with little kids running about. A few couples. A clutch of old men, clinking glasses and clicking pieces around a backgammon board. But still, the patio is less than a quarter full. It’s the end of the season.
Not quite the end, on the islands, but the end for her. She’d had enough, had checked out in the middle of a shift, in a flurry of rage that seemed less dramatic now. Packed her suitcase at 3.00 am, caught the early morning ferry, texted her guy; a few angry words and she was gone. Wide-eyed and strung out, she’d watched the port disappear in the distance. She’d miss her last pay. It didn’t matter; she’d made enough. She’d had enough.
She asks for saganaki, wonderfully firm and salty, the centre oozing gently under her fork. She eats, pushing green garnishes to the side of the ceramic plate. Cheese drips. She wipes her chin and keeps on eating. It doesn’t matter. It’s been so long since she sat down to eat. Since she ate.
She had chosen her destination on a whim, guided by her Lonely Planet, which advised it was a remote and quiet area. Inland. Perfect. She needed to get away from the brilliant sparkle of the coast. Meteora beckoned.
At the pension—a caravan park of sorts—the old caretaker had thrown open the door to her room with a flourish. Like it wasn’t after midnight, like she was an expected guest. It was a shoebox, the room barely bigger than the size of the bed, the toilet less than a metre from her pillow. But it felt like a palace. A room of her own, at last, no sharing. On the islands it was the usual story: five girls, two beds, but who cared when there was never a moment to sleep?
In that palace of a room, in the pension in Meteora, she’d slept for sixteen hours straight.
Things are winding down on the patio. She asks the boy for coffee. It arrives, strong and steaming, a million miles from the frothy iced coffees the Greeks drink in summer, a million miles from the islands. She adds heaped spoonfuls of sugar, stirs away the bitterness.
And here’s a plate of watermelon, on the house, two pieces of juicy fruit to balance out the meal. She thanks the boy with a smile.
She notices a guy is watching her, from behind his own coffee three tables away. He might have been watching for hours, she doesn’t know. A young guy, like her: white hair, tanned skin, trendy t-shirt, thongs. He’s been on the islands, for sure. She avoids his gaze. In a few days she might throw him a smile, when she’s had enough of the solitude and the sleep and the eating through the menu. When it’s time to smile again.
She sips her coffee and sparks up a Marlboro Light, blowing smoke up into the still night sky. The air is different here. Fresh. In Meteora.
The second last supper
Wendy Downes
The only movement in the village was the heat haze that danced between tightly shuttered stone façades and the pavement. Maya hugged the left side of the street, finding shade but still feeling the heat of the asphalt ooze through the worn soles of her walking shoes. The heat of the day had softened her trail-hardened feet and allowed a couple of blisters to grow, one on the big toe of her right foot and another on the ball of her left foot.
As the narrow street turned and widened to meet Rue Marina, Maya expected to feel a breeze from the Atlantic Ocean. No such luck. Even the small modern fishing harbour was silent. Maya wilted. Sweat dripped down her back, her pack weighed on her shoulders and her feet were sore. The physical discomfort made worse by a niggling fear. Tomorrow she would arrive at Finisterre, the end of the known world up to the Middle Ages and the end of her Camino. Then what? What would she do with the couple of weeks before her flight home? What would she do when she got home?
One of the unexpected gifts of the Camino is that she caters for the daily needs of pilgrims. Spread along her windy limbs, at relatively close intervals, are albergues, restaurants, cafés, medical care and of course churches, providing somewhere to sleep, to wash, to eat, to drink, patch the body up and tend to your spirit. Not having to tend to the basic necessities gave Maya freedom. Once her body had got used to walking she was able to give her undivided attention to the landscape, the buildings, the local history or the conversations that she had with people along the way. It also gave her the time and space to wander the pathways of her mind. But soon that would end. Tomorrow would the last day that Maya could live in the protected embrace of the Camino.
A wavering mirage of a lone man bending over a barbecue and the smell of grilled fish distracted Maya from her spiral towards panic. ‘The inhabitants of Muxia have not been abducted by aliens after all,’ mused Maya.
‘Fresh caught,’ he said waving his tongs over plump sardines lined up on the coals. ‘Order a drink and you have some.’
It seemed like a good offer. Besides it would be an hour and a half before the albergue would lock its doors and Maya had no other plans.
Walking into the darkened bar Maya was engulfed by the chatter of many conversations. It took a few moments before she could see that the noise came from a long table surrounded by a group of people representing many generations. Platters in the centre of the table held piles of charred sardines, heads all pointing to the end of the table. The stained tablecloth, plates filled with fish skeletons, half filled glasses, discarded serviettes and almost empty wine bottles signalled the end of a feast.
Maya’s presence did not interrupt the conversation. A matronly woman still arguing walked behind the bar. ‘Buenos tardes.’
‘Buenos tardes. Un vaso ribeiro por favor,’ Maya said in a soft tentative voice, emphases in all the wrong places.
‘Perdon?’ spat the woman.
Losing her confidence to speak Spanish, Maya pointed to the ribeiro on the menu.
Observing what happened behind closed shutters during siesta made Maya feel uncomfortable and out of place. Not wanting to interrupt an intimate, by Spanish standards, gathering, Maya took her glass and pushed back though the curtain of plastic strips into the intense summer light. She sat at a table tucked into a sliver of shade, choosing a seat that enabled her have her back to the wall and a view of the harbour.
As Maya’s body relaxed she recalled that walking the Camino de Santiago had been Kylie’s idea. In their friendship, Kylie, Maya’s friend since high school, was the ideas person, energetic and impulsive. At first Maya thought walking the Camino was just another idea of Kylie’s. The type that would flare up quickly, burn fiercely and then be snuffed out with no warning. Not this time. A month of badgering coincided with Maya being made redundant, leaving her with time, a bit of extra cash, and no excuses. Besides, the history and buildings that lined the Camino had captured Maya’s interest, as did the prospect of losing some weight.
Three weeks before their departure Kylie met a bloke, and in true Kylie style she tumbled into love with passion and commitment. She was miserable from the moment she left Simon’s arms. After a week of moping, it was no surprise when Kylie decided to call it quits. Maya could have returned to Brisbane with her, but she had become familiar with Camino life and felt comfortable about walking alone.
Maya remembered the exhilaration of her first day without Kylie. It was liberating to leave Pamplona at her own pace. Her confidence began to build with each step, as she climbed to meet a platoon of large The War of the Worlds windmills marching over the hill.
Picnicking on a wedge of gamey idiazabal cheese and crust of bread at Alto del Perdon, Maya felt like a bona fide pilgrim. At least she could find local food and enjoy it without worrying about Kylie’s unadventurous palate. Moved by a view of hills blanked by small paddocks behind a wrought iron silhouette of medieval pilgrims heading toward Santiago, Maya found it easy to respect Kylie’s decision to go home. She did not f
eel deserted.
Any understanding and forgiveness Maya felt on the path that first day dissolved the moment she walked into the busy restaurant. Most of the tables were surrounded by groups of pilgrims. All were engaged in lively conversations. German, Italian and bits of English bounced around the room. The bar, off to the left, was the domain of the Spaniards. Instead of finding it welcoming, Maya was confronted by her aloneness.
Maya was used to eating alone at home, but eating solo in a restaurant was different, especially when you have been stood up by a friend. Sitting by herself in that convivial restaurant was one of the loneliest moments in Maya’s life. All she could remember of the meal was the spice of anger and the bitterness of fear.
Maya’s thoughts were interrupted by a heaped plate of grilled sardines. ‘You will never taste sardines so good, so fresh. Caught today by my son-in-law,’ mirage man said before returning to his place by the barbecue.
Picking the firm flesh from the fish bones and licking the salty, fishy oils from her fingers before washing the flavours away with a sip of cool crisp wine, Maya acknowledged that her luck in finding tasty local food had not deserted her. Maya knew that it was unlikely that the Virgin Mary would appear to tell her that it was OK to go home, as she had done to St James during his unsuccessful Spanish mission. Even so, her fear of finishing the Camino subsided.
A comfortable place
Kay Gibbons
Pauses between comments lengthen, thoughts become scarcer, there are a few sighs and some fidgeting. From the 38th floor the cityscape is softening to grey and sparkles of lights are appearing; the day-long meeting is nearly over. Thanks are offered, dates are reviewed and the meeting is declared closed. Usually, there would be a few minutes of farewells, Ingrid would go back to the hotel briefly, and then dine alone.
But this has been a milestone meeting in the project, a milestone successfully reached, and there are celebratory drinks for partners, consultants and other staff who have been struggling together on the work for over a year. This is an occasion, and a chance for staff whose contact is usually on email, or through a few words at the end of a conference call, to catch up in person.
At home Ingrid never eats out alone in the evening; she knows the delis nearby that offer good take-home meals, almost restaurant quality, and she often calls in to collect a moussaka or curry, but she never ‘eats in’. Ingrid goes happily solo to concerts or plays, but eating is different; food is meant to be shared and the sharing is more important than the meal. She believes now that, like learning a language, eating alone is much easier if you start when you are young.
When Ingrid first started travelling again by herself she tried going to restaurants alone. She studied local eating guides and received personal recommendations, and the cities she visited meant wonderful eating experiences surrounded her. Although she armed herself with the traditional weapons of a book, or more recently an iPad, and tried looking meaningfully into the distance while she ate, these meals were not fun. Ingrid’s interest in people-watching, so strong that she can barely concentrate to read in an airport or hotel lobby for fear of missing some interesting person or scene, was stifled by her discomfort and the urge to eat quickly and get away. She never stayed for dessert, her favourite part of a meal, and these dismal evenings meant she stopped trying and had missed numbers of delicious opportunities for meals and their desserts.
But a night finally arrived when Ingrid could not face another club sandwich or sad pasta in her hotel room; she wagered with herself that she would successfully dine alone. She has forgotten the stakes by now, but she won the bet. Palomino. This ‘hatted’ spot, tucked away in a plain grey street, was so understated it could easily be missed. Very high on the list of current desirable destinations, it looked approachable. In keeping with its degree of cool the staff found the perfect line between distant and welcoming, and the diners, mixed suits and arty jeans, were much too engaged at their own tables to worry about others. That evening’s success led Ingrid to become a regular at Palomino, and on an early visit one of the staff asked without prying if she were perhaps a reviewer.
In the foyer on the 38th floor, groups form and re-form, conversations start with the day’s meeting outcomes and then move to business gossip, talk of children, holidays taken and planned, theatre and of course football.
By now Ingrid should be following the front-of-house leader, in deconstructed black, to a banquette near a corner, but facing out onto the business of the restaurant. She particularly likes a spot where she can watch the working flow of the service, patrons being settled, napkins folded, water poured, and meals anticipated and presented. A sauvignon gris would soon be on the way and the miniature flowerpot of white bread placed to her left (she never chooses the rye sour dough).
With a Moët in one hand Ingrid accepts a snippet of fig and gorgonzola, wrapped in prosciutto, and joins another chatting knot where the exchange is around the choice of morning drive radio, young comedy or older conversation, talkback or not. Work thoughts are receding and noise levels rising.
At Palomino, Ingrid’s complimentary ‘taste’ would have arrived and she would be ordering her dinner. Maybe the gnocchi, with cauliflower in the dark china bowl waiting for the lidded pot of sizzling gnocchi to spoon over it, a spicy rocket salad to offset the richness? Perhaps the menu would have changed, but something just as good would have replaced it. Until dinner came she would enjoy the feel of the Riedel glass balanced in her hand and speculate about the conversations at the various tables, wondering how the day just finishing had been for the diners.
Before returning to the mingling crowd Ingrid pauses to look out over the city and reflect on the meal she could be enjoying elsewhere. Ingrid has found a comfortable place to eat alone but disappointment at missing dinner there tonight is tinged with freedom from the hesitation she experiences on each occasion. Around her, some people are saying farewell, others are laughing more loudly as they relax and take an extra drink. Just next to her someone arrives to share the view, and a male voice says, ‘I wanted to introduce myself, I was not able to get to the meeting today, but I am a newcomer here and …’ A few minutes of conversation later, the mandatory check on six degrees of separation has taken the two through quick life histories and discovered a link; they have both worked on the same project in London, but at different times, and Ingrid has recognised the name from the documents. City landmarks have been pointed out and discussed. ‘Have you chosen a football team yet? It is compulsory here, you know.’
The newcomer says, ‘I’m not sure about you, but that was not enough food for me. Could we go somewhere to eat while we talk?’ As thoughts of ‘wild strawberries with buttermilk snow, sour cherries and shortbread’ float into her head, Ingrid senses a strange feeling. Relief is creeping through her as she replies: ‘I know a place, it’s not far from here and we will still be in time for dinner, or at least for dessert and coffee.’
‘Let’s go, I’ll grab my jacket and see you at the lift.’
Tonight at least, she would not be dining alone.
A late lunch
David Gilligan
All we need to see is Ben, in his Hawthorn football club beanie, hum in through the front door of our café and the team swings into action. The chairs are pushed back and his favourite table is turned so that he can read comfortably. Within a minute a steaming long black sits at the corner of the table and a Herald Sun lies open at the sports page.
Ben and his passenger are strapped together and riding the afternoon thermals high above Queenstown. In the distance Ben sees a hawk rising with the spiraling currents of warm air. He explains that the hawk has found a thermal and he aims the glider toward the bird. They feel themselves rising. Ben is an experienced paraglider pilot and he senses the familiar mix of excitement and anxiety as his passenger asks: ‘How high are we?’
A sudden gust of wind surprises Ben as they enter their descent; he firmly pulls the glider back into control. The forecast storm has
arrived early. He struggles to keep the glider headed for the safe landing area and feels the leading winds from this new storm pulling him off course. Treetops begin to rush by below their feet as Ben aims for a clearing in the distance. In a moment they are crashing through the trees and then to the ground below.
Ben and I often chat as he enjoys the ritual of his daily coffee. We talk sport, in particular football. Ben’s time alone is spent reading about his beloved Hawks and studying the form of every other team in the competition; he wants to do well in the tipping. He has an art scholarship and paints with the brush held in his mouth. Ben often tells me he should be at home painting but I get the feeling he loves being out and about. I often see him with his young daughter, who rides on the back of his electric wheelchair; they fly past the café, Hawthorn scarf waving in the breeze and a look of mischief in Ben’s eyes.
Dining alone in a café is expected and welcomed. Your table becomes a refuge from where you choose to engage or observe. Some diners look for company and conversation; others make it clear—this is their time.
Tess dined alone at our bar every weekday for eight years. She spoke with a gentle British accent, in the manner of someone well educated in England. Her first visit each day was for her morning coffee. Tess never ordered, the coffee essence poured like honey into her cup even before she had paid. At lunch, she would sit gracefully on one of the tall bar stools in our window, wondrously balancing her lunch on the narrow bench whilst reading the newspaper.
I remember her on one occasion proudly introducing me to her son, and yet, our conversations rarely allowed us to reveal much about ourselves. Two years ago she stopped coming for lunch. She had said it was time for a change. I thought about asking her if there had been another reason why, but I knew she would smile, finding unpleasantness difficult, and tell me again that it was time for a change. Perhaps that is all it was.
Dining Alone Page 6
