I watch the milk as it spins in a vortex, an initial hiss then a gentle purr as the steam wand works its magic. The grinder clicks into action and the aroma of freshly ground beans fills the air. It is 3.00 pm Saturday afternoon and, as she has done for years, Ellen arrives for her cappuccino. Ellen sits straight at her table and reads from behind fine-rimmed glasses; her hair is greying, short and neat, her cheeks are rosy and her eyes bright, but there is fragility about her.
I take my time over her coffee. She once told me, ‘When you make my coffee it is always so creamy and smooth.’ The compliment stays in my mind so I try to make sure it is that way every time. Ellen savours her coffee and chats with the staff. She observes as well, and often surprises me with her good-natured insights into the café team. Ellen stopped coming for a while, we heard she was unwell. One Saturday, months later, she walked through the door at her usual time, a little grumpy about now having to drink herbal tea but still smiling and curious as to what had been happening.
It is late in the day, the black vinyl floor shines and the bentwood chairs are upturned on the table tops. There is one corner table still occupied. She had rushed in looking for a very late lunch and breathed a sigh of relief when I told her there was still time for a sandwich and a coffee. ‘I have just finished a three-hour presentation,’ she said, ‘I need some time alone.’ I told her she had come to the right place.
Sydney 1993: Getting over dining alone
Ross Karavis
I’m preparing to depart Sydney, where I have lived for the last four years since I arrived one Saturday morning in February 1993. I pack away my Sony WM-FX Walkman and my cassettes, my collection of brightly coloured Mambo tops and my black suede-topped Globe skating shoes and look around for a carton into which I can pile the tumble of Kangols, Hanes Beefy Tees and 501s.
As I cast my eye around the mess of the room I see a pile of black moleskin journals partially hidden behind the scattered CDs. I pick up one of the journals, sit on the wooden floor and read about a time when Sydney was a new and uncharted adventure.
27 February 1993
There is no stranger experience than arriving at an airport and not having anybody to greet you. The terminal was busy and I was forced to shift left and right and to walk faster and slower to make sure that I didn’t bump into people.
The weather was muggy as I stepped outside of the terminal to catch a cab to Pyrmont. I was drenched in an uncomfortable sweat as the humidity clung to my skin. The heat was insufferable although it was only thirty degrees.
Sydney looks so different to Adelaide. The housing and the shops look dense and small. It took us fifteen minutes to get through the traffic in Newtown. The cars were bumper to bumper and the footpaths were full of punks and ferals and hippies.
The house is nice though.
Jenny was there to meet me and she gave me the keys and instructions for where everything was. She couldn’t stay long but arranged to catch up once Darren comes back from his consulting work interstate.
I went for a walk and found a local deli just around the corner on Harris Street where I bought myself a loaf of bread, butter and packs of sliced ham and cheddar. Upon my return home I made myself a couple of sandwiches and a cup of tea and sat on the balcony and enjoyed the cool afternoon breeze.
Tuesday 15 June 1993
Jody didn’t call me tonight. I left several messages on her voicemail and I am disappointed she hasn’t returned my calls.
I felt hungry and restless so I grabbed my Walkman and a new Frankie Knuckles mix tape and walked to Chinatown.
None of the Chinese food halls were open so I ended up at a small noodle joint in the courtyard of the Burlington Centre on Sussex Street.
I didn’t recognise any of the dishes on the menu so I ordered the dishes that the people next to me are were eating.
The spicy handmade noodles with lamb and capsicum were oily, slippery and the capsicum gave the meatiness of the lamb a bitter contrast. The wonton soup had fifteen silky pork-filled wontons with a hint of ginger, floating in a light chicken stock.
I was so absorbed with the pleasures of my meal I didn’t realise that the restaurant had emptied and that I was the final customer of the night.
It was just after 10.30 pm when the phone rang but I let the call to go to the answering machine as I prepared to go to bed.
14 August 1993
Had a great night tonight. Eoghan had a slide night at his warehouse apartment in Chippendale. The apartment was fantastic, full of exposed brick walls, high ceilings and large windows looking out over Abercrombie Street.
We watched slides from his trip to Barcelona and Madrid and were captivated by his stories about people and places and his detailed descriptions of the buildings projected onto a white sheet on a wall.
Later on I taxied up to the Cross to catch up with Jody at Café Roma in Kellett Street. We caught up on our respective weeks and made small chat before she headed off to L’Hotel to meet her girlfriends and I headed off to the Jamie and Vanessa dance party at Les Girls.
It was earIy and I was felt hungry so I made my way down to Harry’s Café de Wheels.
I ordered a beef pie with mashed potato, peas, gravy and lashings of tomato sauce served on a paper plate. I sit sat on the footpath eating the pie and listening to the chatter of the people around me.
I ate carefully but despite my best efforts the gravy and tomato sauce spilled onto the paper plate and then onto the footpath.
Jody called unexpectedly and invited me to join her at a party she was going to in Coogee, since none of her friends were at L’Hotel.
The hostess Catriona was warm and friendly and greeted me with a kiss on the cheek. When I told her where I work she told me she knew Jason and Harriet through mutual friends.
Jody introduced me to her friends, the graphic designer Robyn, the documentary maker Elise and as well as Freya, a political advisor to a State Labor politician. They were warm and friendly in that way that allowed them to do the credentials check without revealing too much of themselves.
We left the party and because it was late and I didn’t have a chance in hell of catching a cab, we headed to Jody’s apartment in Bronte. Jody put on some music, poured two glasses of white wine and we ended up smoking and trading notes on Eoghan’s and Catriona’s parties in her sun room overlooking Bronte Beach.
Just before 5.00 am Jody called it quits. She headed off to bed and I piled cushions up on the corner of the couch and fell asleep to the distant sound of seagulls and the Pacific crashing into the battered cliffs.
24 September 1993
Jody and I decided to head into Circular Quay for the Olympics announcement so I invited her to come over to my place first for a bite to eat.
What I didn’t expect was that she would invite a friend over as well, with the explanation that Elspeth had just recently returned from overseas and was down from the Blue Mountains for a couple of days.
So dinner for two became dinner for three.
I served a platter of antipasti with slices of prosciutto, sun dried tomatoes, quartered artichokes, calabrese salami and baby bocconcini. These were washed down with glasses of the Jim Barry Watervale Rhine riesling that Elspeth had brought along; her dad had told her it was a nice drop.
I also whipped up three bowls of spaghetti with a tomato and tuna pasta which we ate with a tomato and endive salad with olive oil and vinegar and slices of fresh Italian bread I had bought at a small Italian bakery in Haberfield.
It was interesting listening to Jody and Elspeth talking about growing up together in Lewisham, studying at uni and of travelling together overseas.
Before we headed into Circular Quay I made a pot of espresso and we ate the fresh chocolate and vanilla cannoli I bought from Mezzapica in Leichhardt.
We joined the early morning crowd in front of the Cahill Expressway and screamed our lungs out when Sydney was announced as the host city for the 2000 Olympics.
22 November 1993
As I walked up Harris Street past the Western Distributor and the abandoned multi-story Government Printery towards Broadway I glanced towards the city and caught my breath. The city skyline looked like a sharp cardboard cutout against the clear blue dusk sky. The glass frontages of the buildings reflected the fading sun in the west.
For the first time I felt that this city was becoming a part of me.
I felt like a coffee so I headed east through the city and Hyde Park towards Bill and Toni’s in Stanley Street.
I walked through the throng at the entrance and stood at the brown brick counter with its chipped cream laminex and overhead menu and ordered a strong latte and a Neapolitan biscuit.
I looked for a table that was free and found one through the red brick arches towards the back of the side room by the pinball machine.
I drank my latte with its bitter coffee and scalded milk and scoffed my Neapolitan with its nut, cocoa and fruit filling and watched groups of people coming down from the upstairs restaurant. They had that sated look that comes from having eaten too much pasta or osso bucco, white bread and cheap house wine. I was overcome by an urge not to be alone, to be one of those people full of good cheer and bonhomie.
I decided to head home and as I walked through Hyde Park towards the Pyrmont Bridge I slipped on the headphones and listened to a molecular biologist being interviewed by Phillip Adams, speak eloquently and poetically about death and his near-death experiences.
As I crossed over Darling Harbour and walked up Union Street I felt a strange sense of calm.
Tonight I learnt something about transitions. I watched the Sydney skyline at dusk and felt awe, I felt lonely and gained insight into near death experiences.
I resisted the urge to phone someone. I didn’t know if Jody or Jenny were awake or that they would understand.
1.00 am. I can hear the chatter of late night television coming from one of the neighbouring terrace houses and the distant horn of a large freighter on the harbour.
26 December 1993
I am happy I decided to stay here and not head back to Adelaide for Christmas. The weather has been great and my orphan’s Christmas with the Adelaide crew was awesome.
On Christmas morning Jenny picked me up at 11.30 am and we headed through the city, up William Street and past the Coca-Cola sign to Rushcutters Bay Park.
Eoghan and his ex Samantha and friends Genelle and Alex had arrived there before us and found a shaded spot under a tree just metres away from the harbour. They had set up a picnic table and had an esky with ice for the beer and wine.
We started with juicy prawns and plump oysters that Jenny shucked and made sure we sucked the juices from, to get the full taste of the ocean.
Eoghan then served slices of a cold meat loaf with whole eggs with his homemade tomato sauce and slices of Alex’s mixed vegetable filo pastry pie and spanakopita which we all ate with relish.
Jenny and I went for a walk around the park and chatted about our new lives in Sydney, as a group of topless English backpackers played five-a-side football.
Jenny asked me about Jody and I told her I was catching up with her occasionally and that we enjoyed each other’s company. I wasn’t sure there was much more I could say given that’s where we are at.
She told me that Darren had accepted a job offer to return to Adelaide and that she was uncertain about what she should do.
Genelle called us back for dessert. She served her homemade apple crumble and rhubarb tartlets with small shot glass of a 1991 Woodstock Botrytis Sweet White dessert wine.
I sat on the rug, weighed down by food, wine and cake and felt a wave of contentment sweep over me. I turned to Jenny and said ‘This isn’t isn’t too bad, is it?’ to which she smiled.
Jenny dropped me off home and I called Jody to wish her Merry Christmas.
I thanked her for her gift, the latest CD by United Future Organisation and she thanked me for my gift, a copy of He Died With A Falafel in His Hand by John Birmingham, which she promised to read while she was away on the Hawkesbury.
We arranged to catch up at Catriona’s on New Years Eve and agreed to work out how we can get everybody to George and Darren’s rooftop garden party with that cool techno DJ from London.
It will be a great way to end the year.
Don’t dine alone—take an iPad to dinner
Suzanne Le Page Langlois
As a businesswoman I dine alone in restaurants much of the time—by choice—and have done so for many years. Most people don’t, and most women in particular don’t like doing it. I enjoy the solitude, the chance to experience the meal and ambience without the distraction of a companion. Plus I love to read while I eat. However I understand that many people are uncomfortable when they enter a restaurant alone, and sit by themselves in anguish until they can finally depart. Until recently there was a stigma attached to dining alone, with the automatic assumption that the solo diner cannot find anyone with whom to share a meal.
Solo diners are often subjected to poor service from wait staff. When I phone to book, it is automatically assumed that I am the female secretary, and the booking is made in the name of ‘Mr So-and-so’. There is usually surprise when I arrive. I am then led to an inconvenient, dimly lit table close to the kitchen or bathrooms (or both). Even when I have booked a table for one, it is inevitably laid for two, and I am then pointedly asked if there will be anyone joining me. I have stopped replying ‘Only if I strike it lucky!’ Is it any wonder that business travellers tend to order room service?
Even if there was enough light to read at this secluded table, I would need to prop my book open with condiments and cutlery. Fortunately, this is no longer a problem now that I have an iPad, as the screen is always readable no matter the level of light. It also takes up no more room than the bread plate.
When I was first getting used to dining alone, I had three different personas. You need to practice one or more of these (preferably at home, and on someone you trust, like your mum or your sister) before launching yourself on the culinary public. Then try it when you are in a town or city far away from home. It won’t matter if you make a complete fool of yourself, because nobody knows you anyway.
All of these techniques have been tried by my friends, and all work.
1. Food critic
This requires you to make a booking earlier in the day, and arrive at the appointed time. Look around the restaurant while you are waiting to be shown to your table, as though assessing the décor. As a single diner, you will be seated at a table near the kitchen or bathrooms. Take out your notebook, pen and small digital camera, and place them on the table. Take a book from your handbag, and make it obvious that you are finding it difficult to read in the poor light.
When the menu arrives, emphasise the fact that you are having difficulty reading it. In a really good restaurant you will be immediately moved to a different table—joke! Read the menu slowly, and do not be distracted by the waiter arriving several times to check if you are ready to order. The answer is ‘no’. However, ask for a glass of wine—this really annoys them, as it means a separate trip to the table to take your food order. Start writing in your notebook. Copy the dishes you are planning to order, and the price. Also, write down the wine you requested.
Wait! You are already low priority, as a single diner. You have also shown that you are painfully slow and indecisive, and are likely to hold up the flow of the restaurant. Remember, the aim of a restaurant is to feed as many customers as possible, as quickly as possible, and get them out the door so that the staff can clean down and be dismissed, and off the payroll.
Now, order your meal next time the waiter comes to the table. Then look around at the décor, turn the bread plate over
to check the manufacturer, write a few notes in your little book. When your first course arrives, don’t pick up your cutlery until the waiter has departed. Then use your camera (make sure it is set on macro, no flash) and surreptitiously take a photo of the dish. Look at the result, and if you wish, rotate the plate about thirty degrees and take another. Have a few mouthfuls, then jot some notes in your book. In that hypothetical good restaurant, one of the waiters will have noticed. If not, do the same when your main arrives—photo, notes jotted in your book.
If the staff have twigged that you might be a food critic (they are much more attuned now that cooking programs are so popular on TV), the head waiter or even the manager may appear at your table to check that ‘everything is alright—to your satisfaction?’ The answer should always be: ‘It has been very interesting!’ Never, ever tell them it has been nice, delicious or any of the other words they are seeking.
When you have finished your main, and they offer the dessert menu, tell them you would love to read it. Jot a few more comments in your notebook, then tell them you don’t usually eat dessert. They now know you are a food critic.
If you can, leave them guessing by paying either with cash, or if it is a work trip, with a business credit card that does not have your name on it. They still won’t know who you are, but you can come back another night and get guaranteed better service and a better table.
2. The businesswoman
Next to the food critic, this is my favourite. Stay in your work clothes (a power dressing suit, not jeans and a t-shirt). Arrive five minutes late, and obviously in a rush. Sit down at the appointed table, open your iPad immediately to your new novel, and appear distracted when the waiter brings the menu. Ask immediately for a glass of ‘New Zealand sav blanc’ while you look at the menu. Then put the menu down while you read at least five pages of your book, preferably with a frown on your face. Look up when the glass of wine appears, but do not take a sip—important business people cannot be diverted from the issue at hand!
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