Dining Alone Page 2

  One of her first thoughts, when she realised there would be no wedding and no reception, was what to do with the cake? The cake: it had taken so much of her thoughts and time. All of her creative energy had gone into the design; its whiter than white icing, three tiers and a cascade of green sugar leaves. It had cost so much and now it was all to be thrown away.

  For days she couldn’t eat anything. Ironically, it had been the same when they first got engaged; back then she was sated with love, but after that day at the church, it was pain and fury that filled her. Consumed by it, she had become anger.

  Although David had removed all trace of himself from their home, she found it unbearable to live there. Changing jobs hadn’t helped either. She found it difficult to see friends, rarely returning phone calls or emails. They wanted to talk about her soap-opera life; their concerned enquiries barely veiled their thrill at a juicy scandal. Facebook featured several versions of her story.

  Even now, she feels the rejection every moment of every day. When she tries to sleep, her mind is filled with images of pitying eyes.

  Mandy keeps her apartment immaculate. Everything is ordered, nothing is out of place. It is almost as if no one lives there. As soon as she arrives, she unpacks her groceries; a potato, with a little green already showing in its skin, several instant meals in boxes, a loaf of sliced white bread, a box of cereal and a couple of tired apples. Her purchases are tasteless mouthfuls to eat in front of TV, as she watches men and women desperate for the world to look at them. Mandy has had her fifteen minutes of fame, and their clawing for attention just reinforces her isolation.

  The next day at work she sips instant coffee. A ham-and-cheese-filled croissant, now cold, stares up at her from its ripped paper bag. She likes this office; as long as she keeps the invoices paid on time, she need only communicate with people on paper or via a computer screen. Few people notice her and fewer acknowledge her. She has barely allowed herself to remember that today is her birthday.

  She takes a bite of the croissant; its greasy filling slips from the pastry, landing on her skirt. Mandy scoops up the offending yellow and pink goo. The oily stain leaves a dark smudge across her grey skirt. Fighting back tears, she hurries to the ladies’ to try to repair the damage. A tsunami of self-pity threatens to engulf her. She pulls her anger back to the surface. A tear-stained face will arouse too much interest among her colleagues.

  Taking a deep breath she returns to her desk. There on top of a pile of invoices is a plate of lovingly baked and decorated cupcakes. Delicate butterflies perch on each iced surface, their wings so lifelike they appear poised to fly. A card nestles between two cakes.

  Happy birthday,

  Hope the year ahead is filled with joyful surprises.

  Warmest wishes,

  Jodie

  Mandy begins to sit down, but memories of childhood slumber parties, making cupcakes with friends for their giggle-filled midnight feasts, cause a bubble of joy to rise in her chest. Lifting the plate, Mandy heads for Jodie’s desk.

  A table alone

  Cassie Harrex

  The wind whips wildly through the alley. Snowflakes dance along the currents and coat the street in their frozen dust. Warm inside the restaurant, Caroline peers through the steaming window using her glove to wipe away streams of condensation.

  The alley is empty except for a pair of rugged up lovers who seem oblivious to the freezing winter night. The man drapes his arm around the woman and guides her into a nearby café. Caroline loves this type of evening. This had been their favourite time of year, a time when the dark streets were empty and the city seemed to belong to them alone.

  ‘Excuse me madam,’ the young waiter says clearing his throat, his chubby hands holding a steaming bowl of mussels.

  ‘Your moules marinière madam,’ he says, hacking up the French in his thick northern accent.

  ‘Thank you,’ she replies with a smile, marvelling at his plumpness, which makes him look so innocent she can hardly believe he’s old enough to work. His voice, however, is deep and ripe with a self-assuredness that seems out of sorts with the rest of him.

  ‘Now, you’re sure you don’t want me to clear away the other place,’ he asks, cautiously eyeing the setting across from her.

  ‘No, please just leave it,’ Caroline snaps. It wasn’t like her and she instantly tries to soften her sharpness with a smile. Sensing her fragility the waiter backs away, reappearing to quickly refill her breadbasket before leaving her alone to enjoy her view of the street.

  Caroline pours herself another glass of Veuve Clicquot. She’s never had a whole bottle of champagne to herself, such a luxury she’d thought when she placed the order. The waiter’s eyebrows had shot up the moment she uttered the words, followed quickly by ‘you do know we don’t serve the Clicquot by the glass’.

  She knew perfectly well they didn’t, but she wanted to do this properly, and they had always shared a bottle for their anniversary. She’d managed a curt ‘yes’ and no more was said. Now it sat in its gleaming silver bath taunting her in her solitude.

  She sips the glass, letting the bubbles dance across her tongue, remembering the first time she tried champagne. Barely nineteen and strapped into her ridged wedding dress, she was light-headed after a few sips. Richard had teased that his new bride was drunk within moments of their marriage. She’d always been a poor drinker and knew she would barely touch tonight’s bottle. If anything she’d ordered it for him.

  Wafts of garlic jolt her back as she lifts the bowl from over the mussels. The sight of their black shells sleeping in the blanket of cream is somehow soothing. She prizes the first succulent mussel free from its shell. Its plump flesh tastes of all the oceans she’s ever swum in.

  If he were here, Richard would have made a face by now. Even after thirty years of always ordering the same thing, he never understood her love for them. Flecked with garlic, parsley and the occasional fiery trace of chilli, she remembers Marseille, on their way to their first real holiday and a year before Harry was born. She’d insisted they stop in a seedy beachside tavern for a bowl. Richard had anxiously watched the door, sure there’d be mugged at any moment as she slurped up the wine-drenched molluscs. They’d laughed about it later and every year, at this table, one of them would jokingly bring it up. Tonight, she silently eats each mussel, savouring its saltiness and staring at the empty place in front of her.

  With the mussels gone, she tears the soft centre out of the bread and soaks the crust in the wine-infused broth. The sauce is soupy and rich and she happily devours it. Swallowing the last bite, the waiter swoops upon her, whisking away the dirty plates, scraping up the breadcrumbs and refilling her glass.

  ‘Can I interest you in dessert madam,’ he coolly asks, not looking at her as he fusses about rearranging the table.

  ‘Yes, I’ll have the crème brûlée, but no coffee.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she adds as he floats off to place her order.

  It’s a quiet night and except for two couples and an awkward-looking man alone with his newspaper, the room is empty. She feels invisible here in the corner. An open fire crackles against the far wall, throwing out just enough heat to make Caroline drowsy. She stares unblinkingly into its dancing flames, warm, yet numb, after her favourite meal. It’s been like that for the past six months; it was hard to feel anything much since his death.

  ‘Your dessert madam,’ the waiter interjects, appearing out of nowhere and startling her as he places the terracotta dish down.

  He’s soon off again, before she can thank him, and now Caroline stares wearily at the dessert unsure of if she wants it after all. She brings her spoon down on the toffee with a dull thud and the brûlée cracks into golden shards. She scoops up a small amount of the silky cream, closes her eyes and tastes the sweetness of the custard. Letting the flavour swirl in her mouth she feels the slightest twang of satisfaction and, just for a moment, forgets everything else. One bite and she’s done.

  Exhausted, she signals
for the bill, leaving what she hopes is a decent tip. The waiter fetches her jacket and makes the obligatory small talk while she rugs up for the walk home.

  ‘Horrible night isn’t it, it’s really ghastly out there,’ he says handing her scarf over.

  ‘I don’t mind,’ she says, ‘the cold makes me feel alive.’

  He smiles awkwardly and she turns to go. Out on the street a carpet of snow has settled undisturbed. Caroline tightens her scarf and steps onto the frozen path. The snow has stopped falling and as she walks home her footprints leave a solitary trail through the night.

  A recipe for nourishment

  Marianne Duluk

  Reserving a table for one. Indulging in rare black truffles, rich pork belly and more-ish risottos without a flinch of guilt or sharing spoons. The solace in having a precious moment in time away from the tedious small talk of glum weather and base politics is an invigorating relief. No awkward silences around the table, or sipping on uninspiring wines ordered by those with no sense of a palate nor having to listen to overzealous mothers gloating about how seven-year-old Isabelle regularly cooks steak tartare for the family. Call me a social misfit, but does anyone truly care for such exaggerations?

  My French husband Rémy works away, often. He’s also a vegan. Before I encountered Rémy never did I entertain the thought that ‘French’ and ‘vegan’ could share sentences. Perhaps it was the abundance of gamey duck cassoulet and coq au vin frequently consumed from an early age? Admittedly veganism is not the most romantic of traits for a wife to attribute to her husband; a chocoholic, camembert addict or even moderate consumer of the alcoholic sort would have been preferred. At least he doesn’t mind a drop or two …

  While Rémy graces me with his French accent and vegan recipes of watercress soup and potato-and-chive quenelles for part of our lives, I secretly relish his time away. Not in a malicious way of course, just so the tofu burgers can be wrapped and left to freeze as I delve into the many fine restaurants in town, of the non-vegan variety.

  On Rémy’s trips away, my covert life takes form. Diners gawk and waiters are startled by a long satin gown flowing into the room with no clumsy male trailing two steps behind on the polished marble tiles. The whispers are fairly loud. Why is she alone? A loner, desperate, a failure? Little do they know that true contentment surrounds me, knowing that a night of culinary ecstasy lies ahead. Of the meat kind.

  ‘Are you waiting on friends?’, ‘Is your partner parking?’, are the typical queries that greet this lone diner. I smile confidently because I know I’m dining with my designer sequinned gown, embellished stiletto heels and craving stomach.

  Electricity fills the air.

  Lavishly set tables are filled with slim ladies sharing flamboyant banter and corporates entertaining investors with magnificent bottles of Barolo and single malt whisky. Intimate couples are scattered throughout the softly lit restaurant. These couples fall into one of three categories. First, the new couples madly infatuated with each other, knowing their dinner date is simply the first course and dessert is swiftly skipped … then, the steady couples who dine as part of a monthly ritual away from the tiring children. The date is somewhat forced but their underlying love is obvious. However, most intriguing are the couples dominated by a wife vying for the attention of her vacant-looking husband, knowing that he fancies his younger colleagues or worse, is attempting to recover from a hushed affair. These wives know they have lost their other half, yet hold on tightly, bound to the rock on their third finger, perhaps more so than to the disconnected figure sitting across the table.

  Away from the strained couples attempting to reinvent past memories, my focus turns to the enticing menu. Civet de lièvre, foie gras and descriptors of hearty pork rillettes fill the crisp white pages. The shrill of laughter and silver clinking fades into the distance as I am lost in my world of culinary argot.

  ‘A newspaper, magazine or perhaps a strong drink, madame?’ a waiter hesitantly murmurs. Do my polished face and glossy Chanel lips convey need for a stiff beverage before entrée? ‘Champagne please, blanc de noirs,’ I hear myself say, we will save the stiff drinks for the brash businessmen on table six—and mindless literature can be read at home.

  Vegetable soups and marinated olives are overlooked as starters as beef tenderloin wrapped in honey-cured bacon appears before me. The warmed plate barely touches the pressed linen before my Sabatier fork delves into the meat. Tender and succulent in texture with aromatic hints of garlic and rosemary, the surface of the meat is delicately caramelised. The tofu burgers stored in the freezer are a distant haze as I am transported into a reassuring place of truly soulful food. The ladies beside me awkwardly pick at their simple green salads. I wonder what frightens them from ordering a piece of perfectly cooked steak? Surely the businessmen on table six would prefer a woman to share a steak with, not a salad of overpriced weeds?

  Weeds aside, Burgundian pinot noir is ordered by the bottle. As with any firm relationship, fine food excels in the company of finer wine. Crystal glassware is set before me as the glistening pinot slides into the feminine decanter, her perfume and seductive characters already apparent. The anticipation of her intricate layers developing is subtly arousing.

  Twice-cooked confit duck slowly passes through my lips as a dark handsome man brushes past, his cologne sweetly lingering. His broad smile presents mischievous dimples that I find myself reciprocating. However, Mr Handsome is unaware I am smiling at the head chef artistically plating veal escalopes, and sprinkling garnish on his works of art. Fresh juniper berries and thyme tease my palate as I discover layers of gently cooked porcini mushrooms generously prepared in brandy and brown sugar. No man, however handsome or muscular, can steal this moment from me.

  The head waiter, dressed sharply in a starched black waistcoat, reverently tends to the room. Whilst young in appearance, his neat hair is thinning. His eyes are heavy. Perhaps he devours unfinished bottles of Tuscan blends after lengthy days or finds comfort in expensive gin and fresh cucumber? He offers me dessert from a tempting menu and is surprised when I accept. As I crack the glazed top of dark chocolate crème brûlée my mind wonders: is it a social faux pas for trim females to eagerly order rich desserts on their own, or does my keenness represent a deeper form of nourishment? The silky custard of the brûlée, balanced by delicate sweetness and vanillin nuances, interrupts my thoughts.

  Upon receiving the bill, I notice the dessert and champagne apéritif have been omitted. Is this encouragement for a return visit or a pass made by the head waiter, or perhaps an act of pity? As I step out to the restaurant-lined alleyway I feel satisfied and almost rebellious in having consumed bacon, beef, confit duck and decadent desserts in one sitting. How long this satisfaction lasts is uncertain—but I know Rémy’s next business trip cannot come quickly enough, as I anticipate my next solo dining affair, far from feeling alone.

  Table for one

  Julia Jenkins

  It’s going to be a quiet Thursday night, just Rosanna and me on the floor. We’re sitting in the gleamingly romantic but currently deserted restaurant eating bowls of shitty leftover pasta for dinner because Chef couldn’t be bothered making us a proper staff meal. He has pork belly trimmings and a slightly wonky potato galette and all the imperfect wild mushrooms, but apparently there is ‘not enough to share’.

  ‘You better hurry up and finish that, you have a one at 6.30,’ says Rosanna.

  One-tops. Waste of a table. They eat light, barely drink and rarely, if ever, order dessert. And they’re so needy. They either need you to hold their hand the entire night to make sure they don’t get lonely or feel the dire need to impress upon you their knowledge of this wine or that scotch. Or worse, they shroud themselves in their anonymity and melt into the shadows the entire night. Waste of a table.

  ‘We’ll put him in the back, shall we?’

  ‘Her.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘We’ll put her in the back,’ Rosanna says, her voice muffled th
rough sticky spaghetti. ‘Sounded young on the phone.’

  I’m already at the back of the restaurant removing one of my perfectly placed settings, shifting the table imperceptibly so that the remaining place will be exactly facing my station. All the better to swoop in at exactly the right moment to offer a glass of liqueur or a slice of tart that will no doubt be turned down.

  At almost exactly 6.30 pm, a soft tinkle of the entrance bell announces the arrival of my one. She stands in the doorway, slightly unsure, hands clasped around her bag in front of her. She’s in a dark blue dress, knee length and low cut to a point just above immodesty, low heels, hair pulled back in a ponytail and a swipe of deep red lipstick. She could be dressed for a date but for the cloak of aloneness that she keeps firmly around her shoulders.

  Walking beside me to the table, her ankles wobble slightly in her heels, but she catches herself quickly, nervously adjusting the neckline of her dress.

  Once sitting she places her phone on the table in front of her and begins to intently read the menu. I can see her eyes widen slightly at the prices. It’s going to be one of those nights then, two light entrées and a glass of mineral water.

  Her phone lights up and she grabs at it quickly. Reading whatever it says her eyes roll gently and suddenly she sits up a little straighter. Her cloak lifts a little as she pushes her phone away from her.

  ‘Something to drink to start off with perhaps? Campari? A glass of sparkling?’ I ask, floating over when she looks up from her menu again.

  ‘I’ll have a glass of champagne please.’

  ‘A glass of the blanc de blancs perhaps? The Victorian?’

  ‘No,’ she says, glancing up to meet my eyes. ‘Champagne. The French.’

  Ah, she wears her cloak well. She sips at her champagne gratefully, keeping her hands busy with the glass and the menu. I serve the other customers, a table of suits just interested in scotch fillets and Bordeaux, keeping an eye on my one. I’m at her side before she even has a chance to glance around the room. Bang.