She hadn’t expected what came next. She was waiting for his small talk, and expected a rundown of how the business was going with him away after he checked his emails. So she sat quietly. She was tired of creating the magic. Instead, as he pushed his chicken around, she looked at him. He wore a short-sleeved button-up shirt. She remembered telling a friend once how she absolutely hated men who wore short-sleeved button-up shirts. As she pondered her shallowness and his bad taste in clothing, he looked at her and said, ‘I’d probably marry you one day, you know?’
She stared, mouth open as he wiped the grease off his face and clicked his fingers for the bill. She smiled with closed lips and looked out onto the street, realising that the lights had turned on, night had fallen, and she had missed it. He got the bill and she pushed her plate away, her poulet unfinished. She didn’t speak, didn’t ask to share the gateau basque.
‘Finally full after all the duck fat and pig meat, is you?’
She didn’t reply, and he nodded as if pleased with his victory. They had gone to bed early and she listened to him snore over the sounds of people laughing in the street.
He often napped in the afternoon and she would sit in the room and read. He didn’t want her walking in the city alone, so she would stay in the hotel. She didn’t argue. Paris had never felt to her like a city one should be alone in.
But now she was alone. She had packed her bag whilst he slept and walked out of the hotel, all in what seemed to be one swift motion.
She hadn’t left purely because of the rushing. She wasn’t a child. She had simply sat bolt upright in bed with him asleep beside her and decided she had to. She was scared, of course. Paris felt intimidating in those first few steps out into the street. Everyone seemed to be walking with purpose, walking somewhere, to something. So she straightened her back and did the same.
She breathed in the scents of the city—the dank wind off the river, the sweet air coming out of a pâtisserie, the warm scent of meat being cooked in preparation for dinner.
She reached the bistro and stopped outside. What was she doing? There was only one table left, and it was set for two. She must go back before he awoke, or she would have to eat alone, and not just today. She stood to the side of the bistro, out of view of its windows, and started to cry.
The waiter came out and he recognised her. Her cheeks began to redden. She turned to leave.
‘Bonsoir!’ he said, a little too loudly, to get her attention. She turned around. He was smiling. ‘A table? Would you like to sit outside? The view at this time of day, madame, it is a delight.’
He ushered her to the table, discreetly removing the second table setting and ignoring her tears.
‘A wine perhaps. I can recommend the Irouléguy rosé?’
She nodded and wiped her eyes. Although the bistro was filled with diners all waving for his attention he quickly brought out the wine, as if he knew she was likely to run.
The rosé was dry, and it calmed her. She breathed in, feeling the stillness, her resolve strengthened. Although the bistro was busy, the street filled with people, it felt quiet to her. She just sat and watched.
The waiter offered her the menu. She shook her head. She knew what she wanted.
‘The poulet basquaise, please, with the gateau basque to follow.’
He smiled again and left her.
She sat for what felt like hours, but was really only seconds, waiting and watching. The people seemed to move too quickly—the sun was setting and she wanted to stop them all and say, ‘Just look’.
The streetlights came on first, just seconds before the sun went down. They flickered on one by one along the street and she followed them with her eyes. She turned to the twinkling lights in the park. Some were on and the others began to flicker to life as she watched.
Then the bicycles followed suit, the riders turning on their lights as if following unspoken orders. The cars all seemed to light up in harmony in the peak hour traffic.
The waiter appeared next to her and placed her meal in front of her. The steam rose from the bowl and the garlic and onion raced for her nostrils. She began to salivate.
She ripped a piece of bread and wiped it in the sauce that shone with oil and put it to her lips. The smoky pork was deeply intertwined into the taste of tomato. She ate the whole thing.
Then the tart. Golden and plain on the outside, but when she cut into it the dark cherries spilled onto the plate, peeking out from under the unctuous cream. The pastry was buttery yet light and flaky and it seemed to melt on her lips. The dark cherries had been soaked in a liqueur she couldn’t place, that was mildly humming in the background of her taste buds. And the cream left a sheen of smooth fat shining on her lips as she took the last bite.
She sat with her back to the full restaurant, hearing nothing. There was no fear, and nowhere to rush to. Her eyes were on the street, and she watched the lights as she dined alone.
An attentive waiter
Danya Bilinsky
She remembers an article her mother gave her. It was about how, as you grow older, your perception of your mother’s advice changes. At twenty-two years of age she ought to fall into the ‘what would mum know’ category. She never disregards what her mother has to say, rarely goes against it. Yet somehow she finds herself here.
She is alone in India. Circumstances forced her to rebel, the mystery of the south too irresistible. Despite defying her mother, she often thinks of her. She also thinks of home.
There is a trough in the corner where they wash their hands, removing the dust and dirt from the outside world. She huddles amongst them, a duckling learning by example. Her sari-wrapped body does little to hide that she is a foreigner.
She lingers longer than the others. Lathering, rinsing and lathering again. No one else takes that much care. Her eyes scroll the room hoping for a nook, an alcove, where she can be protected from scrolling eyes like her own. She deflates on finding the last spare seat—in the middle of the room.
He notices her as soon as she enters. It is impossible not to. Green lily pad eyes float on her flawless complexion. Her fair hair is almost white. She dares to be here by herself.
The room is a square. Unstable propped tables are ordered into schoolroom lines. The bare wooden floor echoes the clatter of plates and patrons’ slurps. Spiced aromas swirl around the otherwise bland room. She is on show in the centre. It’s as if her fairness is reflective, forming a spot light that shines where she sits.
There is no menu. No opportunity to mispronounce and embarrass herself. Everyone here eats the same thing—a thali. The food is vegetarian. It’s how she has been eating anyway, taking the safest option. She owes it to her mother.
She fiddles with her hands, distracting her gaze as she waits for the meal.
He cannot approach her yet. Without a menu there is no order for him to take, no chance to watch her mouth struggle around unfamiliar words, no hope of hearing her voice.
The dish only requires one set of hands but five sets compete to deliver it. He wins the battle, clattering the silver bowls as he wrenches them from his competition. The ten pace journey is over too quickly. He has thought of nothing to say as he places the meal in front of her. The green eyes look into his. She thanks him, in his own language.
She feels a squeak escape and hopes it is recognised as the gratitude she intended to show. With only a guidebook as her teacher she rarely attempts the language, for fear she may say something inappropriate or worse yet, fail.
The thali in front of her is an Indian bento box, inviting her to try a little of everything. There are three curries in small silver bowls. Their gravies are thinner than their northern counterparts yet their spiciness more concentrated. Cauliflower florets bathe in turmeric, paneer cheese is dressed in spinach and the dainty fingers of okra have been fried. Mango chutney and coconut pickle are served in spoon-sized dollops on a banana leaf. They are a reminder of the palm-lined streets only blocks away. All she remembers is the chaos. She eats s
lowly to delay her return.
He has plenty of others to serve at lunch time on a Thursday but he lingers near her table. His eyes do not leave her. Overtly and shamelessly he stares. It’s her difference that draws him to her.
The dishes don’t come with rice. They also don’t come with cutlery. She takes care to only use her left hand—her guidebook to thank again. She also has a dosa to assist, using the edges of the crisp pancake as a spoon. The steamed idli are soft cushions that soak the spice-laden liquid into their deep-pored skin.
He weaves around her, offering refills of chai to win her attention. He watches the way she eats, snapping dosa and dipping idli. She samples and savours, not slowing for the spice. It is no challenge for her.
What begins as a chilli tingle on her tongue fiercely numbs her mouth. A milk pudding sprinkled with cashews and raisins douses the fire.
After the meal she is exhausted. Deciding she has earned a break from the madness, she will go to her room. She pays the bill and leaves.
He watches as she climbs the stairs. She must stay in the hotel above. He thinks of her laying on the sheets to rest. What would a girl like her dream about?
If he had a chance to be in her thoughts he would take her to the ocean. They would watch children playing cricket on the sand, laughter filling the air.
Or would he have her all to himself? He could take her far from the city, to the mist-veiled waterfalls in the north. They would shelter under a tree, mesmerised by the flowing cascades. With such an adventure she would have to let him into her dreams again.
He dreams too. He dreams that she comes again tomorrow—the mysterious girl that dines alone.
With her mother on her mind she takes out the pad of writing paper, the hotel’s address inscribed on the top right corner. Should she protect her mother from worrying that she is without a travelling companion? She calculates that she will return home before the Indian mail does. There will be no reason for her mother to worry when she is safe. So she starts to write: ‘You will never find a more attentive waiter than one serving a single girl in India …’
Under the sea
Elizabeth Black
I’m quietly humming Tom Jones and prodding a round of ashed chèvre on my plate. Richard is dissecting the carapace of a modest lobster with a series of implements that look like dental or perhaps gynaecological tools. I imagine them crawling over my skin with abrupt, investigative pokes. The dark eye of the lobster stares bleakly at me from the tip of an antenna. Richard snaps it off and digs into the cavity with a pair of long tweezers. I wince. How is the fish darling? he says. Actually it’s a crustacean, I say absently. It’s a fish darling, says Richard patiently. Pesce, pescatore, remember? Mm, I say, looking down at my plate. A sardine coils, en colère, around the cheese, warden of the fortress, like a shining moat around an ivory turret. An angry sardine.
Richard has two moods. This one, this endless expansive patronising patience, and another which is more clipped and fussy, and which I like to draw out on occasion. Tonight he is in his element, running an authoritative finger down the menu, arguing jovially with the sommelier, pulling out my chair and waving a napkin over my lap with a flourish. People are looking. The lobster is not large, but cunningly arranged to extend over the breadth of the plate and propped high to look as imposing as possible. Much as it would have done in life, I imagine. I heard the mermaid scream, I mutter under my breath. What’s that? says Richard. I wish you wouldn’t mumble. Richard is slightly deaf in one ear and refuses the concession of a hearing aid.
I said is it a garlic cream? I say loudly, pointing with my fork to a small dish of white stuff teetering on the edge of his plate. It’s allioli, he says smugly, using the Catalan pronunciation. Never mind that this is a French restaurant. People in glass houses. The sardine is surrounded by a second moat of olive oil, and from slashes along its side spill crisply fried breadcrumbs and parsley. The effect is slightly disturbing, reminiscent of a last meal of seaweed and tiny shrimp, perhaps. The tail is thrust into the mouth in a final act of aggression. Is this what it means to eat one’s dreams? What do sardines dream about? Grazing happily on seaweed and shrimp, probably.
Aren’t you going to eat it? You’re making a mess of it. Richard’s tone is peevish. I look down. The turret has been demolished by my wayward fork and lies in two as though struck by lightning. The dragon at the gate, I murmur, watching the shimmering skin of the fish, round and round, eternally watching, waiting, guarding. What? Says Richard. I said you were late, I say, irritated at being caught out. This is not quite true, as I set my watch ten minutes fast so that I am never in danger of running out of time. Richard thinks this is ridiculous, and I can see him puffing up in preparation to say so. I hum a little Tom Jones. Richard dislikes Tom Jones. Richard likes jazz and something he calls ‘Afro-fusion’.
I’m thinking of becoming vegetarian. I say this to Richard. He stops with the point of a tiny spear poised over part of the lobster. You can’t be serious, he says. There is a waver of doubt in his voice. You love meat. Oh you love it, says a little voice in my head. No Richard, I say firmly, you love meat.
In fact what Richard loves is the visceral quality of flesh; he loves to dwell on the oozy unctuousness of it all, the palpitating wriggle of an oyster in his throat, the demented wanderings of the lobster like a showgirl cut in two in a magic box, the hiss of protest as tiny crabs descend into bubbling oil.
You can’t. Be. Serious. He says again, brandishing an antenna, or leg, or tusk. Can’t I? I say lightly. Why is that Richard? Why can’t I be serious? Let’s get serious, why not? A little strain of Olivia Newton John runs through my head and I giggle (Richard dislikes Olivia Newton John. He is not patriotic).
You’re drunk, says Richard. I am not in the least drunk, I say. In case you haven’t noticed the sommelier hasn’t bothered to pour either of us a second glass. The wine is still sitting on the sideboard with a little silver collar around its neck, to catch drips. I’m very good at catching drips, I say aloud. I don’t know what’s got into you tonight, Richard says. You’re not yourself, he says.
My dear Richard, I say, mimicking his lofty manner, I have never been more myself. This is true, I realise. I think I should take you home, he says. On the contrary Richard, I say, I think you should leave. Off you go. Toddle off home for a nightcap. Richard stands. You’re making a scene, he says. Come on. I haven’t had my pâtes aux truffes, I say. I’ve been looking forward to it all day. You go, I say, and I won’t catch up later. I don’t understand you Sandra, he says angrily, only he pronounces it ‘Sondra’. Oh well, I say airily. Never mind. C’est la vie.
The sommelier has been fluttering anxiously around our table. People are looking. I hand him Richard’s glass. You can take this, I say. The gentleman won’t be dining with me tonight. Is there anything … er … says the sommelier, shifting from toe to toe. I trust there is nothing …
No, says Richard shortly. I have a prior engagement. He flops a couple of hundreds onto the table. His pocket book is snakeskin. The sommelier edges away, embarrassed. Richard walks to the door, fumbles with his coat and scarf, waiting for me to run after him I suppose. I beckon the sommelier over. Please clear it, I say, indicating the mass of shards and spent lemon wedges opposite. I realise I am hungry. I fork up the creamy turret and push the plate to one side. Then I pull it back again and release the tail of the sardine from its jaws. I don’t know what I expect. For it to spring back like an elastic coil. Instead it lies bent, like a broken toy, forever stretching to complete the circle, chasing a dream it can never devour.
Minestra
Rita Cattoni
It was an odd choice, to leave the warm sunny days of the central desert for the cold and drizzle of a Melbourne winter. But Cynthia had promised her city-self twelve months before that she would never miss a film festival. From one venue to the next she flitted, catching up with friends in ticket queues, then sitting silently and watchful for hours, only to rush off see another,
sometimes, masterpiece. Cynthia is reliving her inner-city existence, although now she is six months pregnant and her visit has become a final farewell to a past-life.
Occasionally, she finds herself alone with an hour or two to waste or ponder before the next film or meeting with a friend. And so it is that one night, Cynthia happens upon a sombre café where she had once dined with a lover, during her brief separation from David.
This night, the café is empty and it is hard to tell if it is too early or business is on a downward tumble. Cynthia barely notices the lack of diners at the long white tables nor the rain that has just begun to slice against the surrounding glass.
He was Egyptian. He had come in and out of her life for years, always as a friend or colleague. They would get close and then he would disappear. This time, Cynthia was free, or so she thought as she had gladly waved David off on the Spirit of Tasmania for an extended separation. Within days Samir had come back into her life.
This time their lives had more points of intersection, there were more chance meetings. Their conversations were endless. They would talk of politics, films and food. He would lament the despondency of the Australian nation, and Cynthia would agree. She would lament the dismal state of the Australian film industry, and he would agree. And then they would move onto food. Cynthia would describe items she had seen at her local Lebanese grocer: ful beans, kishk powder, salep, pomegranate molasses. Samir would explain their uses and their flavours. Then he had offered to cook for her.
Dining Alone Page 4