Dining Alone

by Santich, Barbara;

  Dee bravely stepped outside and into her new life. She had not made plans beyond her maiden name reservation and the table beside the curtain. Slowly and calmly, she slid her hand over her skirt, folded its soft velvet between her fingers, stroked them up and down and readied herself to be alone in the world.

  The harvest fog

  Eloise Riggs

  This is the harvest fog, a deep haze, which descends over the mountains at vintage time each year. With a bottle of Barbera and a notebook on the table, Juliet stares out over the inky-sapphire waters of Lake Como. Below, the small conservative town of Bellagio straddles the fork of the Y-shaped Lago di Como. The snow-tipped Italian Alps stand strong in the distance. Shadowed in shades of green, grey and violet, their peaks are caressed by the fog. Not once since Juliet has been camping here have the mountains been free from this veil.

  She is intending to write, planning to load her journal with stories and memories and meals relished during the past few weeks camping and cycling around Italy. Juliet feels an urgency to capture these moments—the holiday is nearly over and days are flicking by. It is not just the end of this journey she is lamenting; it feels like the dénouement of an entire life-chapter. Three thrilling years in London have already been packed, summed up in a few tea-cartons and shipped back to Australia. This is the finale.

  She pours, swirls and sniffs. Black fruity liquor skims down her throat. The campsite owner, Angelo, is trudging in his work boots at the other end of the farm. His little blind dog skits along beside him. She watches them absently, as her thoughts travel back over Italy: spaghetti vongole on the Cinque Terre coast; wild-boar salami and pecorino panini in Siena; sun-warmed grapes plucked from a Chianti vine by the side of a road in Tuscany; bigoli with sardines and a bottle of prosecco at the most ancient wine bar in Venice; gnocchi, porcini and truffles in San Gimignano; parma ham and mozzarella di bufala in Bologna; fig and pistachio gelato on the streets of Florence …

  Juliet sees Angelo striding in her direction. As she waves and smiles, Juliet notes his kind and weathered face. He stops to chat. Noticing her journal, Angelo stands at a respectful distance. Pippo, however, is comfortable sniffing around an unfamiliar set of toes. Banter about the weather and surrounding fog spills quickly into conversations on food and Angelo, now with wine glass in hand, takes a seat at the table. He tells Juliet of a campsite in Tuscany, where the owner will sell his guests oak from hundred-year-old wine barrels to use as cooking fuel. He promises the barbecue experience of a lifetime. As Angelo’s stubby fingers dance around like flames, Juliet can taste the charry, Chianti-infused meat. She imagines a barbecue of mallee roots steeped in Barossa shiraz. Not quite so romantic.

  Pippo yaps. Angelo occupies her by scooping up stones and throwing them for her to chase. Pippo waits, listens to them land, and races off. He cannot sit still. Tales of the summer truffle season, which opens in a few days time, turn into a performance. Angelo springs from his chair, re-living his annual pilgrimage to Alba. He hunches over, becoming the tired gatherers as they emerge from the dark, damp woods; stooped forward, elbows bent with a laden sack slung over one shoulder. ‘I only have this—a little one,’ he says coyly, open palm extended. He describes the swarms of white-shrouded Arabs as they descend on Alba from their grand private jets—all vying for the largest, priciest truffle. It is a risky game, the gatherers withholding their largest find, waiting and hoping to trade with the wealthiest suitor.

  When the truffles are sold, the Arabs disappear into the sky and the show is over. Two cyclists arrive at the farm, pushing their encumbered bikes up the steep gravel driveway. As Angelo bounds off to greet his new campers, Juliet turns back to the lake; melancholic, romantic … wishing she could stay in Europe forever.

  It has all passed too quickly.

  Now, she is hurting. Her legs burn as she rides solitary, climbing through the Adelaide Hills. The leaves have turned to reds, ambers and yellows—almost ready to let go and carpet the ground for the winter. Juliet can see the bursts of her laboured breath in the crisp May air. She stops at Mount Lofty to rest; weaving her bike through the crowd of tourists to the lookout. Through a screen of grey morning mist, the city is barely visible. Juliet is thrown back to Lake Como. She smiles quietly as she recalls the afternoon shared with Angelo and the vow she made. Juliet must return to Italy one October, when the mountains are heavy with harvest fog. She will knock on his door, and together, as promised, they will travel to Alba and bargain for her own prized truffle.

  Dining alone, annually

  Alister Robertson

  The wet road darkens on the café-laced avenue as the street lights fail. The heavens rumble and remind diners of the outside world. It is a beautifully slow night in the old-fashioned wine bar. Inside the head waiter acknowledges regulars. ‘What a charming man!’ they exclaim. The bar faces the street like a theatre. Tables in the front row overlook the sea of darkness through open steel doors.

  There is electricity in the wet air. The bartender has wiped down every surface of his bar with a warm towel, the coffee machine is clean and every dining table drinking a bottle of wine has been pampered. Every wine from the extensive list is available in the right vintage. His shirt is crisply ironed. Pride gleams everywhere.

  A large umbrella appears in the threshold hiding a large man underneath. He takes his time dismantling his apparatus on the red carpet. Window display diners stop and eyeball the intruder. He stands waiting to be seated. The head waiter briskly heads to the bar and gulps down a double bourbon, warning the bartender of the annual visit from this overcoat-wearing figure. Enough courage is summoned to let the intruder know the bar might be a nice place for him to dine alone. His wet black umbrella and overcoat are taken, revealing a tall business bachelor with a face of opinion.

  The head waiter warns the bar of the challenging night ahead, ‘He comes here once a year on business. He is just a tasteless and arrogant American. Please don’t let him sit at a table. I can’t handle him. You just can’t please him.’ The bartender is cornered as the giant silhouette approaches, holding some kind of suitcase. Glum is the new black.

  ‘Hello,’ he booms as he assumes a position on the empty glossed bar, grimacing as if dinner was an arduous task. ‘I’ve had a long day. Is this music going to play all night?’ The bartender smiles, knowing that Sade is singing her last song. With only a glance, he communicates to the nervous waiter to bring bread and settings. Special glassware is set in front of the beast.

  Polite exchanges of menus and banter distract while the first gamble is taken. His water glass is filled with assuming nine-dollar mineral water. Bread and olive oil arrive all unnoticed. Dave Brubeck fixes the restaurant soundtrack with ‘Time Further Out’ and the lights are dimmed.

  ‘This week the oysters from Tasmania and Sydney were terrible. How are yours?’

  ‘They are freshly delivered from Coffin Bay. Normally they are great, but this week they are spawning. I think our scallops might be a better option tonight.’

  The frozen scallops are the only entrée on the menu passable as good food and the bartender has sold them as a starter. The tension starts to ease with the evasion of last week’s oysters. The chef lacks experience and sophistication. Yet there are still two more courses of terrible dishes to choose from …

  Finally, the order is taken, the bartender manipulatively twisting every word to subtly suggest the best of the barely presentable dishes. The beast starts off with a glass of South Australian Clare Valley riesling. It is all citrus and minerality. ‘Every man should drink riesling,’ he booms. A decent match with his first two courses, yes, but no relevance to gender.

  All prepared, glasses full, the American is left alone while the bartender takes his second gamble. He interrupts kitchen staff eating and chatting on mobile phones to order the food slightly differently, determined to please this ill-mannered man, dealing best with the resources.

  ‘This is for a Gourmet food critic,’ he lies. ‘Preheat the
grill for the scallops. Don’t garnish them. Garnish the risotto dish with those claws you’re throwing out. Fan the lamb. Impress him.’

  Four scallops are placed on a square dish on a bed of rock salt in front of the American, next to his glowing laptop. The crisp ochre crust is the result of the grilled saffron-and-garlic butter. ‘Perfect with another Adelaide Hills riesling.’

  Every man should drink riesling quickly. As well as sauvignon. And chardonnay. The crab risotto is placed in front of the businessman typing away at a document, a public display of importance and seriousness in the dim wine bar. The risotto portion has been halved and a blanched crab claw dramatically emerges from the centre of the dish. The crabmeat was also frozen.

  ‘And what exactly should I do with this claw trying to shake my hand?’

  Words are improvised. ‘Simply enjoy the spectacle. Chef likes to remind his diners of his dishes’ origins.’

  ‘Go and choose me a bottle of red to open. I’m not interested in French wine. I would love a Grange but not the ’89 you have. Not the best year. Something local and expensive to complement my main course.’

  Soggy ratatouille is fried in olive oil to impress the so-called critic. The lamb, blood red at its core, is sliced and fanned on top and drizzled with a red wine glaze; its presentation contrasts with the usual haphazard arrangement. The laptop is shut away immediately upon arrival. An ecstatic reception. A rich ’97 Majella Coonawarra cabernet sauvignon is poured from one decanter to the other, a textbook example of the region’s best earthy, full-bodied cabernet from terra rossa soils.

  After lamb and cabernet inhalation, the theatre show is being viewed through rose-coloured glasses. The businessman is sated and eager to continue conference-calling back in his hotel room. He settles the bill and leaves a hundred dollar note tip on the bar before his final say.

  ‘Thank the accomplished chef. Change the music and the wine list and I’ll come back next year.’

  Direction and lighting can be used to mystify audiences in theatrical performances. Restaurants are no different. Tickets are sold to shows of breakfast, lunch and dinner. Maybe next year the businessman will come back with his friends.

  Chardonnay or Nebbiolo?

  Mandy Rowe

  When she stood up and chanted a mantra to the earth’s four winds I knew I had enrolled in the wrong workshop. My two-day painting class in Berkeley, a short ferry ride across San Francisco Bay, was taking an unexpected turn. Instead of being handed a paintbrush, I was ushered into a dark room. It was heaving with all kinds of expectations and none of them were mine.

  I had extended my stay in San Francisco by a few days, wanting a little downtime. A splash of creativity with an ensemble of locals would be the perfect end to a busy week. And a nautical-inspired art deco hotel on Oakland’s waterfront was a chance to reclaim some personal space, after having shared a twin room with a sonorous colleague for what seemed a lifetime.

  Now, I’m quite au fait with all things hippy as I grew up in Nimbin, but I wasn’t prepared for Friday night’s class. Maybe I was tired, but from the moment I ascended the stairs and saw a painting of a heart with the words ‘find your inner-self’ emblazoned across it, homesickness engulfed me. Too late for escape, I was spotted and given directions to a dark, wood-panelled room.

  From a refuge in the corner I observed a trio of rainbow-attired women, ensconced on an old upholstered lounge. Others sat crossed-legged on the floor, while another seemed to be enjoying the soothing momentum of a nearby rocking chair. A patchwork of religious paraphernalia—Hispanic, Buddhist and Christian—decorated the walls; there was a distinct absence of artwork, which was a little unnerving.

  Needless to say when a woman swooped upon a cairn-like sculpture and blessed the class with the earth’s four winds, escape strategies came thick and fast. All I could think about was what the cold north wind had to do with viridian green, and how I was going to fill the next two days, because one thing was for certain, once I left I wasn’t coming back.

  Probably best not to ring Jimmy, the guy I sat next to on the flight from Sydney. Between slurps of cheap chardonnay he handed me a business card and said if I get a window in my schedule he’d be happy to run me up to the Napa on his Harley. I didn’t know which bit about Jimmy would be hardest to explain to my husband, the day trip or the fact that he grew hydroponic marijuana commercially. I learnt a lot about gardening during that thirteen-hour flight, none of it particularly relevant to my standard iceberg roses. Gallivanting around California’s vineyards with this over-cologned gardener wasn’t my idea of fun.

  Settled back in my hotel room, and two Francis Ford Coppola pinot noirs later, I’d hatched a plan. Alice Waters’ iconic restaurant, Chez Panisse, was in the neighbourhood, a short bus ride from Jack London Square. With that thought in mind, I flicked my art-smock into my well-heeled Samsonite and quickly closed the lid.

  A very different experience embraced me as I ascended Chez Panisse’s stairs. Instead of the contentious wave of homesickness I battled the previous night, today I had a stronger foothold on life.

  I hadn’t made a reservation, much to the chagrin of the maître d’. The words, ‘an aversion towards my inner-self’ lay dormant on my lips. This, however, wasn’t the response he was trained to hear. Instead, in a broad Australian accent, ‘a sudden change of plans’, tumbled from my mouth.

  He mellowed, and I noted a hint of amusement in his eyes.

  On that note he picked up a menu and chaperoned me to a small wooden table that faced Shattuck Street. The branches of a century-old Araucaria pine tree could be seen through the restaurant’s large, north-facing windows. Close by, a group of Christmas-party revellers were enjoying the 2002 Vouvray Sec, Gaston Huet. Not the most expensive bottle of sparkling in the house but a goodie, perfect party fizz from the Loire Valley.

  My table was suitably attired in a crisp white linen tablecloth; the simplicity of the scene defied the raft of accolades Chez Panisse had acquired over the decades. I liked that; it was comfortable and reassuring. So too was the glass of Prosecco di Valdobbiadene, with its signature granny smith nose and curt acidity.

  Equally as unpretentious was the single page daily menu. Under a banner of artwork depicting olive branches were today’s date and the chef’s name; its austerity anchored me. And of the menu’s eight choices, which proffered California’s best organic winter fare, the stinging nettle pizza with pecorino and shaved red onions piqued my interest. I wondered whether these were the same breed of nettles that cursed our paddocks?

  My reverie was broken by the muted conversation of the couple to my left. I never mean to eavesdrop when dining alone, but sometimes find myself being lured into their by-lines. Guessing their jobs becomes a diversion. And seeing that the University of California is just down the road I suspect the man by my side is a professor. I’m not sure which discipline, but he’s well educated and an imposing character. I found myself being drawn into his beguiling web of words.

  People’s choice of wine also tells me much about my unofficial dining companions.

  This chap has ordered a bottle of 2005 Barolo, Albe, G.D. Vajra, which is a perfumed and tannic Nebbiolo. It’s a very good choice; he obviously has a penchant for flamboyant Italian varietals.

  My mind wanders back to Jimmy slurping his cheap economy class wine and tossing pretzels into his mouth. Somewhat amused, I think to myself that I couldn’t have chosen two such different ‘unofficial’ dining companions, even if I’d tried. One was a chardonnay-quaffing marijuana grower, the other a well-educated Italian wine aficionado.

  Then I wondered what my reaction would have been if my newfound Nebbiolo friend lent across the table and whispered, ‘I can’t help noticing you’re dining alone in our magnificent city, and if by chance you happen to have a window in your busy schedule, maybe you’d like to see the Napa Valley?’

  That cherry pie

  Catherine Shepherd

  Amos was a hulking man. He moved through space
aggressively, almost wounding the air as he went. He had always moved like this, even as a child. He was sweet-natured as an infant; his laughter crackled long into the afternoons as he amused himself with a ball or a beetle or a blanket.

  When it came time for Amos to start school, his mother’s biggest fear was realised: Amos would not be accepted because of the way he looked.

  ‘Hey Quasimodo!’ shouted a skinny boy, as Amos walked up the path. His mother’s heart died a little. She would never get used to the taunts or the gaping jaws or the averted eyes. People were so unkind, and now Amos would be on his own, trying to show the other children that he was really just like they were. He tried very hard that first week. He tried to explain that he had been born this way and that there wasn’t actually anything wrong with him, that he was just different. But the lovely blonde children would have nothing to do with him. Realising that there was no persuading these children that he was not a monster, he assumed the role they had assigned him. In a remote corner of the schoolyard, far from the teacher’s watchful eye, Amos kicked and shoved fistfuls of dirt into crying little mouths. He began to enjoy it.

  Those school days have long since passed, and schoolyard bullying gave way to other pleasures. One such pleasure for Amos—almost as electrifying as watching a victim struggle and gasp for breath—was food. He was hoping everything for tonight would be perfect. Tonight was a once-in-a-lifetime kind of dinner. Dressed in a navy pinstriped suit, Amos took his seat at the table, and bowed his head for a moment of thanks. The silence was palpable. After a minute or so, he looked up and nodded, indicating he was ready to be served.