I pride myself on being able to enjoy life’s sensual
pleasures without needing accompaniment. If my time living has taught me
anything, it is that people are boring, and no one provides better company than
myself. My jokes land better, my anecdotes are more compelling, and, frankly, I
still look better than most of the people I see. Truly, I’m lucky to have me as
a lunch date. There was a time when it felt awkward eating alone on white tablecloths.
As a young woman, I fueled my trips to the city with room service club
sandwiches. You get older and suddenly the memory of pan seared foie gras
melting on your tongue pulls you to go out harder than the fear of strangers’
stares pushes you to stay in and hide. Foie gras is, incidentally, one of the dishes
I had the pleasure of enjoying this evening, followed by a poulet basquaise,
profiteroles for dessert, and a delightful eau de vie to wash it all down. I no
longer mind the poorly-hidden glances tossed my way by the coupled ladies
wondering what I must have done or be doing wrong to be so utterly alone drinking
red wine at this restaurant. Instead of avoiding their eyes as I let the liquor
trickle down my tongue and burn its way down my throat, I stare right back at
them. They should see that a woman who has had a successful career and knows
herself doesn’t need to wait for someone to take her to dinner. She can take her
damn self. But people - they are boring and don’t seem to know this.
The waiter returned to my table to set down the bill. He
hovered for a moment as if he has something to say to me, then he bowed his shoulders and walked away. I am aware of the other tables watching me rummage through my purse to see if I am one of those eccentric old ladies who pays with bags of pennies. I would look forward to the moment when I pull out my credit card and the gold plastic glimmers in the candle light, but my rummaging has stirred up the memory of leaving my wallet in my home office and never returning it to my purse. I have no money to pay for my meal. For a moment I am petrified with embarrassment, but I pull myself together. My life always demanded resourcefulness, and this moment is no exception. My fingers fumble upon a lipstick floating in the bottom of my purse. I retrieve it and apply it. Now they believe this is what I have been looking for the whole time. Surveying the dining room with newly red lips, I try to identify a couple I have not yet ostracized with aggressive, predatory eye contact. I zero in on a middle-aged man with clear middle-brow tastes sitting across from a well-dressed young woman. If he can pay for her, surely he could loan a fellow veteran of the years the funds to cover one simple meal. As I pull my shoulder blades back and steel myself to saunter over, a vision of the entire dining room turning ever so slightly to watch me grovel glues my thighs to my seat. Truly, I would hate to disturb their meal. On second thought, ingratiating myself to the sweet waiter might be a more discreet tactic. After all, the poor boy needs my tips. Certainly he would be happy to slip me an IOU and have me return tomorrow. Perhaps we could sip coffee together as we laugh about this ridiculous misunderstanding. Or, being so young, perhaps he would call management over to the table to discuss protocol. They would likely not have a lady of my age wash dishes, but they can't just simply let me leave. I am loath to put them in the awkward situation of discussing my fate in the center of the dining room. In order to save everyone the embarrassment of this delicate situation, I will take matters into my own hands and exploit their sympathies. Everyone will be grateful for the trouble I've saved them. I pick my cell phone out of my purse and place it to my cheek. I gasp audibly and stare into the middle distance. I shout, "No, not Helen! But she was so healthy!" and stand up from my table. As I walk briskly to the front door I apologize to the chairs I bump into and motion to the phone where this terrible news about Helen is still coming at me. There are tears in my eyes as I push open the restaurant door and continue walking to my car.
****
An orchestra of glass flutes clinking and murmured conversations filled the air. Diamonds twinkled on the necks and fingers of women seated throughout the dining room. The moody lighting hid wine stains on tablecloths and teeth. At a corner table close to the kitchen, a young woman smiled coquettishly at an older man in a grey sports coat that stood up on its own at the shoulders. She averted her eyes when a rebellious piece of potato leapt for freedom from his mouth. Under the restaurant's chandelier, a group of eight split along gender lines down the rectangular table. The square of black suits traded political observations; the square of jewel-toned lace discussed volunteering at the dog shelter. A young waiter flitted through the dining room refolding fallen napkins in his passage. He brought a small coupe of pear eau-de-vie to an older woman sitting near the door and removed her plate of half-eaten profiteroles. The woman was draped in a silk kimono and her eyes moved restlessly around the dining room.
"Can I get you anything else, Ma'am?" the waiter asked as he picked the woman's napkin from the floor and placed it back on her table. His strategic origami hid the traces of grey foie gras and orange basquaise sauce painted the white linen.
"No, thank you, young man. Just my check," she responded with eyes jumping from table to table.
The waiter headed to the back of the bar. Returning to the dining room, he brought a tray of champagne to a table of women with strained smiles cooing over one woman's hand. He headed unburdened to drop the bill at the table by the door. He looked down and saw the woman's napkin had slid onto the floor again. He hovered over the cloth for a moment, then turned and walked away without folding it again.
The older woman at the table by the door sifted through her purse energetically, then suddenly stopped. A pallor invaded her face as she continued searching through her purse more slowly. She pulled out a tube of lipstick and very deliberately applied a fresh coat of red stain to wide, cracked lips. She sat in silence for several minutes while the dining room buzzed around her. She rested her eyes on the table near the kitchen where the man in the ill-fitting grey suit had placed his hand on his dinner companion's knee. She then furrowed her brow and moved her head slightly to track the movements of the waiter who was setting down a round of white wine on the right side of the table under the chandelier. A brief frown clouded the older woman's face, then sat up stiffly and lifted her chin in the air. She reached into her purse and pulled out her phone. She gasped loudly at the black screen and looked nervously at the faces of nearby diners who turned to look at her for the first time that evening.
"No, not Helen! But she was so healthy!"
She stood up from her table and stepped on her fallen napkin as she headed for the door. She motioned to her phone as a means of apology when she collided with an empty chair in her way. She was still walking away from the restaurant shaking her head into her phone as the waiter returned to her abandoned table, picked up the napkin, folded it, and removed her bill with the empty glass of eau-de-vie.
****
An orchestra of glass flutes clinking and murmured conversations filled the air. Diamonds twinkled on the necks and fingers of women seated throughout the dining room. The moody lighting hid wine stains on tablecloths and teeth. At a corner table close to the kitchen, a young woman smiled coquettishly at an older man in a grey sports coat that stood up on its own at the shoulders. She averted her eyes when a rebellious piece of potato leapt for freedom from his mouth. Under the restaurant's chandelier, a group of eight split along gender lines down the rectangular table. The square of black suits traded political observations; the square of jewel-toned lace discussed volunteering at the dog shelter. A young waiter flitted through the dining room refolding fallen napkins in his passage. He brought a small coupe of pear eau-de-vie to an older woman sitting near the door and removed her plate of half-eaten profiteroles. The woman was draped in a silk kimono and her eyes moved restlessly around the dining room.
"Can I get you anything else, Ma'am?" the waiter asked as he picked the woman's napkin from the floor and placed it back on her table. His strategic origami hid the traces of grey foie gras and orange basquaise sauce painted the white linen.
"No, thank you, young man. Just my check," she responded with eyes jumping from table to table.
The waiter headed to the back of the bar. Returning to the dining room, he brought a tray of champagne to a table of women with strained smiles cooing over one woman's hand. He headed unburdened to drop the bill at the table by the door. He looked down and saw the woman's napkin had slid onto the floor again. He hovered over the cloth for a moment, then turned and walked away without folding it again.
The older woman at the table by the door sifted through her purse energetically, then suddenly stopped. A pallor invaded her face as she continued searching through her purse more slowly. She pulled out a tube of lipstick and very deliberately applied a fresh coat of red stain to wide, cracked lips. She sat in silence for several minutes while the dining room buzzed around her. She rested her eyes on the table near the kitchen where the man in the ill-fitting grey suit had placed his hand on his dinner companion's knee. She then furrowed her brow and moved her head slightly to track the movements of the waiter who was setting down a round of white wine on the right side of the table under the chandelier. A brief frown clouded the older woman's face, then sat up stiffly and lifted her chin in the air. She reached into her purse and pulled out her phone. She gasped loudly at the black screen and looked nervously at the faces of nearby diners who turned to look at her for the first time that evening.
"No, not Helen! But she was so healthy!"
She stood up from her table and stepped on her fallen napkin as she headed for the door. She motioned to her phone as a means of apology when she collided with an empty chair in her way. She was still walking away from the restaurant shaking her head into her phone as the waiter returned to her abandoned table, picked up the napkin, folded it, and removed her bill with the empty glass of eau-de-vie.
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