Dining Alone

by Santich, Barbara;

The scene is set—they know who you are, and that you must be on an expense account. From now on, you can do whatever you want. If the ‘crisis’ is resolved, relax and enjoy your meal. Occasionally check your so-called emails by fiddling with the buttons of your iPad, and jotting notes in your book, but the rest of the time enjoy the restaurant and its food. I hate to remind you, but this is the recognition that businessmen have accepted as the norm for decades.

  3. The celebrity—‘incognito’

  This is a challenge. If you are staying at a very posh hotel, book into their best restaurant. Wear a beautiful evening gown, do your hair and makeup, and swan down for a superb meal. I can still recall the attention of the waiters, and sometimes even the chefs, when they discovered through my conversation with the wait-staff that I was just an ordinary person having a great night out. Imagine the reaction of the other diners when a chef in whites appears at my table. Once another diner came over because she thought I was Julie Anthony (admittedly she was a very old lady, and I do have dark hair, but I was flattered anyway. I didn’t want to disappoint her—she probably still thinks she met the singing star).

  4. Be yourself

  One of the most exciting stages of life is when you realise that you can’t be whatever everyone else (particularly your mother) wanted you to be, and you are happy just being yourself. This is the time when you can get on with your life, spend the kids’ inheritance, and dine whenever and wherever you want. Now that I am comfortable in my skin, I book at fantastic restaurants, wear something comfortable, take my iPad to dinner and enjoy the company of the wait staff (and sometimes the chefs if they are bored or not too busy. I even get kitchen tours).

  I don’t want to tell you what to do. I certainly don’t want you to do anything you don’t feel comfortable doing. But if you want to explore the culinary horizons, try these techniques. Have fun!

  The Japanese, the chef, the old lady and the fish

  Lisa Le Faucheur

  A cute Japanese broad struts towards me. She smiles like she’s paid per tooth she flashes. She has long, shiny hair and a pair of heels to make a man’s eyes water. Her red dress fits in all the right places and is slit to mid-thigh. I try to smile back but I’m rusty and she’s shimmied right past me before I’ve so much as curled an upper lip.

  I tear my eyes away and look around. The usual crowd of suits and secretaries on their boss’s tabs. Brokers waving their dollars around like they didn’t get burnt in the crash like everybody else.

  ‘Just one?’ Sure, sweetheart. It’s always a table for one, you know that as well as I do. I ask if chef is working today. She says chef works everyday. I ask what kind of a nut-job boss doesn’t have a day off every once in a while. She doesn’t like me talking about her boss like that.

  She starts reciting the specials, but I interrupt: ‘Tell Frankie out the back it’s Jimmy Chess and I’ll have the usual.’ She looks at me hard. ‘With a glass of that burgundy I know he keeps out the back for his favourite customers.’ I smile properly this time and wink at her and she totters off as fast as those stilettos let her, head high, small bottom thrust out.

  The Japanese returns with a glass of red.

  ‘Have a seat and I’ll buy you a cocktail.’

  ‘I’m working, and I doubt you can afford it. I didn’t think inspectors earned that much.’

  ‘Well, you’re a sassy one. What happened to the old waitress?’

  ‘She wasn’t old. She left. I’m the manager now.’

  ‘So how’s Frank? He been in a better mood since the competition bit the dust?’

  She stares at me impassively. Smooth skin and large, baby eyes. Her mouth is painted red to match her dress.

  ‘Shame they had to close. What was it—food poisoning?’

  ‘I have no idea. Excuse me, I’m busy.’

  If she was surprised she didn’t show it. Real poker face, that one. I preferred the old waitress. She was older, a little on the plump side, with fading blonde hair. She knew enough to be grateful for the attention she got. Waitresses don’t get tipped so well once they reach a certain age.

  A waiter arrives at the next table and presents a large white plate, dotted with brown and green like paint blobs and a phallic shard of parmesan thrusting out of the middle. In amongst the mess that some sucker paid $80 for are slices of eel, black caviar and blood-red roe, and some brown squares that just might be foie gras.

  That’s right, chef likes to play around with his cuisines. ‘Fusion’ they call it. On one plate you’ve got wasabi trying to make friends with roquefort, or sashimi tuna drizzled with red wine jus. Frankie does nothing by the book anymore, he smashes through every rule about cooking like they were personally invented to piss him off. He’s like that guy who mentions every exotic place he’s been when you didn’t ask. I shake my head. Frankie has changed. Nobody calls him Frankie any more; it’s ‘François’. I’ve been staring at the plate so long the guy there is looking at me with a glare that is easy enough to read. I tip my head at him and look hard at his date instead. He clenches his jaw a little tighter as she smiles back.

  Frank knows what I like and soon it arrives. Two deep-fried pigeons lying on their backs, twisted claws clutching at something that isn’t there. I pick one up, yanking off a leg with a brittle snap. I picture Frank out the back picking over rows of small, dull bodies, scraping out bloody innards.

  ‘Hello Jimmy.’

  Frank stands behind me. I twist and look up at him. The same neat, muscular build under his chef’s jacket and houndstooth pants. A prominent, curved nose, and beneath it a dusting of black and white pepper. Not much has changed.

  ‘You sure can fry a bird, Frankie.’

  ‘This is your second visit in ten years, and you think you can just come in and harass my manager?’

  I bite off a foot, crunch it to a lumpy stew of gristle and jelly and swirl it around my mouth. I pause to wipe my mouth.

  ‘So how’s business now you’re the only one in town with two stars?’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘You heard about the woman who got sick? Eccentric old bat. Didn’t belong in a trendy place like that. She dined alone, walked out alone and an hour later they found her passed out on a park bench in a pool of her own vomit.’

  ‘What of it?’ Frank practically snarls. The edges of his nose flare and his eyes flatten.

  ‘Everybody thought it was food poisoning. The Chef Hat boys certainly did. I wasn’t surprised. You shoulda seen the fridges in that place—if the boss had paid any attention to my report, the joint would have shut down six months ago.’

  ‘It was no surprise to me! The food they cooked, it was a gimmick, it was mimicry …’

  Frank draws out the syllables, laying on the French accent nice and thick. I interrupt him before he gets himself all wound up. ‘I didn’t think much of it ’til I get a call from the old dame. She didn’t think it was seafood poisoning.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘Well, I did a little investigating. The fugu did it. Damn near killed her. Yeah, you know what that is. I know you know. Nasty little fish. Personally, I don’t know why the Japs make such a fuss of it.’

  ‘Interesting.’

  ‘Interesting? Interesting how? That a place in downtown Adelaide had the nerve to serve fugu without a licence? Or that it wasn’t even on the menu? The old woman orders the seafood special, expects a few prawns, maybe a scallop or two, and winds up poisoned by the most expensive seafood this side of Tokyo. What I want to know is, how does the tapas bar next door end up serving a Japanese delicacy they haven’t even heard of?’

  ‘Whatta you asking me for?’

  ‘I know you, Frankie. You trained in Japan. You even worked in a seafood joint there. That’s how you got your second hat, right? Combining Japanese and French cuisine. The critics raved about your confit of tuna with seaweed.’

  ‘I’d stop right there, Jimmy, before you say something you regret.’

  The Japanese,
who had been eavesdropping on the whole conversation, starts clearing my half-eaten plate.

  I grab her wrist: ‘Be a doll and leave it.’ She puts the knife back like she can think of a place she’d much rather stick it. I let a picture slip into my mind, of her walking up my back wearing those stilettos and not much else.

  ‘I think you didn’t much like losing business to those Spanish wannabes. You slip out the back, have a friendly chat about the price of squid, and while you’re there you slip some fugu in a clamshell, only this piece wasn’t prepared properly. It has just enough tetrodotoxin to cause trouble for somebody, you don’t care who, as long as word gets out. Everybody will think it was seafood poisoning. Pity for you I happen to be a seafood expert. I did some digging, turns the only fugu delivery in the area was to a woman. Real nice-looking, they tell me. Asian.’

  Frank makes a gurgling noise and his eyes dart over to the Japanese. She stares right back with her smooth, rigid face. ‘You and your girlfriend need to come with me—down to Food Safety headquarters.’

  I stand up, grab the last pigeon thigh off my plate and tear a hunk out with my teeth.

  ‘It’s a damn shame, Frank. You always knew how to fry a bird.’

  I just can’t dine alone anymore

  La Vergne Lehmann

  4 July 2012, Hotel Kurrajong, Canberra

  ‘Can I still get dinner?’ I asked Joseph, the reception manager, as I booked into the Hotel Kurrajong. It had been a long drive, almost ten hours that day, so I was ready for dinner and a comfortable bed.

  ‘Isabella’s is open until 9.00 pm, Mrs Latimer, so there is still plenty of time,’ Joseph replied. ‘Would you like a table reserved for you? You should have time to freshen up first.’

  After thanking Joseph, I wandered upstairs to the first floor, checking the number on the key as I reached the landing. ‘Room number twenty-one, I wonder who has slept here before?’ I said under my breath as I inserted the key into the lock and turned the handle.

  I always stay at the Hotel Kurrajong when I visit Canberra. It is a beautiful two-storey art deco style building. More importantly, it is only a five-minute walk from Parliament House. But what I love the most is the history of the place and the fact that it has quite a nice restaurant in the hotel.

  Twenty minutes later I was entering Isabella’s Café, named after Isabella Southwell, the manageress of the hotel for nearly fifteen years from 1931. I always stop and have a look at some of the historical documents and photographs that are on the wall of the hotel and café because it has such a rich political history and, as I was to find out later on, a history of some intrigue.

  I dined alone. I chose a macadamia crusted lamb fillet with Mediterranean roasted vegetables drizzled with balsamic vinegar, accompanied by a rather pleasant 2009 local shiraz cabernet. On retiring to my room, just after 10.00 pm, I took one look at the comfortable bed and knew it would only be a matter of minutes before I would be asleep.

  I woke with a start. There was someone in my room! Dappled light from the streetlights outside illuminated a shadowy figure sitting at the table in the corner of my room. I opened my mouth to speak but nothing came out. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light I could see it was a woman. She appeared to be sitting at the table as if she was waiting for someone to join her. And then, just as quickly, she disappeared. Maybe I was dreaming, I thought, as I tried to get back to sleep. Maybe she was a ghost!

  The next morning, as I came down for breakfast, I stopped at reception to ask Joseph about the possibility of any ghosts in my room. I felt like I was asking a ridiculous question but the feeling that someone had actually been in my room last night was still very strong. Joseph answered my question with a wry smile.

  ‘With a history like this hotel, there are bound to be ghosts.’

  ‘Do you know of any female ghosts?’ I questioned. ‘This ghost appeared to be sitting at the table in my room as if waiting for someone to join her.’

  ‘That would be Bella Southwell,’ replied Joseph.

  ‘You mean the “Bella Southwell”, manageress of the Hotel Kurrajong during the Depression and World War Two?’

  ‘That Bella Southwell, indeed!’ replied Joseph.

  My appetite for breakfast had now disappeared, only to be replaced by my appetite for getting to the bottom of what sounded like an intriguing mystery. ‘So why would Bella Southwell’s ghost be in my room after 11.00 pm waiting for someone to join her?’ I wondered out loud.

  ‘Perhaps this will help you,’ Joseph replied, handing me a large folder full of papers and clippings that appeared to date back many years. Now I was curious and, quickly taking possession of my newfound booty, headed into the café for a strong coffee.

  Several hours and quite a bit of coffee later, a picture of what had happened was starting to form in my mind. I also could not help but think that this may not have been the first time that Joseph had been asked about the ghost.

  Isabella Southwell had indeed been the respected manageress of the Hotel Kurrajong from 1931, at the height of the Depression, and continued in that role until her untimely death in 1946. But it was when I discovered her journal and found one particularly intriguing entry that I began to put the pieces of this puzzle together. The date was 5 July 1945, exactly sixty-seven years ago today.

  I waited for news as I sat down to supper that night, alone. I was worried. I had not heard any news and around the hotel there was a quiet sense of foreboding. My table was set with my usual late night meal and as it had been the case recently, it was only set for one. Dining alone had become more frequent of late. I had a light vegetable broth with fresh herbs from the garden, freshly baked bread from the kitchens followed by a bread and butter pudding. John had always said it would never do to be seen ‘living it up’ while everyone else was going without because of the war.

  Who was John, I wondered and read on.

  It was nearly midnight when I finished my supper. I checked again with the front desk and still no news. I made my last round of the hotel before retiring to bed. Everything was quiet, although I could still see the light on in Ben Chifley’s room. I suppose Phyllis may have been staying that night and I thought wistfully of the pre-war days when John and I would sup late with Ben and Phyllis. Those were the good years, after the Depression, before the war and before John became prime minister. He had lived at the Kurrajong then, spending most nights with me. Of course, we were discreet, just like Ben and Phyllis.

  John was the prime minister? John who? Then it came to me, John Curtin, the Labor prime minister during the war years. He died in office just after victory was declared in Europe. I continued with Bella’s diary entry, turning the page.

  I finally went to bed at 12.30 pm still not knowing how John was?

  I wondered what she meant by that and noticed she had continued the diary entry further down the page.

  There was a knock on the door just after 5.30 am. It was almost time to get up anyway but I wondered whom it might be. As I opened the door I saw it was Frank Forde, with Ben Chifley standing just behind him. I could see from the look on their faces that they had bad news. Ben was the first to say he was sorry to tell me that John had died that morning at 4.00 am at the Lodge. I felt numb but somehow thanked them for letting me know. After all it was what I had been expecting.

  Suddenly it all fell into place. Today was the anniversary of John Curtin’s death and during her time as hotel manageress, Bella Southwell had been his lover. This, however, still did not explain why Bella had been sitting in my room late last night.

  I managed to spend the entire day reading through the folder of information that Joseph had given me. Bella’s journal had been particularly illuminating and although I was aware of rumours about political romances in Canberra, I had not been aware of her involvement with John Curtin.

  I dined alone again that night. I could not get Bella out of my mind. The war had been virtually over when John died and maybe Bella had every reason to think that everyt
hing would return to the way it had been before the war. I had ordered a ginger and chilli Atlantic salmon cutlet with a dressed Asian salad. As I finished my meal I looked up and noticed a photograph of Bella hanging on the wall. She was standing out the front of the Hotel Kurrajong. The caption indicated that the photo was taken in early 1946, just four months before she died.

  It was then that it hit me. Bella died just a few months after John Curtin. Perhaps she died of a broken heart … or is that too sentimental? I couldn’t get the tragedy of Bella’s early death out of my mind as I got into bed that night. But having spent the whole day reading about her, the hotel and the politics of the time, I was exhausted.

  Once again I awoke with a start and again I could see a figure at the table in the corner of my room. But this time the figure looked across at me and smiled sadly, saying, ‘I just couldn’t eat alone anymore …’

  Table for six

  Lucinda Moody

  It was a handsome looking vanilla slice. She studied it. My journey rests on you. Her shiny fork approached the pastry lid.

  Over the past six months, when she had dreamt of the opening of her café, one of two scenes would play out in her mind to entertain her. In one, her passionfruit vanilla slice was the star. It would wait, deep and dusted with icing sugar, in its pan until she would come into the kitchen, slowly—she wanted to be careful not to rush her customers—to saw through the pastry flakes and custard with her bread knife. She would sit one rectangle on each plate, adorn each with a violet, and silently declare them ready to be a part of the private and steady conversation being had at the back table.

  Her second dream would see squares of pissaladière being warmed and plated in a café so full of clamour, laughter and warmth that she would break into a smile. She lingered over the vision tonight; the carafes of red wine on the tables were a problem. She would need to wait to get her licence, if she ever did. And in any case there was another obstruction—dark, looming—the café hadn’t opened yet. It was still another five days away. Too long to wait, and too soon for her. Her heart quickened, and she waited for it to slow before raising her fork again to the pastry lid.