One Last Lunch

by Erica Heller

  Anne Serling is the author of As I Knew Him: My Dad, Rod Serling (Citadel Press, 2013). Her poetry has been published in the Cornell Daily Sun and Visions. The adaptations of two of her father’s teleplays appear in the anthology The Twilight Zone: The Original Stories. She has had articles published in Salon and the Huffington Post, and appeared on NPR’s Snap Judgment. Currently she is working on a novel: Aftershocks.

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/anne.serling

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  — 43 —

  “Fill it all the way to the top, honey.”

  DAN ALLENTUCK (SON) AND MAUREEN STAPLETON

  Lunch with Maureen? In a restaurant? Where other people will be present? Invitation accepted with deep reservations. Even now, some eleven years after my mother’s death, the thought—or rather, the memory—of lunching with her is enough to provoke the onset of unease and anxiety. You see, gentle reader, there’s just no other way to say it: a restaurant lunch presented my mother with her first opportunity of the day to get stinking drunk, and once she had achieved that goal, Mumsy-kins was anything but a fun companion for a boy hoping to spend an enjoyable afternoon on the town, and after many (oh, so many!) searing incidents I won’t dwell on here, I made a deep sworn vow that for the sake of my frail equilibrium, I would in future resolutely avoid all such occasions. To relax one’s vigilance and allow oneself to be swayed by the prospect of a fabulous meal at a great restaurant or by winsome company (“Julie Christie will be there!”) was to pay a price in public humiliation and private hurt that I eventually decided was too high. Before you brand me an ungrateful son or a spoilsport, I hasten to add that my not joining her party didn’t mean that there was no party. A more convivial human being than my mother never lived, and where she went, the bandwagon was sure to follow. More often than not, she dragged it back home with her, horses and all. I grew accustomed to encountering strangers in our living room exhibiting varying degrees of alcohol-induced befuddlement when I returned from school in the late afternooons. So boundless was Mom’s hospitality that more than one post-luncheon reveler ended up as a houseguest for days or even weeks. My point is that lunch with Maureen was often a raucous free-for-all during which the customary rules of decorum were ignored and anything could happen. For one thing, there was never enough wine. Often, Mom stumbled or fell on the way out, either inside the restaurant or on the pavement outside, and since she insisted on taking her wineglass (“Fill it all the way to the top, honey”) with her as she departed, these spills could be truly perilous. In short, lunching with my mother was a job for someone else. To this day, I tend to skip lunch entirely or make do with a sandwich. I’m much more of a breakfast and dinner man. But much to my surprise, when tasked by Erica to lunch with Maureen just one last time, I could not decline.

  And mind you, it would be untrue to say that every lunch with Maureen inevitably devolved into a drunken saturnalia. Most did, but those that didn’t were often memorable for many reasons, not the least of which was that when she was sober, my mother could be—and I don’t exaggerate—the dining companion of one’s dreams: endlessly playful and funny, deeply wise, kind and insanely generous to the help, from maître d’ to busboy, a font of shrewd character analyses and sensible advice about my feckless love life, and my budding (or so I hoped) career as a writer. My sister, Katherine, and I cherish our memories of those golden occasions. Oh, but we laughed! Once, after the two of them had lunched together at a mediocre, faux-Polynesian restaurant in Lake George, New York, the waitress glanced at their empty plates and asked incredulously: “You liked it?” They laughed about this for the next twenty years.

  When dining in restaurants, it had always been Mom’s habit to wrap leftovers in a napkin that she tucked away in her purse for future consumption (often after “doctoring” the dish by adding chili powder, garlic salt, and ketchup until it bore no resemblance whatsoever to its original incarnation). On one particular occasion, temptation, as it frequently did, got the better of her, and she plucked from the buffet table what she thought was a freshly baked meatloaf, only to discover after she’d gotten home that she’d absconded with a brick by mistake. I suspect that my mother’s impoverished childhood in Troy, New York, must have involved a certain amount of what is today called “food insecurity,” and a corollary of this was binge-eating when the opportunity presented itself. Mom was a fat kid, and her fluctuating weight remained a lifelong concern; or to be more accurate, it did until her final years, when her appetite all but vanished. She avoided any food containing coconut because as a child, she’d sneaked into the pantry of her extended family’s home on First Street and gorged on several cans of grated coconut, afterward becoming violently ill. Since Mom’s Irish grandmother Mary did all the cooking, and since grated coconut is not, as far as I know, a staple of Irish cuisine, I suspect the cans had been purloined from a local grocery store by Maureen’s mother, Irene, who was celebrated in the family (perhaps “celebrated” is not really le mot juste) for her light fingers.

  But today is different, and I am looking forward with barely concealed excitement to having a perfect lunch with Maureen. Furthermore, since I am both the writer and director of this little scenario, the prospect of Mom spoiling the occasion by getting stinko is out of the question. I might even break one of my own rules and have a glass or two of wine with my lunch, for while I am very far from being a teetotaler, drinking even a single beer during the day makes me sleepy.

  “Where would you like to go?” Mom would ask, generously leaving the choice to me. If this were a dinner date, I would seek out the most exalted restaurant I could find (Daniel? Le Bernardin?), one with acres of artfully arranged cut flowers in a spacious, elegantly appointed room. But since this is to be a luncheon date, and neither of us is accustomed to eating a large meal at midday (Mom rarely ordered anything more elaborate than a BLT sandwich), choosing a Michelin-starred restaurant would be inappropriate. For this occasion, I have settled on a health-food restaurant called Vim and Vigor (alas, long gone) on West Fifty-Seventh, where we lived before my sister, Katherine, was born. We generally sat at the counter, where the female waitstaff, who had known me since I was a baby, always made a fuss over me and remarked how much I had grown since our last visit, even if this had occurred only a week before. We invariably ordered fresh-squeezed orange or carrot juice, which was served in cone-shaped metal canisters that held paper cups. The restaurant’s pièce de résistance—and it was so delicious that we never ordered anything else—was a dish called baked cottage cheese, which Mom occasionally tried to replicate at home with unsatisfactory results.

  Unless she was drunk, Mom was big on punctuality, a trait I have inherited with a vengeance. The prospect of my being late—even by a few minutes—for an appointment, is guaranteed to induce intense anxiety, and when others are late it’s even worse, as my imagination goes into overdrive and I grow increasingly certain with each passing minute that they have forgotten about our date and are not coming. Nevertheless, old habits die hard, and today, as I often do, I make a point of arriving at the restaurant well ahead of time so I can scan the street outside through the plate-glass window for her approach.

  Sure enough, my heart skips a beat as I recognize her approaching from half a block away. Long before I can discern her features, her gait and something else I cannot quite define proclaim unmistakably that it’s Maureen. My wildly pounding heart all but bursts from my chest, and I spring from my seat, nearly upsetting the shaker of Vege-Sal on the table, and race outside to greet her. Hugs. Kisses. Tears. How often I have dreamed of this moment! After a suitable interval to allow the reality of our encounter to sink in, she cheerfully announces, “I’m starving! Are you?” “Not really” I reply, “but you know what’s good here?” to which we both respond in unison: “Baked cottage cheese!”

  The moment we step inside, the counter ladies and the waitstaff (all of whom are black, in case anyone is interested) erupt in a sp
ontaneous torrent of greetings and “Lord have mercy!” This is a stark contrast indeed with the usual, frosty “Do you have a reservation? No? Let me check our book,” that passes for a greeting among the giraffe-like eye-candy types who are often employed to guard the portals at loftier establishments. I had almost forgotten the guilty but gratifying pleasure of dining with a celebrity who is, by definition, the perpetual center of attention, and in particular, how quickly the murmurs of recognition and admiration one overhears come to be accepted as one’s rightful due. (“That must be her son,” “He looks just like her,” “She looks smaller in person,” and so on.)

  For this occasion, no sooner had we both sat down, when Mom, wearing flip-flops and a sleeveless blue cotton frock, utters the words my sister and I know so well: “Anything we don’t eat, we doggy-bag!” Evidently, leftovers are permitted in heaven or whatever afterlife she has been occupying for the past eleven years. Perhaps, that is the real meaning of “the angel’s share”—the phrase distillers use to describe the portion of their product that is lost through evaporation. “I don’t think there are going to be any leftovers,” I reply. “You never know, ducky!” is her cheerful riposte. Before we can say another word, a beaming, middle-aged woman appears at Mom’s side and says to her, “Oh, Miss Stapleton, my husband and I just loved you in All in the Family.” To which Mom replies, “That was Jean Stapleton, honey, and we’re not related. But you’re right—she’s great!” The woman looks perplexed, offers a weak, “Oh,” and returns to her table, where she replays the exchange for her equally clueless friends. “If I had a dollar for every time somebody thinks I’m Jean fucking Stapleton, I could have retired in comfort.” She says this with no animosity whatsoever. In point of fact, she receives (or used to) autograph requests in the mail just about every week with a photograph of Carroll O’Connor and Jean Stapleton in their Archie and Edith costumes. Never one to disappoint a fan—even if it’s someone else’s—she signed them anyway. With her own name, of course. No one seemed to notice. Taken as a group, autograph collectors are not the brightest of bulbs.

  When our lunch arrives, I discover that I was hungrier than I thought, because I tuck into my vittles with relish—I haven’t eaten Vim and Vigor’s baked cottage cheese since the place closed, I don’t know how many years ago, and it tastes every bit as good as I remembered. But I notice that Mom, who only minutes before had announced she was “starving,” barely touches hers. Instead, after a few bites, she pushes it around with her fork, sculpting it into unusual shapes like a child toying with Play-Doh. This is a familiar sight. There is something about eating in public that never appealed to her.

  “I guess you’re going to doggy-bag it, huh?” I ask. “Yup. I’ll finish it later,” she replies. “It’s no good cold,” I venture.

  “Oh, I know. We have a stove and hot plate. Don’t you worry. I’ll finish it.”

  You know what?

  I know she will.

  Dan Allentuck is a writer and documentary filmmaker who specializes in films about photography and painting. A lifelong New Yorker, he lives on the Upper West Side with his wife, the filmmaker Nina Rosenblum, and their Yorkshire terrier, Sasha. He loves to cook but has never tried to make baked cottage cheese.

  44

  “As I once said to your mother, it’s a miracle you survived us.”

  TRACY TYNAN (DAUGHTER) AND KENNETH TYNAN

  The security guard confirmed that my late father was on his way up. I was nervous. I hadn’t seen him in more than thirty years; thirty-seven years, to be precise. I’d agonized about what to wear. Being the daughter of a famously flamboyant dresser, the bar was high. I finally settled on a pale blue dress that showed off my long legs—my father’s legs.

  Choosing the cuisine for lunch had been a challenge. My father was a gourmet. He loved good food and had eaten at some of the best restaurants in the world. I decided to cook. When he was alive, I had cooked for him only once (roast lamb and potatoes, my go-to dish for many years), and I wanted to show him what a good chef I’d become. (Does one ever grow out of wanting parental approval?) Indian food was his favorite, but that was too far out of my comfort zone. Instead, I chose a recipe from a cookbook he esteemed, A Treasury of Great Recipes, by Mary and Vincent Price—not that he actually cooked himself, but he liked to read the book and tell my stepmother, Kathleen, what to make. I think another reason he was so fond of this book of famous recipes, from famous restaurants, written by a famous actor was that it was a perfect match for my father, a man who could never resist celebrity.

  I made the classic Boeuf à la Bourguignon. It was a complicated recipe and required my husband—a writer, not a chef—to help me decipher some of the contradictory instructions, but I was proud of the results. It was simmering on the stove, giving off a delicious aroma. I also made new potatoes; no other veg: regardless of my father’s sophisticated tastes, he was basically a meat-and-potatoes kind of guy. Hoping to impress the oenophile in him, I had splurged on an expensive bottle of French red Burgundy. It was open, and I was allowing it to breathe. Chilling in an ice bucket was a bottle of his favorite California champagne, Chandon Blanc de Noirs. I glanced around the room; it looked clean and tidy, the table was set with my best Russel Wright plates, but I was a wreck. I needed something to calm me down. I took a puff from my pot vaporizer to steady my nerves.

  The doorbell rang. I opened the door. There he was, just as I remembered him: a tall, lean man with gray hair parted on the side, wearing the iconic white suit in which David Bailey had photographed him in 1968. We looked each other over. There was an awkward hug. We were never that physical with each other.

  “You look good,” he acknowledged.

  “So do you, surprisingly.”

  First hurdle overcome. He surveyed my loft and complimented me on the décor—eclectic. I opened the champagne, and the pop of the cork seemed to release some tension in the air. The pink foam spilled down the glasses as we toasted.

  “To us,” he said.

  “To us,” I concurred.

  Another awkward silence. Where to begin with someone who’s been out of your life for over thirty years? Not to mention, out of his.

  “Are you hungry?”

  “Yes. Smells good. I haven’t eaten in . . .” He waves the thought away with a grin.

  “It’s a recipe from the Vincent Price cookbook,” I announce proudly. “From Le Pavillon.”

  He adds, “A great restaurant.”

  I serve the food. We sit opposite each other. My ginger cat jumps up on the chair at the end of the table, and stares at us.

  “Who’s this?” asks my father.

  “Oliver. He likes to watch us eat.”

  My father laughs and reaches out to pet him. Oliver, not a particularly friendly feline, quickly falls under his spell and starts to purr. My father loved cats. Growing up we always had cats.

  “He reminds me of Cagney,” says my father. Cagney was his favorite feline.

  “Once at a party, Dizzy Gillespie suddenly seized one of Cagney’s front legs and plunged it into his mouth, right up to the shoulder. He then slowly extracted it. We all craned forward, expecting blood from claw scratches to come pouring from his mouth. Amazingly, there was none.”

  “It’s hard to believe that a trumpet player would take a risk like that with his mouth.”

  My father shrugs. “You know what Dizzy said? ‘That’s how much animals trust me!’ And that, in fact, is how much everyone trusted him. He was a cool c-c-at.”

  As he stumbles over the letter “C,” I am reminded of the remnants of his stutter, conquered long ago, but still noticeable when he is nervous with certain consonants.

  I see he has finished his champagne. I pour him a glass of the Burgundy. I feel it’s important to keep us well lubricated. He lifts the glass and sniffs. “Mmmn, nice bouquet.” He swirls the ruby red liquid and takes a sip. “Good choice. Good food, too.”

  Phew, so far, so good.

  “So, what happened wit
h you and Jim? Last time I saw him, he wasn’t too eager to marry again.”

  “I finally beat him down. We just celebrated our thirty-fifth anniversary. You have two grandchildren, Matthew and Ruby. Matthew’s middle name is Peacock, like you, and also like you, he loves clothes!”

  My father smiles with slightly bewildered delight.

  “Actually, you have five grandchildren. Roxana married Jim’s son, Jesse, and . . .” (Roxana is my half-sister.)

  “Wait a moment,” says my father, mid-forkful, “Jesse, the little blond chap?”

  “Yup. You know how you always said that incest was the last taboo to be conquered . . . ? Well, this isn’t exactly incest because there’s no blood. But it’s close.”

  My father drains his glass of wine. He gulps. “Wow.”

  “Yeah, we were kind of surprised when they first started seeing each other, but actually, it’s worked out rather well. They have two beautiful kids, Izzy and Jack.” I refill both our glasses.

  He tries to puzzle this out. “So, you’re an aunt, or half-aunt, on one side, and a stepgrandmother on the other . . .”

  “Yes, half-aunt and half-grandmother, they call me Grauntie.” He’s amused.

  “And what about Roxana? Has she given up her ambitions for motherhood?”

  “Hardly. She’s the director of a nonprofit organization that works with unions to fight for economic equality and to raise the minimum wage. . . . She’s also very beautiful. Looks just like Kathleen.”

  “And Matthew? I mean my son Matthew, not yours.”

  “He was a writer, like you, but he’s become a lawyer and deals with entertainment law and intellectual rights. He’s married to a chef and writer and they have a lovely daughter, Vebeke.”