‘Toby, you do go on. It is obvious to me that he is merely alone in the world. He is one of those unfortunate individuals who simply lack the social skills to communicate with others. More than likely he is nervous and lacks the confidence to interact and even spend time with other people. He probably wets himself just looking in the mirror.’
‘Then why does he present himself to the eyes of the public in such a way, where the very fact of him being alone is guaranteed to draw stares? Hmmm, answer me that, you all-knowing prat?’
‘A man’s got to eat, you know. And drink. And even dine sometimes. Perhaps he feels that being here, in this place with this food, is a necessary part of his life. God knows why I subject myself to your prattle every week. More champagne?’
Candlelight gently flickers off the cream walls and the shadows lengthen. The noise in the restaurant simmers down to a gentle murmur as most diners finish their coffee and tea and begin the trek back home. In one corner only is the tranquillity disturbed, as two middle-aged men grunt, giggle and curse at each other. Slightly red in the face, the younger of the two is beginning to slur the last word of each sentence. Their dinner has been forcefully repositioned around the plate and had perhaps a few mouthfuls taken here and there. Streaks of oil crisscross the tablecloth after one particularly animated hand gesture. Crumbs adorn the table like confetti. From the corners of the restaurant the waiters by turns glare, roll their eyes and pray.
As he drains the last of his espresso, with whiffs of caramel and chocolate bringing a smile to his face, he lifts his eyes and glances around the room. The four suits at the far end of the room are all buried in their brandy balloons. The younger couple tucked away in the booth are lost in each other’s eyes. As for the two men who seem determined to make themselves the stars of the show for the evening … well, they remain as they always are. God knows what pleasure they derive from any of it. Every week, without fail, they make the dining room their own. Were it not for the simple elegance and charm of the perfectly cooked food, he would have eschewed it in favour of something a lot closer to home. To dine here, however, was to be at peace, each mouthful a soothing balm to ease away the day’s troubles. Those two could never understand that surely. But then why bother to visit so regularly? He ponders this as he signs off on his account for the night, thanks his waiter and heads for the door. Even this curiosity, combined with their furtive glances and whispered gossiping, cannot impinge upon his mood. His night of solitude, his food and wine his only friend, will see him through until next week, when the whole act can be replayed in detail … to relax, be waited upon, observe and consume. To dine.
Dining alone with Madame Taittinger
Kate Punshon
Behind the closed office door, his eyes scan the room, noting the industry magazines are not fanned in front of the maidenhair fern and the reception desk is untidy. It’s Sally’s third week and Jack’s idiosyncrasies still elude her. In the quiet, he mulls over the day’s inspections, client proposals and paper work that needs completing to close another deal. After checking the appointments for the next two days, he leaves a detailed to-do-list, in pencil, on the right hand side of his diary. He picks up the phone and calls Pauline, his wife of thirty years. ‘I’ll be home after dinner,’ he says, and then hangs up. She knows exactly what this means: an evening of solitude, an evening of emptiness. His cutlery is placed back in the kitchen drawer again as she quashes her hopes that perhaps tomorrow night or the night after will be different.
Stepping out onto the pavement, with the office behind him and the restaurant ahead, Jack already feels invigorated. It’s only a ten-minute walk and while he knows he doesn’t have a dinner booking, he is expected.
Within moments of walking in the door he is seduced by the vibrancy of the stained glass windows, velveteen curtains, laughter from the bar and the pools of light that whisper promises of acceptance and unconditional companionship. Scanning the room he sees her. She is always there, waiting for him, with a champagne in her hand, protecting their table. It’s in the nook between the waiter’s station and the fireplace. It’s their space, a space where they choose who enters and where they define the rules. Her style and serenity calm his mind but arouse his passion. He yearns to reach out and touch her, to quench his thirst for intimacy, but this is not the place.
As he draws his seat closer to her, the promise of acceptance and unconditional companionship is fulfilled. Mesmerised by her beauty and elegance, Jack remains oblivious to the other guests that arrive for dinner and the energy of a full house. His drink arrives but he dismisses the waiter as he prefers to pour his own. Just as he finishes pouring his dark foamy Guinness, he looks up and notices the fine beads of the Taittinger champagne rising in her glass. Not daring to speak, his eyes follow the beads to where her hand caresses the glass, along her porcelain arm and shoulder to her swanlike neck before finally falling into her serene eyes. She continues to laugh and tease him as she always does. Jack is excited by their contrasts and their unspoken arrangement. He continues to recount his day and she listens knowingly, never interjecting. She is the perfect dining companion.
Without looking at the menu, he orders a plain chicken breast, two potato croquettes, steamed broccoli and a sauté of whole Swiss brown mushrooms with fresh tarragon. He reminds the waiter: ‘No fancy garnishes and the plate must be hot; make sure you tell them back there it’s “Jack’s order”.’ As dinner is placed before him, a wry smile transforms his face. The waiter can’t carry the plate without a serviette and a thin brown line has formed around the sauté where the mushroom juices sizzled upon contact with the hot plate. The croquettes are crunchy but give way to his knife to reveal fluffy white mashed potato; the broccoli is mushy, but perfect. Jack asks the waiter, ‘Is big Al working the stoves?’
‘He sure is and he’s got another croquette ready to go if you need it. Just give me the nod and I’ll take care of you, Jack.’
In between each mouthful, Jack mulls over his plans for a late retirement. He tells her that Pauline is hoping that he will retire soon, be home for dinner every night and has suggested on far too many occasions that they would enjoy travelling together. How preposterous! Life without work, where everything is ordered and can be dealt with as a debit or a credit, is inconceivable. Travelling together with no routine and an endless parade of over-priced, unfamiliar meals. No way! By the end of main course he knows he will tell Pauline, this weekend while the kids are home for a Sunday roast, that he will continue to work for at least another three years.
He spends a couple of minutes staring into the abyss of his long black coffee, considering how he will raise the subject, before he picks up the Toll House Cookie and snaps it in half. Resting one half on the saucer, he studies the chocolate chips and pecan pieces in the other before he takes a bite. As he does, once again, the glint of her champagne flute catches his eye. This time it’s the reflection from the birthday cake candles at the adjacent table, which brings to life the champagne flute in the life-sized picture of Madame Taittinger hanging next to his table. The shimmering light accentuates the champagne flute and he is drawn back to her. Mesmerised by her serenity, once again, his eyes follow the curve of her hand, along her graceful arm and shoulders to her swanlike neck before he abandons himself again to her serene eyes. The moment is broken as a piece of wood explodes in the fireplace and a fine spray of red-hot embers fizzle and swirl and then disappear.
Finishing his coffee, he knows that it’s almost time to leave, to go home, where the years of emptiness have pervaded the house and his heart. He nods knowingly to his silent companion and whispers the promise of return.
Dinner for two
Carli Ratcliff
They’d had a few stilted dinners, the food always good and the conversation limited to the weather, the state of the economy, or his business interests. Determined to persevere she continued to make reservations and extend invitations.
He never declined and he never enthusiastically em
braced.
For this attempt she booked a table at a restaurant halfway between each house. Neutral. Dad-friendly—classic, hearty dishes in a non-confronting space. Never too trendy, nothing spicy, no Thai or Indian, pedestrian being his favoured mode of dining.
A few years earlier at a rare family dinner, when the arguing and asides became too much to bear she suggested family counselling. The table erupted with laughter.
Dinner for two was her attempt at forging a relationship with him. They both had to eat; they had that much in common. Her last attempt failed. She’d phoned and invited him for fish and chips at the beach near her place. She knew he would be driving past after work. He agreed but never arrived. She called to see if he was still coming, he offered no apology, just: ‘I forgot, drove right past.’
Surely this time he wouldn’t forget.
She arrives early, knowing he hates tardiness. On more than one occasion he had thrown a tantrum in response to his offspring’s lack of punctuality. She remembers her sister’s sixteenth birthday at a fancy Italian restaurant; she was late, couldn’t find the building, he yelled at her as she approached the table and didn’t utter a word for the entire meal. He reprised the performance for her eighteenth birthday—the restaurant was too ‘swish’ so he brooded his way through dinner without saying a word.
He would rather sit in silence than converse with his three daughters and their mother. They always tried to include him in conversations and in decisions that required thoughtful consideration but he would remain mute, or worse, grunt.
He’d dined alone every night of their childhood; he chose to arrive home after the family’s dinner, and seemed comfortable dining by himself. She wasn’t comfortable sitting alone at the table; she did everything with other people, her friends, sisters, or her mum. She didn’t dine alone, at least not in restaurants. He is now fifteen minutes late.
The waitress comes to the table and delivers the menu. She is friendly, a natural beauty in her early fifties with silky pale hair and alpine tanned skin who looks as though she may have once starred in a Norsca commercial. The daughter looks over the menu: asparagus with poached egg, she loves poached eggs and despite numerous attempts with whirlpools in both directions she can’t master them, she’ll start with that.
He will order the veal tournedos, it won’t bother him that the veal was torn from its mother merely minutes old, it tastes great. She had been a vegetarian for twenty years and he still took every meal together as an opportunity to mock her.
Under the main courses she spots fettuccini with truffles. It’s contrary to her no-carbs-after-five rule but it’s not every day you see truffle fettuccini on a menu. He will order the suckling pig, in all its meaty glory, and won’t think twice about offending her.
The dessert menu lists chocolate fondant. She is hoping it’s a fancy name for self-saucing chocolate pudding, the one and only dessert her mother made. She orders it whenever she sees it on a menu.
Twenty minutes have passed, which means he is not coming. She considers calling him.
The waitress returns to the table. She hasn’t hovered unnecessarily which means the daughter is not nearly as self-conscious as she would otherwise have been, waiting alone for twenty minutes. The two fortifying gin and tonics have helped matters.
She orders her egg and truffles and quietly explains, ‘I am not sure if my guest is coming so it may just be me.’
The waitress smiles and says in her Nordic accent, ‘I’ll leave the place set, just in case.’
The asparagus arrives with a perfect teardrop perched on top. The tables around her are filled with chatting families and couples, but she is happy with her egg. Her pasta is earthy and luxurious and she gives it most of her attention. She has accepted he is not coming and that he won’t call. He’s not delayed, he has forgotten.
Happily, the waitress hasn’t mentioned her non-existent dining partner again, even when she delivers the dessert menu. Without opening it the daughter asks, ‘Could you describe the chocolate fondant please?’
The waitress explains. ‘It’s a warm, gooey chocolate pudding with vanilla ice-cream, it’s very good.’
‘It sounds good; I will have the pudding and the bill when you get a moment.’ The restaurant is full and while she has not been as self-conscious as she thought she might, she’ll be ready to leave once the pudding is gone.
The pudding does remind her of her mother’s. The last time she’d made it for her was on the eve of her first overseas backpacking adventure, a sweet bon voyage. Her father’s bon voyage was anything but sweet. As she tearily wandered the concourse with her mother reconsidering her decision to spend a year away, he came striding towards them red-faced and bellowing. ‘Get a move on! Your flight is boarding!’ were his parting words to her, sealed with a steely kiss on the cheek.
Opening her wallet at the table she sees a gold American Express card. He had given it to her years before as a safety net. Gold credit card and a backpack, he didn’t see the irony. She had never used it.
As the waitress delivers the bill and clears the pudding plate, she asks, ‘Can I ask who you were waiting for?’
‘My father,’ she answers. ‘Do you take Amex?’
Velvet
Karen Reyment
Dee inched her hand closer to the glass holding the house wine that readied her for tonight. Tony arrived at the bar much later than agreed, cloaked in the smell of his other life, the life that wouldn’t let him look into her eyes. He sat opposite her, distracted.
Dee’s hand continued towards her glass, she touched its stem and pushed. It tilted, held its pose in slow motion and then, crack! its contents ran to him. She knew his reaction; she had orchestrated this act and played it over and over in her mind. This was the last scene and there were no lines to rehearse; she would be silent and he would be predictable. As scripted, he left. With each step he took, her heart lightened. Smiling, she gathered her purse.
Next door was Pearl, its tables filled with seemingly happy lives. The jasmine bloom around the restaurant’s entrance sent tendrils of sweet fragrance to her. Twisting a dark tangle of hair around her fingers, she secured it with a pin and stepped inside. Opulence muted the sounds of the restaurant. China tinkled agreeably with soft music whose vague melancholy had no effect on her. The table she requested upon booking was beside a curtained window; she could see it waiting for her. The maître d’ appeared, ‘Table for …?’
‘Valance,’ she said, a name she had put on ice for six years.
Dee liked to be treated with respect and care. Alistair was her waiter. He pulled out her chair and laid a square of starched linen over her elegant lap. The menu promised good things; she lingered over it, running her fine fingers over the words like braille. For the first time she didn’t have to rush for fear of reprisal; this was her stage, her debut, and she would play it out as she wished.
French champagne veiled her glass in frost. She watched the bubbles rise to the surface before drinking them in, listening as they told their story. Alistair lingered. She was enjoying his manly attention, attention she wouldn’t have dared take pleasure in, even yesterday. He delivered her first bite of freedom, a mound of duck tartare resting on a fine crouton, beside it a golden, tear-shaped petal. It tasted of happiness.
Dee found a fold of soft velvet belonging to the heavy curtain beside her table and secured it between her first two fingers. She stroked it up and down, slowly and deliberately. Her thoughts travelled back to when she was young, when she stroked the curtain hanging beside her bed. It was made of the same soft velvet and it had comforted her. A feeling of wellbeing enveloped her now, just as it had then.
Her fingers were coaxed back to the table by a plate of truffled risotto releasing feathery wisps of steam into the air. She ate it slowly, allowing herself to become intimate with its musty earthiness. Her fingers wanted the velvet again; she sat stroking and tasting, enjoying the sensuality. ‘Alistair,’ she said, ‘please select a glass of wine to
complement each course I order tonight.’
He pleased her with Madeira, beguiling with orangey glints that flickered playfully across her table, dancing in time with the candlelight. As the last mouthful coated her tongue, she amused herself by observing other diners. One couple mirrored how she and Tony must have appeared to the outside world. The woman’s eyes were filled with disdain; they searched for answers that would never be found. Her fingers were positioned dangerously close to her wine glass that if spilled could change the course of her life. She, too, had a partner whose eyes dashed and darted around the room, nervously avoiding her unspoken questions. Dee wanted to slap him and she wished the woman would inch her fingers closer to her wine, and push.
Alistair was beside her again, returning her thoughts to her own world. He had a plate of foie gras terrine, beside which lay an orchestrated mound of moss-coloured lentils, scattered with prisms of sherried jelly shimmering with the clarity of diamonds. He slid another glass, half full of wine, into her vision; she instinctively withdrew her hand so as not to spill it. Dee smiled at the thought of interpreting the glass as being half full; she had missed her old optimism. Swirling the wine under her nose it released a faint aroma reminiscent of varnish from the old furniture store she had visited as a child. They were happy days spent drawing pictures in dusty surfaces, waiting for her father to negotiate the best price with the shopkeeper. As he prepared to leave the store Dee would hide behind the dusty curtains and seek the comfort of velvet between her fingers until she was found.
With the flush of wine across her cheeks Dee sat back in her chair stroking the curtain. She hadn’t ordered dessert but it had arrived. Alistair introduced it as ‘textures of chocolate’. As Dee lifted the first spoonful to her mouth its smell invaded her. It was the same sweet smell as the satin-ribboned chocolate boxes Tony had used to placate her, or so he thought. The unexpected reminder of Tony stirred a reaction deep inside Dee had not prepared for. She released the curtain, her hands trembled as she removed the ring of gold from her finger; the only memories it held were lies. She tucked the ring deep into the chocolate masterpiece, returned her plate to Alistair without explanation and asked for the bill.
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