Dining Alone

by Santich, Barbara;

  It was soft. There was no resistance—top, middle or bottom. No flaky shards spun into the air. The fork sank down between layers of chewy pastry. Her hopeful heart went with it. She noticed that her back was aching. She closed her eyes. This is not going to work. She didn’t have it in her to start again or even to start staring down the doubts that lined up and danced in front of her. She knew them well but tonight let them perform tirelessly as she cleaned up, turned off the lights, brushed her teeth, climbed the stairs and, facing the wall, willed herself to sleep in the sleep-out above the café.

  Walking over to her scrapbook on the bench, she realised she had done so without intention and wondered again what was so comforting about her own handwritten recipes. It’s the only evidence I’ve got that I’ve ever done anything. But it was not speaking to her this morning. It shrugged its shoulders as she flicked through.

  She felt it all around her in the kitchen today as well. It wasn’t just last night, she admitted to herself. The preparation over the past three months had been energising, but the past week had been uncertain and she felt like she had been pitting herself against something rather than creating it.

  When her friends Karen and Peter had owned the shop, it was dull and sparse. Blinds shunned the dear sunlight that tried to stream in every afternoon. The couple ignored what had seemed to her audible calls from the beautiful deep sills for pots of herbs and lipstick-red geraniums; they didn’t hear the pleas from the walls for a lick of paint to warm them and for brewing, baking and basting to fill their corners.

  So when she bought this shop terrace from them three months ago, and downsized her life to fit into the sleep-out above the kitchen, she would bring it warmth and even a permanent resident; it would in return let her use its space, the shopfront—now a café—to play out a life, to use as a showpiece. The spinning wheel that had been her life now had traction.

  How differently she saw the same walls this morning. They looked straight back at her, and she felt as alone as she had before she had come here.

  She dragged the massive pots out of the back fridge. She had to taste this stuff again. She had planned another dry run that evening with her family, but it would be one of her last before strangers would be in here paying money to eat. She needed to sit with her food alone again.

  Almost an hour later she took a seat at the big table—the table for six—and sat for a minute. She had laid out six meals for her pretend customers. With a weary hand she lifted a spoonful of the pea soup that had glugged on the stove for hours the night before. The warmth of it travelled through her before she tasted anything. But then it came, and it was good—it was a soulful soup, good enough to serve to strangers, she thought.

  She moved down a seat to her pissaladière—her savoury specialty. The salt of the olives and anchovies cut through the air and she longed for a glass of wine to round them out. It wasn’t as good as it should be though—too doughy—what had she done to that oven? To have the pastry for her vanilla slice fail as well? She pushed up her sleeves—she would have to work it out head on this afternoon.

  She slid from seat to seat, around her big table, and bent over her plates, eyes closed, smelling, sipping, chewing and thinking. These flavours were good. She would pay money for them. But she had few items on her menu—if she did not fix her pissaladière and vanilla slices, she could barely call herself a café.

  She moved around the corner to sit at the head of the table. She looked at her tabletop, its colours, shapes and textures. Is this enough?

  She could see the legs of passers-by beneath the sheets her brother had draped along the shopfront. She sat in her space. She felt the walls warm up. Or was she just willing them to? It soon wouldn’t matter.

  She and this room, they were about to be on show.

  A waiter’s intrigue

  Kate Napper

  My mind is ticking over. His clean-cut, fashion-savvy appearance suggests he’s not from around here. His highly polished, crocodile skin boots make him stand out from our other thong-wearing clientele. And why does he have a computer at the dinner table? My waiter’s instincts suggest journalist, perhaps food writer.

  I offer the day’s specials and throw in some suggestive selling by praising the crayfish caught locally this morning. It’s a little over zealous of me, considering the crays are nearly 3 kg; even a sumo wrestler would struggle to finish one himself. My lone diner accepts the recommendation and then, further highlighting his appetite, orders oysters. Having polished off a local beer, he moves to the wine list where after a momentary glance his deep brown eyes look to me for another local recommendation. A white wine is my proposal and his eyes linger on me just long enough to say, ‘I’ll leave it up to you.’ I remove the menu as if to tidy his table, which he has cluttered with papers, phone and laptop. Paying him a little more attention than our average diner I fill his wine glass at the table, displaying the wine’s label as he drinks.

  His order is given the once-over in the kitchen and eyebrows are raised at the realisation it’s for one. I pass my suspicions on to the kitchen staff and there is a rush to the small window in the kitchen door. I smile and leave the kitchen abuzz.

  I equip my loner for the meal ahead, placing claw crackers, shell picker, finger bowl and oyster fork on the table. The utensils lie in a disorganised manner; there is no room for me to set them in the standard, parallel fashion.

  Each visit to his table feels like an intrusion yet I’m too curious to feel guilty. I try to distract him from his work, to lure his eyes away from the computer screen so I can search them for answers. Instead his eyes remain focused on the screen. His props seem to be protecting him from the other happenings in the restaurant, mostly diners enjoying one another’s company.

  The oysters served natural are ready instantaneously. He devours them almost as quickly as they arrive, shucking them whole into his mouth and barely chewing. His cutlery remains unused next to his plate. I return to retrieve his plate and he orders more wine. This time he would like something different but again it’s up to me. Relishing the trust he has in me, I am determined to please him. I have forgotten about the other diners in the restaurant; it’s like he has me under a spell.

  While he is away at the bathroom, I top his water glass, hoping to sneak a look at the screen on his computer, but a screen saver stops me. I can’t help thinking that perhaps my inference is silly and that he’s just not used to flying solo at the dinner table. This is his attempt to hide any insecurity.

  I turn to the other diners in the restaurant while his crayfish is prepared. Though my hands seem to be serving, my mind is not on the job. At every chance I steal a look his way, curious as to what he’s up to.

  The crayfish is even bigger than I anticipated. I deliver it to his table and as expected stand there buckling under the weight of the platter as he tries to make room amidst the clutter. He seems satisfied although says little more than thanks. I leave him alone to eat.

  He is now almost the last diner in the restaurant, which would give new meaning to the term ‘dining alone’. He is still picking away at his crustacean, tap, tap, tapping on the computer keys and every so often taking a sip of wine. The crayfish seems to have inspired him; his fingers float over the keyboard as if under a spell.

  With all our other diners long gone I attempt to give our solo diner the hurry-on. I approach the table and offer to clear the plates, to which he obliges. ‘The crayfish,’ he says, ‘was much better than expected.’ I leave the table with his empty cray shell, certain it’s a review he’s writing.

  I offer him dessert and his reply further confirms my thoughts. ‘Yes, I had better have dessert,’ he says. I get the impression this decision is based on obligation rather than desire. Again he leaves the decision of what up to me.

  Only after coffee and half of the dessert does he seem defeated. When my solo diner appears at the counter to pay, the transaction is brief. We exchange pleasantries; I’m tempted to comment on his work but r
efrain.

  To my surprise this is not my last encounter, for he returns wanting to know where he can get a drink. Intrigued, I direct him to the pub we frequent after work. ‘I’ll probably see you there when we finish up here.’ He leaves with the first smile I’ve seen all night.

  One is a lonely number

  Josie Palombo

  ‘If you can, you must eat here every day, the food is magnificent!’ she exclaimed with her deep English accent, boldly waving her arms about like a true Italian to passers by.

  — — —

  It was a sunny, picture perfect day in Portofino, along the Italian Riviera. Waves of the Mediterranean sea crashed against the wharf, coloured shade cloths hung suspended from the tall orange, red, yellow and cream houses, and boats of all different sizes convened in the bay. The restaurants along the wharf were filled with Italy’s rich and famous. Couples walked up and down the ancient bumpy paved street, licking ice-cold gelato; children kicked a football back and forth; Vespas whizzed up and down the street while elderly men stood at their doorsteps and watched as the world went by. It was the late 1990s and life was good.

  Mario was a third generation owner of a restaurant on the Italian Riviera. It had been in his family for generations, from his grandfather, to his father, to him. He was proud of his humble restaurant that served not only people from all over the world but also the locals; it was a livelihood that always provided. Mario had grown up in the restaurant so he knew it like the back of his hand; he knew the characters and the faces that occupied the space day in and day out. Watching his dad befriend the locals, providing them with a shelter and meeting place in the winter when people most needed it. Birthdays, weddings, anniversaries, family reunions took place in the quaint restaurant. Mario saw it all and shared it all. The restaurant was made up of one room and an outside seating area alongside the wharf. The dated brown timber walls, wooden chairs, and cream tiles, kept the restaurant kitschy and unassuming. The restaurant meant a lot to the family and it continued to have the same effect with Mario and his own family.

  Mario knew all his customers but one: Elizabeth. Even though she had been dining there for years and he was friendly with everyone, he never bothered her. As a child Mario was never allowed to say hello to her like he would with the other diners. Distantly staring across the water, she would sit, upright, grand but unemotional, and he always found that strange. He’d ask the locals about her, heads would turn and the topic quickly changed. Mario wanted to find out and today was going to be the day.

  She was a woman of class and elegance. Her fire-engine-red, wide-brimmed hat, black feline sunglasses and long silk dress made her look like she had stepped out of Vogue Italia. She was a very popular woman around these parts though no one knew much about her. Every day passersby would stop and say hello, discuss the weather, give her a fleeting kiss on each cheek and continue walking along, but Mario always had the feeling she was lonely.

  Every day she ate at the restaurant, sitting at the same table and ordering exactly the same meal: an eggplant piadina, minestrone and acqua gassata. Her name was Elizabeth, that’s all he knew about her. He could see loneliness in her eyes. She never really ate much of her lunch, only ever gracefully nibbled at it; maybe she wasn’t hungry, or the summer heat narrowed her appetite.

  One warm August day, Mario could see Elizabeth’s water needed a refill and decided to go over and fill it up. He figured it would be a good excuse to go and talk to her.

  ‘Excuse me, is everything ok here?’

  ‘Yes dear, everything is fine as usual, thank you.’

  Disappointed by her short response, Mario was left wanting more. Was it realistic to think that she would carry a conversation with him? When she turned her head to watch the regatta he realised that was the end of the conversation.

  — — —

  The water bottle was standing on the table, condensation sliding down its neck as the day warmed. The ice in the glass had melted and the lemon wedge was floating in a pool of water.

  I took a seat and waited for my lunch to arrive. I didn’t have to order with the waiters, I had been eating at that restaurant for a long time, and they knew what I wanted.

  It was quiet around the wharf that day. Usually buzzing with people, there was a peaceful ambiance that made me feel very much at ease. I looked up and, as though walking on smashed glass, a nervous waiter arrived with lunch.

  I was hungry that day and decided to start quickly. The minestrone was steaming, plump carrots, bright red tomato, shiny green olive oil, and cannellini beans all dancing in the bowl together. I decided to leave it for a minute to cool down. I cut into the piadina and, like a volcano’s lava the eggplant and mozzarella spilled out onto the plate. I sighed, admired the sandwich and felt a sense of harmony and happiness with the food in front of me.

  — — —

  The curiosity had gotten the better of Mario, and after years of wondering, rumors and disregard, his mind and body had decided Elizabeth wasn’t leaving that day until he found out more about her. Mario walked back over; she looked up and without saying a word, gestured at the chair opposite her. He pulled out the wooden seat, sat down and tried not to let her piercing green eyes intimidate.

  Mario blurted out, ‘Excuse me, hi, every day you eat here, sit at the same table, order the same meal and never dine with anyone. You seem to have friends that pass by on the street, and many men who desire your attention, yet you still dine alone. For years I’ve watched you and I’m curious to know why.’

  She paused, took another sip of her espresso, looked around and began to speak.

  ‘I came here to Italy with my husband many years ago from London, on what was to be a short six-month business trip, and, I’m still here. I love Italy; she has given me a wonderful life. When we first arrived, William would be out at work in the office making very important deals, he was very successful and I always admired his dedication.’ Elizabeth stopped and reflected, her memory deep in the past, her eyes filling with tears. ‘During the day, I’d be out on my own. William always insisted we meet for lunch. I was a young bride and at that stage cooking wasn’t my forte; come to think of it, my abilities haven’t improved at all,’ she said with a chuckle.

  ‘We figured we were in Italy and we should eat like Italians. So we settled on a restaurant, this one,’ she said as she looked at me with a smile. ‘And so every day, at the same time, we’d meet here and order a gigantic meal. Most days we ordered the same thing, spaghetti allo scoglio, bistecca and a piadina, those were our favourites. Lots of wine and spumante flowed over the table and everyone was happy. Over time, we became regulars, friends with the owner, your father, and the locals. Everyone always had time for a chat or two. It was a good time in our life.’

  ‘So why now do you eat alone?’ Mario asked.

  ‘Twenty years ago, William disappeared. Woke up one morning, left for work and never arrived for lunch. I eat here every day,’ she said, as a tear slid down her cheek, ‘because I hope that that one day he will pull out that wooden chair just like you did, sit down, give me a kiss on the cheek and admire the mozzarella that oozes out of the piadina.’

  Grandmother Chen

  Diana Parkyn

  Guildford, Yennora, Fairfield, Canley Vale. The stations flickered by in a monotonous progression of 1950s suburbia; of blue and cream fibro boxes, a landscape punctuated only occasionally by the elegant spire of a mosque or wat. Once there, I quickly made my way up and over the footbridge and into Cabramatta Mall. I paid no heed to the shifty-eyed youths lounging outside the small shops that lined Railway Parade, but rather, headed straight into St John’s Road and the seething mass of pedestrians. I glanced at the clock tower high above Bing Lee’s: nearly noon and the adjacent streets were already crowded, the traffic, shuddering to a crawl.

  I manoeuvred past the policemen who had stopped two caucasian men; the officers were gloved up, ready to search an assortment of carry bags lying on the ground. A constant stream of
shoppers filed past, their eyes glazed over, choosing not to see the two Gwailo junkies. This dirty, unshaven pair was part of the constant influx of white parasites flowing in for the ‘twenty dollar a cap’ heroin, in pure and plentiful supply. They stood out, like blowflies on a sheep’s back, to be shrugged away for an all too brief instant, only to return and settle again. I felt uncomfortable watching the little drama unfold; after all, I wasn’t one of them.

  ‘I wonder,’ I silently pondered, ‘do I look like I’m here to score or eat?’

  Anticipation, my constant companion, matched my every step through the crowded mall. Finally reaching my destination, I entered the Bien Vinh Restaurant and was immediately assailed by noise and confusion. A waiter appeared and steered me quickly to a small table adjacent to the bustling kitchen. ‘You sit here, yes?’ The question was barked; an order.

  In one swift movement, the waiter, a sharp-eyed little rodent of a man, snatched up the sheets of paper covering the table, littered with the detritus of previous diners, and replaced them with fresh ones. Plastic chopsticks and a bowl appeared, along with a steaming pot of fragrant, jasmine tea and a small ceramic beaker. But this was not why I had come.

  Every inch of space in the sizeable room was in use, large round tables were filled with extended families, and all were intent on the array of food in front of them. Girls wheeling trolleys laden with steaming baskets circulated rapidly around the room, weaving in and out of the maze of tables, stopping long enough for choices to be made. I was good-naturedly tempted and cajoled in turn by each passing girl. I made a choice just to stop their constant badgering.

  Gradually, the girls simply ignored me; if I didn’t want to eat, there were plenty of other patrons who did. Ratty, who had been orchestrating the procession, glared in my direction and shouted something in Vietnamese. This was highlighted by a vicious stab of his head in my direction. The non-too-subtle message was unmistakable. I looked over at the swiftly growing crowd at the front door; my table was obviously needed by other, faster diners.