I made one last attempt to get what I came for, but the waitress didn’t understand my absurd mixture of pidgin and hand signals as I continued to whisper, over and over. ‘Grandmother, GRANDMOTHER! G … rrr … aaa … Oh, for God’s sake.’
‘No. No grandmother here, you leave now please.’ I picked up my bag and pushed my way to the front counter, stopping just long enough to throw down a twenty for the untouched spring roll and tea.
— — —
I looked up from my seat on the deserted platform with a start. Seeing the two leather-clad feet planted on the hot pavement gave me a fluttering, unpleasant feeling in the pit of my stomach. My eyes automatically followed the line upward to the owner of the feet; black stovepipe polyester, shiny with wear; hair cropped, very close to the scalp.
It was Ratty and he was standing way too close, purposefully invading my personal space. There was no escape; I could feel my face tightening, my mouth pursing into what my sister always referred to as my ‘cat’s bum’ expression. Like the prey of a cobra, I was mesmerised, unable to move. I was nearing hysteria, releasing little coughs of nervous laughter. My stomach clenched into a ropy knot of muscle fibre, cords so tight they might snap.
After what seemed an eternity, Ratty spoke. ‘Pardon me, yes? You want Grandmother Chen? You follow me. Over here, not too far, yes?’
— — —
The first white-hot rush of searing pain hit my mouth, tongue and throat with unexpected intensity. Almost gagging, I jerked my head backwards violently in a seizure of pleasure and pain; a loud moan erupted from deep within my belly. Just as the first stinging heat was subsiding, I broke into a cold, clammy sweat, and mopped my brow with jittery hands.
There was no stopping it now; its weight pressed down around my shoulders, blanketing me in a thick velvety fog, closing in, and hugging me tight in its fierce grip. I could feel Grandmother Chen’s magical elixir trickling its way through veins and arteries to distil and pool in vital organs where it would stay, igniting occasionally into little bonfires of ecstasy.
— — —
It had been March 1987 and I had been staying in a cavernous, Russian-built hotel in Xian in the Chinese Province of Chengdu, when I first tasted Ma Po Dofu or Pock-marked Grandmother’s Beancurd for the first time. The incendiary dish consisted of cubes of beancurd, bathed in a broth of stock, fresh chillies, Sichuan peppercorns and hot bean paste, and was named after its creator with such distinguishing features—Grandmother Chen.
It had had the very same effect on me then as now. So, hopelessly addicted, I have been desperately searching for it ever since.
Taking flight
Caroline Pearce
I settle into my window seat, wedging my flight bag under the seat in front, my shoes between my seat and the wall of the plane, and my two-litre bottle of water next to my legs, within arm’s reach. This is my own little pocket of space for the next twenty-four hours and I know how to make the most of it. I’ve got everything I need: a book, a trashy magazine, my diary and pen, Sony Discman and CDs, hand cream, moisturising facial spray, tickets, money, passport and a visa for a new life. Well, one year of new life, at least.
It’s early 2002, five months since two planes plunged through the twin towers in New York. The news broke on the radio while I was at work in a job I hated in a London I’d grown tired of. Just as the whole world changed that day, something changed in me too. By December I had quit the job, applied for a Working Holiday Visa to Australia, and was plotting my escape.
‘Is that what people do nowadays, darling?’ my mother enquired, alarmed that I was gallivanting off to the other side of the world at age twenty-nine instead of settling down to responsible adult life. But I hadn’t forged a solid career or found the love of my life, so what was keeping me? My family and friends would still be there when I got back. As no one was up for joining me at that time, I resolved to go it alone. I’d be bound to meet other travellers once I got there—although that prospect made my stomach somersault almost as much as the notion of being by myself.
I’ve never been one for dining alone, the experience being altogether too self-conscious, too conspicuous. But travelling alone—the business of getting from A to B, especially when there is some distance in between—is an entirely different proposition. Travelling alone is freedom and independence, courage and self-sufficiency, feeling ever so grown up—even now that I am grown up! It’s enforced relaxation and reflection, a precious moment in time when life is put on pause, a capsule of transition between one life and another. And because travelling alone necessitates dining alone, the latter is lifted out of the mire of its usual associations and imbued instead with those of the former.
The flight isn’t full so I have two seats to myself, which means space to spread out and easy access to loos and more water. And no stilted exchanges with a stranger I have no desire to engage in conversation. Adjusting to the hum of the engines and looking forward to the drinks trolley with its clinking bottles and packets of nuts, I get out my diary and pen. I’m engrossed in exploring my hopes and dreams for my impending adventure when dinner is served.
Airplane food is never very good, but I love it nonetheless. I love the tiny portions perfectly packaged and jigsawed together, the dry bread roll and butter, the impossible-to-open salad dressing sachets, the inevitable beef or chicken, the condensation on the inside of the foil lid, the glutinous sauces and overcooked vegetables, the strange desserts, the fact that although there’s not very much of it, it always seems to fill me up.
Food also helps to break up the monotony of a long plane journey, organising it into bite-size chunks, imposing a routine, a comforting ritual, however contrived. Sometimes food comes when I’m not yet hungry for another meal, but I eat anyway, surrendering to the temporary institutionalisation inside this metal tube hurtling through the air.
I watch movies, three or four, on a screen that’s far too small with sound that’s either too loud or too soft, but it’s wonderful nevertheless, this indulgent film festival for one. Some of the films fill me with sadness, some joy, but there’s no one to share these feelings with, despite my close proximity to hundreds of other passengers. What do my emotions mean if there’s nobody else to acknowledge them, to validate them—to validate me?
On arrival in Sydney I’m meeting my best friend, Catherine, and a friend of hers. They’re having an extended holiday while I’m on a backpacker’s budget; how am I going to keep my expenses under control, given their penchant for eating out? After a couple of weeks, though, they’ll move on up the coast, and if I don’t want to be dining alone I’m going to have to make some new friends. I think of my brother’s advice to me before I left: ‘If you want to have a good time in Australia you’re going to have to chill out!’ He’s got a point.
I try to sleep, as best I can in an almost upright position, mouth dry, neck cricked, legs numb and sore. Coughs and wails invade my cocoon of unconsciousness, and coiffed flight attendants glide ghost-like down the dark aisles delivering orange juice, ice-creams and practised smiles. Regularly I get up to walk around, go to the loo, refill my water bottle and do a few embarrassed, awkward yoga stretches in the confined space near one of the exit rows.
Eventually, while most of Australia still sleeps, it’s breakfast time in the fantasy time zone in the sky. Relieved to have made it through the night, I chomp with gusto through greasy sausage, congealed scrambled eggs, and a mush of boiled baked beans, washed down with lukewarm tea.
Fortified, spirits lifted, I look around the cabin properly for the first time and notice a spiky-haired girl in the seat across the aisle from me. She senses my furtive gaze, looks up and grimaces. ‘Terrible food on planes, isn’t it? Can’t wait for something decent!’ I smile and mumble agreement but she persists, asking the usual traveller questions: where are you from, where are you going, what are your plans?
Lisa has a thick Glasgow accent and a don’t-mess-with-me air that’s completely dispelled by a husky la
ugh that makes her eyes shine. She’s heading for Coogee to bake on the beach and, eventually, find a bar job. I’m staying in Manly with my friend while she’s in town, but then I’ll be moving to Coogee too.
‘Let me know when you get there,’ she says, scribbling her email address on the back of her boarding pass with a chewed pen. ‘I’ve heard of a great Thai place we could check out, if you like?’
We’re so busy chatting I don’t notice that the hundreds of passengers, poised for disembarkation, weighed down by their various belongings, have started to shuffle towards the front of the plane. I hastily throw my carefully stowed Discman, diary and book, props of the solo traveller, unneeded for now, into my bag and pull on my shoes. At the exit I smile back at the flight attendants with their freshly applied lipstick, and emerge blinking into the bright sunlight of the new world, my new friend right behind me.
The unmarried chapter
Glennise Pinili
The restaurant sat at the end of the pier overlooking the sea. Framing it were large windows and weathered columns of wood. Under the roof hung white lanterns that danced with the wind and lit the night sky.
Inside, tea candles flickered with Amelie’s dainty movements as she peeled off her coat and sat beside the window. She watched how the ocean’s waves rose then subsided like gentle breathing. She looked as calm as the ocean, but her subconscious fiddling with her now-void wedding ring, said otherwise.
Amelie took long sips of her red wine and let its smoothness roll to the back of her tongue. Already a ball of warmth lined her lower stomach. How is it that a ten-year marriage can be ruined by a one-month affair? And how did he think her so oblivious? The whispered phone calls, strange excuses … late arrivals.
‘Amelie.’
It was Matthew, her supposed husband. He was dressed in grey business pants and a crisp shirt. The loosened tie, however, was questionable. He cautiously pulled out the seat opposite her as his blue eyes carefully searched hers for cues other than her blank expression.
Matthew opened his mouth to say something, but closed it. He finally settled on, ‘We should probably get something to eat.’
They flicked through the menu but found it difficult and conflicting. Four options of pizza. Steak with sauce options but no sides. Pasta, but only in red sauces …
A young bubbly waitress spotted signs of their unattended table—menus faced down, hands fiddling with cutlery, water glasses lifted out of boredom. She scribbled down their order on her notepad, but eyed Matthew unusually before she left.
‘Is there something you wanted to tell me, Matt?’ said Amelie. Matthew had his half-full wine glass at his mouth and finally set it down.
‘I uhh … I was seeing someone else …’ his words raced. ‘But it’s definitely over between us. I promise. And I want to apologise, Amelie. I want to make—’
‘Make it up to me? How?’
‘If you let me have a second chance I’ll show you.’
‘You want a second chance, after one month of—’
‘Porterhouse, medium, mushroom sauce?’ The waitress placed Matthew’s food in front of him and turned the plate to its centre.
‘And the entrée spaghetti bolognaise with meatballs and shaved parmesan? Would you both like another drink?’
Matthew hinted to the waitress that nothing else was necessary. Frustrated, Amelie stabbed a fat meatball and managed to twist red strings of spaghetti around the fork, like a ball of yarn. It was saturated in sauce and the melted cheese seemed to create a thick layer unnecessary for garnish.
It seemed that her entrée-sized order had been upgraded to a main size, with extras.
She tasted it and felt that her mouth drowned from the thickness of the sauce. The sweetness of tomatoes and onions were also lost, while the meatballs were oversized and dry. Yet the trademark red of bolognaise wooed the eye.
Matthew however, effortlessly slid the knife through his evenly cooked steak. It looked plump and tender inside. Its ashy chargrilled aroma reminded Amelie of summer barbecues. In satisfaction Matthew swept a piece of it along the trail of mushroom sauce on the side of his white plate.
‘It’s OK, we can figure it out, Amelie,’ he said too easily.
He reached over into the breadbasket which had two pieces left. Matthew offered one to Amelie. She declined while he happily buttered his piece, ran it along the leftover mushroom sauce like a child, and bit into it. Amelie watched him then paused and unravelled spaghetti from the defeated fork as if it were a knotted thought. She looked up from her bowl of unappetising red squiggles.
‘You know what Matthew, you’re right. So just take my ring and leave … now.’
His face turned pale as he chewed his meat slowly, swallowed hard and wiped his mouth with the napkin.
Amelie slipped off her ring and held it in midair.
‘So … we’re over … like that?’
Unwillingly he held out his hand and let her drop the ring in his palm.
‘And for the record, I know it was that waitress who served us.’
Amelie listened to him move out of his chair and ruffle into his coat. He felt him pause, but she refused to look at him. His footsteps left and for a moment she cried.
She sniffed her tears away and tucked her chin-length brown hair around her ear. She wondered if anyone witnessed what happened between her and Matthew. It must’ve looked ugly.
Amelie looked up and around the restaurant for the first time that night. She realised how alone and defeated she felt in a zoo full of people.
A couple flirted and held hands tightly while their pizza shrivelled in abandonment. They whispered and laughed at their in-jokes as though they were the only people in the room. It felt strange to her that she used to be a part of something similar.
A group of young women gossiped over champagne. Families laughed, took photos, talked loudly and ate with gusto.
Even two lone diners across from her didn’t seem alone. One was a middle-aged man in jeans and a pressed business shirt. While on the phone he laughed and poked at his grilled fish like it was being prepped for surgery. The other was a woman in her fifties. She was reading a novel and savoured each bite of her berry cheesecake. She slid the teaspoon slowly off her bottom lip while flicking back to previous pages in the book.
Amelie felt awkward as the wild sounds of restaurant activity overwhelmed the dull picture of herself eating vanilla ice-cream. She thought it would help her nerves but its plain taste and colour just added to her loneliness.
She licked the last spoonful and looked across the table where Matthew had sat. The last ten years of married life ended with his scattered breadcrumbs, a glass of rich red wine, a scrunched white napkin, an empty plate, and a pulled out chair.
Amelie placed her coat over her arm and pushed her chair in to leave. She blew out the tea candle on the table and tapped out of the restaurant in her black heels. Uneasy, her hand searched her pocket for cigarettes. Instead she found a photo of her and Matthew. It was taken a few years ago at the beach. They both glowed with happiness, feeling invincible.
Amelie put the photo away. She wasn’t ready to deal with her first chapter of unmarried life.
Solitude
Banjo Harris Plane
‘There is, perhaps, an element of truth in what you say, Toby. For indeed, one endowed with such a prodigious proboscis must be able to receive and process an enormous amount of whatever startling aromas that he seems to discover hidden within his glass. Many, many more than a mere mortal like you or I.’
‘He does seem particularly preoccupied with whatever is contained within.’
‘Perhaps he dropped something, a certain small something, into the glass and now he is looking for it so as to fish it out.’
‘Oh I hardly think so Julian, for look, look—his eyes remain closed for most of the time that he plunges headfirst into the goblet.’
‘Then perhaps he is praying into his glass, seeking enlightenment … rather like James the
other evening, into the toilet, howling for salvation.’
‘Ahh … yes, but I feel that was due to James enlightening himself a little too much, whereas our lonely little friend over there, tucked into the corner, wrapped in the shadows as he is, could certainly use a touch more lightness in his life. Why I can hardly see his big brown eyes when he leans back into his seat like that.’
‘That is because he is not looking at you Toby. And small wonder in that shirt. I didn’t know mauve was back in fashion these days.’
‘Savile Row, darling. Some of us have discovered other colours in the universe apart from black …’
A black-suited waiter veers off his course in sharp response to the hasty gesturing from the two middle-aged gentlemen sitting on table twelve towards the back of the restaurant. Regular customers of the most painful kind, for whom the service and the food are rarely good enough or quick enough. A silent shudder quivers through him at the leering look on their faces, yet he fixes a smile and attempts to assist them with their latest dilemma.
‘Two more glasses of this pink fizzy nonsense. And while you’re at it, bring some balsamic to accompany this oil for my bread.’
Champagne and vinegar, one of those delightful combinations best left for those totally devoid of any tastebuds.
‘Certainly sir. My pleasure. I’ll be straight back.’
‘Do you suppose he truly has no friends in the world? Or that he has friends, but they despise him? Perhaps his breath is particularly odorous, or he is a total bore and speaks only of banal and trivial issues. Perhaps he is even more horrendous to look at than we can recognise from this distance and people cannot bear to stare at him for longer than a few minutes at a time. Then again, maybe he is a miser of the meanest kind, and cannot bear to spend any money on others, keeping it all for himself.’
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