When one plans a special meal—no cost too high—the extravagances that clamour through one’s usually quiet mind are outrageous: roasted pheasant with skin so audibly crisp it puts frolicking in autumn leaves to shame, truffles scouted by France’s most respected pink oinkers, and Maine lobster just like his mama used to make. No. Pheasant was far too medieval he decided, and he was swayed by something a little more Dickensian: roasted goose. He had always thought of himself as having a Dickensian name—Amos Cordington—and he had found solace and comfort in those tales in the years gone by. Those lonely years when it was just he and Pip and Magwitch and Estella. Yes. He would have a goose—a plump, succulent goose, adorned with lemon and thyme. But one cannot start an epic meal with such robust fare … there must be appetisers, snippets of heaven to dance across the palate.
A silver tray was placed in front of Amos. His grey eyes lit up and shone with delight. Scallops as big as your palm calmly sat there, flashing their pearly white smiles. They were so beautiful but not at all smug. Amos picked up his knife and fork, and with an elegance at odds with everything else he seemed to be, started to eat.
He savoured the texture. It was silky and almost forbidden. He paid particular attention to the sensation they made as they slid down his gullet.
‘Oh sweet, mercy!’ he cried out, banging his hand down on the table. The clanging of cutlery rang out through the small room. Amos didn’t bother picking it up. He finished the scallops with his bare, dangerous hands, and gave a contorted little laugh when he was done.
Soufflé was a must for this evening’s celebration. Triple cheese soufflé. It towered high above the ramekin’s edge and looked utterly gorgeous. Amos thought about how lucky he was to have such a special meal all to himself. He was so pleased there was nobody else opposite him, crowding him and making lame comments about the food—‘Ooooh, isn’t this yummy!’
When the goose arrived, Amos basked in its glory for a while. He remembered there was goose on the table, waiting to be carved, when he broke into that young woman’s house and slit her throat. The rest of her family was in the lounge room and didn’t hear a thing … they just saw the horror awaiting them when they went into the kitchen to see why dinner was taking so long. Amos smiled. Perhaps this is why he liked goose so much, as it reminded him of his first kill. Fuck all that Dickensian shit. It was the thrill of taking his first life that kept him forever craving goose.
That was twenty years ago now. There had been many more women since then. Amos had slashed, bludgeoned and choked his way through life. He had taken the lives of forty-two women, and tonight, his life would be taken. He had been on death row for three years and finally the time had come. He had escaped the chair twice already but the governor had denied this final stay of execution and at 10.30 pm tonight, Amos Cordington would be executed.
He gave a thumbs up to the warden. ‘Guess my goose is cooked!’ he roared and held his sides from the fits of laughter that ensued. The warden even chortled a bit. Managing to eat the entire goose, Amos leaned back in his chair and sucked the bits of flesh out from his teeth.
Desserts were always his favourite; ribbons of melted chocolate, lofty peaks of meringue, the pulse-quickening crunch of a crème brûlée. As he spooned the cherry pie into his mouth, he remembered a cherry pie that stood cooling on a windowsill and a certain curvaceous brunette in a green apron. He had kept that green apron and he had eaten that cherry pie. This one was not as good. But how could it have been?
As the wet sponge was placed on Amos’ head, he wished he’d ordered something else for dessert, perhaps some cheesecake or plum pudding or even tiramisu.
Last meal
Carly Slater
This is my last meal. I only remember one other than what sits here before me. It was a Thursday and the restaurant was busy. Wait staff were running here and there, attending to the hungry patrons. Entering behind a noisy party of ten, I asked the waitress to seat me by the window that overlooked the downstairs terrace. From there I could see the other diners enjoying the mild evening, crowded among the palm trees and twinkling lights. The murmur of conversation rose up to meet me.
My wife smiled and reached across the table. I couldn’t see his face but I recognised him all the same. She looked at him and smiled, stroking his hand affectionately. She lied the first time I asked about him. ‘He’s just a friend’ she had said, her eyes fixed on the ground. Someone she worked with. She admitted she was in love with him when she discovered I had followed her. She was leaving to start over with him.
We used to come to this restaurant all the time. It was our favourite place to eat when we were dating. We would sit on the terrace, oblivious to the noisy diners beside us. We were in love and only noticed each other. Even after we were married we continued to dine here. We would always try new places as they opened up, but they were never quite the same as this place. Our place. Now she was here with him.
It’s not the first time I had eaten here alone, watching, taking everything in. He ordered the same thing each time; natural oysters to start. He would always feed one to her. Smiling, she would lick the salt brine of the mollusc from his fingers before he leaned in to kiss her salted lips. His main of chateaubriand beef with béarnaise sauce and drunken potatoes would prompt her to lean over and pick up one of the warm potatoes, popping it into her mouth with a familiarity I recognised.
While I sat watching them eating oysters and drinking Mourvèdre, I ordered my usual bottle of Chablis and toasted ravioli. I sat drinking slowly. When the meal came I pushed the pieces around the plate with my fork. My wife used to say it would give me a heart attack, eating the crumbed deep-fried pockets of ravioli. She wanted me around to help look after our grandchildren when the time came, she’d say, not left alone because her husband had died from eating too many fried foods. Ironic really, considering the path she had set me on.
The waitress was visibly uncomfortable as she approached the table to refill my glass. ‘How is the ravioli tonight sir? Would you like me to package it up for you?’ she asked, forcing a smile. She wanted me to leave. She was sick of me coming in alone, ordering the same thing and not eating it. Not even the large tip I always left appeased her.
‘It’s fine, thank you,’ I had said without looking up. She left the bottle at the table, ensuring her return to attend to my empty glass wasn’t needed. I watched her whispering to the other waitress with a look of irritation and pity. I didn’t usually care what the other diners thought of me, a middle-aged man, unshaven in a creased stained shirt, always alone. I never bothered to bring a book or any other type of prop. I was there for only one reason: to watch.
By then I was getting to know their routine. Thursday nights were always spent at the restaurant, our restaurant. Fridays he worked from home and she often did the same, having long breakfasts on his patio overlooking the pool. High brick fences surround his house and a tall timber gate screens the long pebbled drive. The house is set well off the street in a quiet cul-de-sac on the outskirts of town. Unless you climb the fence that runs along the side of the driveway, you can’t see anything from the street.
I thought my wife and I would be coming here forever. We used to watch birthdays and anniversaries take place at the tables next to us and smile, imagining it to be us one day. We would look knowingly across the table at each other, giggling like teenagers, excited about our future. I started noticing a difference after I was promoted. I was working longer hours and was tired and bad-tempered by the time I had negotiated the traffic on the long drive home. I was missing more and more dinners and our usual night out at the restaurant was almost non-existent. At first, she would yell and cry, but after awhile she just seemed to accept it. I thought things were starting to settle down until I noticed a text from him one morning while she was showering. The message itself was generic but it stirred something inside me. I asked her about him and, getting nothing but vague answers, I decided to follow her one night. She met him here. It became a habit.
Every Thursday I found myself sitting at the same table, watching. I had recently been let go at work, but I didn’t care. It allowed me more time to make plans of my own.
This night I watched him call for the bill and I quickly did the same. Wiping my mouth with the stiff linen napkin, I placed some gold coins on the table and slipped out the door. He put her jacket on for her, using it to pull her in close to his chest, kissing the top of her head. I was already across the street waiting when they appeared at the door. They turned right and headed down the side street that ran beside the restaurant. It was dark but I could hear their voices clearly. They didn’t hear me approach.
As the priest gets up to leave, the guard arrives to take my order. ‘So what’ll it be? Make it good boy, it’s gonna be your last,’ he says with a smirk.
‘I want a plate of oysters, chateaubriand beef with béarnaise sauce and drunken potatoes, and a bottle of Mourvèdre.’
The only pub in town
Natasha Stewart
The ice cubes had already started to melt. They came served with capsicum, the gin and tonics that is. It was fancy stuff from Western Australia. Who knows why the salesman came down to Ricky’s. Who knows why he came to Jindaloo. This wasn’t exactly the type of place where folks drank a lot of gin; here mother’s ruin came in the form of rum, beer, and pokies. The man was suave and charismatic, and Anna had taken him home with her for just one night. Obviously his charms worked on Ricky too: a bottle always sat behind the bar and a gin and tonic was always served with a slice of green capsicum.
‘Aren’t you gonna go home, love?’ Anna had been the only one inside the pub for the past hour. Ricky’s was usually full on a Friday night. They came in loud and they left even louder. There was always a game on TV even if it wasn’t footy season; Ricky had set up a VHS player and had recordings of everyone’s favourite games so they never went without. Not tonight. Ricky was only sticking around in case someone from out of town drove through.
Anna knew she should leave but she couldn’t manage to pick herself out of the chair. ‘How about a bite to eat?’ she asked, before Ricky shuffled back to the kitchen. It didn’t matter what turned up on her plate, as long as it wasn’t another homemade pie or casserole. Over the last couple of days she wished they’d turn up with pills and vodka instead.
Even when Maggie was at her grandma’s house, Anna never managed to eat at Ricky’s alone. Her table-for-one always featured a steady stream of people. It was a little like speed dating. They’d come and sit down for five minutes, have a bit of a chat, and then be on their way. No one stayed for too long, but you were never alone. Without a plate of food in front of her, demanding attention, it was a little unsettling sitting alone inside the pub. The televisions were all switched off tonight, and Anna was left with only her capsicum gin.
She glanced her eyes around the room. The ‘Jindaloo Pub’ sign hung above the bar, but you’d never hear a local call it that. Ricky’s dad, also Ricky, bought the pub seventy years ago. Ricky took over before Anna was even born, and to any local it had always been ‘Ricky’s’. It wasn’t just for drinking … well, maybe it was. Anna had shared a drink at Ricky’s for birthdays, christenings, confirmations, grand final wins, and even deaths. Everything that happened in Jindaloo revolved around this small pub. Then her eyes landed on Ricky’s photo wall that took pride of place behind the bar. It was Maggie. Her golden blonde hair tumbled over her shoulders and her bright blue eyes stared out from the photo.
Anna came home to Jindaloo six years ago. She had tried Sydney, had really wanted it to work, but somehow the big city just made her feel more isolated. About three months after coming home Maggie was born. Anna was the only one who knew who Maggie’s father was, but in Jindaloo she could have picked a surrogate father figure from any of the men who knew the little girl. For the past six years Maggie had charmed just about everyone who lived in the small town.
Ricky emerged from the kitchen with a veal schnitzel smothered in gravy. He hesitated and Anna knew how much he wanted to just sit down and ask her how she was going. How she was feeling. If she wanted that she’d have been at home where there would be an abundance of stubbies and sympathy.
Ricky left her and retreated behind the bar, polishing glasses that already glistened. Anna took to the schnitzel slowly. She cut it into small pieces just like she’d do for Maggie. It wasn’t until the schnitzel was neatly cubed that she took her first bite. There were plenty of women around Jindaroo who put on a better meal than Ricky’s. The schnitzels were always a tad overcooked, and always a bit too salty. You could see it on the faces of the travellers passing through. They always looked forward to a wholesome country pub meal, and they always left a little disappointed. The only wholesomeness at Ricky’s came from the people, and without them there wasn’t much joy in the salty schnitzels.
With Ricky silently working behind the bar Anna could have almost been back in Sydney. There it was usual to be in the same space as someone else without saying a word. The city was filled with elevators, buses, trains, and even restaurants where people were alone together. It had never felt right to Anna. Sometimes she’d try and strike up a conversation on the train to work, and every now and again someone’s face would light up and let her in. Most people smiled politely but kept their attention elsewhere. They read their books and newspapers, checked their watches, or counted the threads of the seats they sat on; they did anything except connect.
The pub had been silent since most of the town had emptied out of it earlier that day, except for a phone call Ricky had quietly taken fifteen minutes earlier. Then it broke. One by one the pub slowly began filled up again.
Tom McLean was a farmer, and a farmer’s son. He was Anna’s first kiss. He was a lot more handsome now than he’d been at twelve. ‘Maggie wouldn’t want us all to leave you alone today.’ He’d been there that day they pulled that tiny blue body out of the water. Tom placed his hand over hers, covering the small picture she was holding. The picture of a small girl with long blonde hair and bright blue eyes. Tom picked up her fork and grabbed a piece of schnitzel. ‘It’s awful, isn’t it?’
‘It’s better now.’ Anna let the tears fall.
Bitter
(Dedicated to Howard Twelftree)
Roz Taylor
Phillip pushed manicured fingers through his silver hair and yawned. It had been a long night without sleep. He checked out the man staring at him from the exquisite vintage shaving mirror. Hampton’s-holiday-house tan, dimpled chin, fleshy lips and strong jaw-line. Not bad. What did it take to impress these days? Not good looks, wealth and taste, if Edward’s actions were anything to go by.
He wandered out on to his terrace. Manhattan penthouses permitted spying rights on the good folk below. A new exhibition opened this morning in the Costume Institute at The Met. A stylish line posed along Fifth Avenue. Being a Museum member, he used to love showing off Edward in The Trustees Dining Room. The sweet thing thought the spiced Australian lamb was to die for. ‘Well the lamb sure did,’ Phillip barbed. He was bitter. Edward’s tardy, if at all, appearances at their lunches hurt. And they did not go unnoticed. It was biting that his errant partner’s favourite restaurant column was the New Yorker’s ‘Tables for Two’.
Summer had shamed Phillip, having dined around the Upper East Side in states of undress. This was how he felt, after stupidly and repeatedly suffering Edward’s cruel disregard for their dinner dates. If the boy arrived during appetiser, Phillip felt awkward; if entrée, exposed; for dessert, pitifully uncovered; when not even for espresso, Phillip was laid bare. He was naked dining without Edward. Eating alone at a table set for two outed the holes in their relationship. For all to see. He was fed up with being the butt of jokes. If it were not so divine, he would have booted Edward’s derrière back to The Village long ago. All not-so-good things however, must come to their end.
Returning inside to the kitchen, Chicago’s ‘Saturday in the Park’ was on the radio. Just the one tear sullied Phillip
’s silk robe. He planned to play out its lyrics today, with a fourth of July picnic for Edward. How he was looking forward to licking his lover’s posterior on the blanket. Now more than ever. He packed the hamper, doting over the sausages. Straight from the skillet, they were engorged with juices. Quite like Edward. Hot for it on any occasion. Pity Edward’s occasions of late had not involved him. Phillip’s quip about the oldest pot making the best sauce fell flat now. Edward used to find their age difference a turn-on. Now Phillip was stale …
He covered a patch of Central Park grass with his goodies. One of his favourite spots, near the Boathouse. He adored taking Edward on gondola rides on the lake. It was a chance to reminisce about their Valentine’s Day in Venice. He had relished surprising his love with gastronomic jaunts. Today he sentimentally included baccalà in their brunch. To hell with the garlic.
They used to enjoy Saturday breakfasts in bed, mocking Rachael Ray re-runs. How they hated her relentless regurgitation of the acronym, EVOO. Stupid bitch. If he saw it again on a menu he would scream. In fact he had begun to despise menus in general, having spent so much time using them as masks. They shielded him from dining rooms seemingly full of couples—and served as reminder of Edward’s absence. Why did today’s menus shove ‘share plates’ in his face? What about those who dined alone? It grated on him.
Another source of irritation came up to greet him. Bradley and Cooper. Bradley’s beau had the nerve to wipe his loafer on Phillip’s picnic blanket. They delighted in noticing Edward was not upon it. No doubt this humiliating experience would join others of Phillip’s on their menu of conversation this evening. Let them dine out at his expense. While they could not see Edward with him there today, Phillip knew he was there. In the flesh.
Dining Alone Page 13