Dining Alone Page 5

  Cynthia waits for her winter minestrone, perusing the long list of films, most of which she will never see. Her child moves through the amniotic fluid from one side of her womb to the other and Cynthia places a comforting hand on her abdomen. She feels pity for these city folk grimacing against the rain and moving backwards and forwards. She pities them because of the rain and cold, but also because she sees that none have the comfort of carrying a child beneath their skin, of this new feeling of being never alone.

  The bowl of minestrone arrives. Cynthia surveys the choice of ‘winter vegetables’ through the clear broth. They are simple and sparing: spinach, parsnip and potato with a generous sprinkling of flat-leaf parsley. This is not the hearty, tomato stained minestrone variety she was expecting, but a subtle controlled mélange of flavours and textures. Samir’s specialty had been molokhia and Cynthia never could understand his near obsession with the strange slimy leaf.

  Cynthia had thought she and Samir had plenty of time. But then she was given a chance to escape to a place of blue skies and new smells. She would have stayed if he’d asked, but he didn’t. He promised to visit, but he didn’t.

  Her soup is hot and needs salt. Cynthia tries to catch the eye of a floating waiter, but his attention is focused on a party milling around the long white tables.

  After three months as a foreigner in a desert community that felt more like the ends of the earth than the heart of a nation, the inevitable crisis had descended. In that moment of darkness the phone rang. Perhaps if she’d waited it out, or if he’d not rung, her life may be different.

  When David arrived a few days later he seemed changed. It was only meant to be a week and he tried to be useful, fixing up her fences damaged by petrol sniffers and packs of dogs, then fixing up the neighbour’s fence, and then all the remaining fences in that poor excuse for a street. He seemed so happy absorbed in these manual tasks. He fitted into that strange place of red dirt, blue skies and camp dogs in a way he never had in the city. Cynthia did what she swore she never would again, she told herself that ‘this time things would be different’.

  Within days they had fallen back into routines of cooking, arguing and sleeping together. Within weeks they had tired of each other. David was packing his bags when she told him. He was silent for a moment, then kept packing and left.

  Pregnant at thirty-eight, Cynthia knew this was her last chance to have a child and was prepared to do it alone. On the first day she mourned David’s departure and the dream of a ‘perfect family’. The second day she planned her life as a single parent.

  David returned two days later, proclaiming a wish to be a father and a better partner. Cynthia was overwhelmed and undecided. She had lived two lives in the last forty-eight hours and was not convinced that every child needed a father.

  Undecided though she was, David stayed. He spent large tracts of time being charming, helpful and sober. But then he would fall, hard. Sometimes he was gone for days, and Cynthia had no idea where he was. Then he would return, shame-faced, his anger gone.

  Cynthia pushes the vegetables around the clear broth, still desperate for salt and unwilling to eat any more soup until it appears.

  She wonders at the likelihood of Samir turning up in this café on this night, saving her from her life. She dials his number, lets it ring once, twice, and then hangs up.

  The café is beginning to fill. Apart from the growing group around the white tables, the only other customers are a few strays, alone like Cynthia. A woman by herself, a newborn strapped to her front, catches Cynthia’s attention. The woman is absorbed in her reading, occasionally nuzzling her lips against the soft fuzz on the baby’s head.

  The voices from group around the white table begin to dominate the café and Cynthia sees that it is a wedding party. A pretty dark-haired bride sits beside the groom, a dark-haired man with greying temples and a familiar profile. It is barely a moment, a gasp of surprise. But it is enough for that creature called ‘Regret’ to gain a footing. Salty tears of remorse escape slowly then gain momentum landing at intervals in the minestrone. The wide shallow bowl of minestrone fills to the edges.

  With the universe seeming on the verge of swallowing her up, Cynthia’s descent is arrested by a sharp kick to the ribs from her unborn.

  She wipes her eyes. She breathes and gathers what little composure she has left. Cynthia looks around the room, from one side to the next. She sees that the rain has stopped. She sees the small bowl of black rock salt that has been sitting within arms reach at a table nearby. She sees the wedding couple. She sees that for her own wellbeing, it is not Samir. She adds just a small amount of black salt to her full bowl of minestrone. Now, it is ready to eat.

  A date with destiny

  Tibbie Chiu

  The restaurant is just busy enough to guarantee anonymity. Located just off the main drag of George Street, down a little alleyway with entry by way of a nondescript doorway, it emits an audible buzz that draws you in the door. Every now and then you will hear a laugh that breaks up the hum of chatter. It’s an intimate space but not so crowded that you can hear the actual details of the conversations around you.

  It’s the type of place you choose for an illicit date, and the owner accommodates this by liberally dotting tables of two around the candlelit space. A veil of casual romance lingers in the air intermingling with the intoxicating scents emanating from the small open kitchen.

  You can tell she has dressed up for the occasion. Her initial reluctance to be an accomplice to this dalliance gave way to her vanity. The dress she chose for the evening reveals her shapely figure while still leaving something to the imagination. She took extra care in applying her makeup this morning, knowing she would have to come straight from work and would only have time for a quick touch-up in between.

  She is a little nervous because if this dinner turns out the way she had hoped, it will change everything. She looks down at the cluster of sparkly gems on her wedding ring finger and turns to examine the clothbound menu. She is just about to order something familiar when a sudden urge to throw caution to the wind takes over and she gives the chef full control of her culinary destiny for the night.

  It’s not that she doesn’t want to be here. In fact it is the exact opposite, she just wishes she was more comfortable with the situation. She is conflicted—she feels freedom, guilt and joy all at the same time. She can’t help but wonder if the judgmental eyes boring at her from all sides are real or a figment of her imagination, a manifestation of that uneasy guilt. But it’s too late now, there’s no turning back; she will just have to see how the evening unfolds.

  Just when her mind overwhelms her with insecurity and she’s about to flee the restaurant, the waiter brings over some freshly baked bread in a small basket. Carbs are calming, she thinks to herself, and promptly grabs one of the rolls, slathering on the accompanying house-churned butter luxuriously dotted with flecks of truffle.

  The breaking of the bread signals a flurry of dishes of exquisite design and imagination, one after the other from the kitchen. She is surprised and delighted, at times confounded by what she’s tasting but at no point in the meal does she have any doubt in her mind that she is finally doing the right thing. The feelings of guilt are pushed to the back of her mind as she samples one magnificent dish after another.

  The freshly shucked oyster with an ice pearl of lemon chilli sorbet that she greedily slithers down her throat in one motion. The cube of perfectly cooked veal with the rich jus, surrounded by smoke haze smelling of pine forest with a hint of barbecue that assaults her nose when she lifts the dome covering the dish. The crispy skinned duck with wild mushrooms foraged by the chefs that very morning. All these dishes and more, along with the decadent climax of chocolate done four ways, give her back the sense of identity that she has so longed for.

  She needed to get something of her old self back. She is not just Ben’s wife; the mother to two-year-old twins Jonathan and Joshua; and personal assistant to Mark Brennan at HGA Ins
urance. She has been increasingly suffocated by the feeling of putting others’ needs before hers. She saw her reflection in the mirror the other day and barely recognised the woman staring back at her. That’s when she decided that she needed to organise a date with herself and finally do something that pleases her, and her alone.

  She is a foodie, and has been from the day her parents drove their carsick-prone daughter two hours out of town to get the best ice-cream. Ben sees food differently; for him it is fuel rather than pleasure. At the beginning of their courtship, when they were both trying to impress each other, Ben would be more adventurous and she would play down her desires, settling on his favourite local Italian restaurant whose menu covered the classic mom-and-pop style of home cooking.

  Somehow it just became the status quo … she lost her foodie self along the way, got married and then the twins came along. Time and money became major constraints, she no longer had the yearning or the lust for food, and the thrill of menu planning gave way to whatever she could be bothered to slap on the family dinner table.

  This date she made with herself had awoken something inside her. She knew things would have to change, and soon. Her misery was starting to affect her relationship with Ben and even the twins. She wanted to be a better wife, mother and version of herself.

  As she walked up the driveway to their home, she felt energised and ready to tackle the challenges ahead.

  ‘How was your meeting, Des?’ Ben asked.

  She popped a chocolate truffle she saved from the restaurant into his mouth, watched his initial surprise then saw that, through his confusion, he was savouring the truffle’s taste.

  ‘Ben, you are long overdue for a performance review. Rumour has it there will be an imminent restructure of the organisation,’ she said with a knowing smile.

  Cutting ties

  Nathalie Craig

  There was a knot of apprehension sitting in the base of my stomach. It was Sarah’s idea for me to bring us here.

  ‘You’ve talked so much about this damn place. It’s about time you showed it to us,’ she’d said.

  It wasn’t just any damn place. It was like an extension of my family dining table. My automatic choice when dining out.

  Half the group was there already when I arrived, wearing typical unimpressed, uninterested smirks on their faces. Since leaving high school a few years ago, the seven of us had met for our annual reunions, but for me they were beginning to feel like incongruous pieces of a jigsaw jammed together. My default façade of feigned interest and approval was beginning to slip.

  ‘I don’t know what half the crap is on this menu. Not that it matters. I don’t feel like eating out after the huge night I had last night. I’ve been throwing up all day,’ said Reagan.

  Kirsty gave her an approving chuckle.

  I felt the urge to run, or at least to take the seat at the direct opposite end of the table. Avoiding a reply I looked up to see the other three girls entering the restaurant.

  They were scanning the place judgmentally, criticisms already crystallising on the tips of their tongues. ‘Wow, it’s a little gaudy’, ‘Those dresser tables aren’t exactly Thai’, ‘It’s not what I had in mind’.

  While the others greeted each other I slipped inconspicuously into one of the familiar high-backed straw seats, the one the furthest away from Reagan and Kirsty.

  A Thai waitress smiled gently at me with a shy nod of recognition. My uneasiness grew. Why did I let them come here?

  ‘Could we grab a coke and a lemonade,’ yelled Reagan at a waitress passing by.

  I felt disconnected from their conversations about getting drunk, movies and bands and was surprised how easy it was to be excluded. It confirmed my belief that they really just don‘t care that much.

  I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw the food arriving. Looking down at my plate I slid my knife through the beef, tender as always. I closed my eyes to savour the complexity and light spice of the creamy mussaman sauce.

  ‘Oh, and we got so drunk but we wanted some have some Maccas so we just jumped in the car and went and got it. I could go some Maccas now actually.’ Reagan’s nasal voice had become unnaturally loud. And with those words it became blatantly obvious: I was not longer a part of this group.

  Their loud chatter became hollow noise like an unwatched television blaring in another room of the house.

  To try and soothe my thumping heart and clammy palms I imagined a protective wall around myself. I couldn’t let them continue to degrade this special place.

  With a deep breath I wrapped my hands around the warm cup of jasmine tea. Now, more than any other time I’d dined here, I needed its calming powers. I appreciated its delicate floral scent, its warmth on my lips, remembering the way Aunty Jill swirls the tea around in the cup when we come here together, trying to read her future in the tea leaves. And the way it warms every part of you, like on the icy winter nights when my family and I dine here before heading out to the theatre a little further down the street.

  The waitresses moved with the elegance of swans, black velvet ponytails swaying, regal silver bowls full of rice held in the air with one hand. They moved among the tables, refilling plates when necessary. They also kept a close eye on the diners’ other needs: empty teapots were efficiently replaced and water glasses topped up. Diners were intimately engaged in conversation, oblivious to the intricate level of care given to them.

  My attention came back to my own plate. Ah! The chilli squid, my choice. The soft fresh curls covered in smalls pieces of chilli are really worth sweating for.

  I left my seat to walk to the bathroom, wandering down the familiar corridor that led me past the kitchen. Pausing for a moment, I enjoyed the clang of metal spatulas scraping against the surface of woks. The chefs were working tirelessly in the heat of the kitchen, wiping sweat from their brows with the backs of their arms. The cool jazz music and classy ambiance of the dining room is far removed from the pace of the kitchen. I felt a newfound appreciation for the scrumptious meals.

  On my way back from the bathroom lively chatter, dramatic hand gestures and couples lost in each other’s company made my isolation feel more pronounced. Even the lone dinner, tucked away in the corner reading her book, seemed in a meditative state.

  Back at my own table the saffron yellow curry chicken was enjoyable but it didn’t have the same zing as when my cousin Katrina pronounced the potatoes in it as ‘eye shuttingly good’. It was the ultimate rating on our potato scale.

  I needed my brother Paul to discuss the quality of pad thai with me. Was it the best yet? Or my mum, who is usually overly cautious about eating seafood at restaurants, marvelling at the freshness of the scallop and snow pea dish.

  It’s that sense of shared excitement about the food that heightens the experience. I found it odd that no one at my table discussed the food. Food can be ruined by company, too.

  But I wasn’t letting that happen. I was dining in my own isolated space. I had become pensive and calm like the sole diner at the back of the restaurant. I was the only one at my table who could see what was really going on in this restaurant.

  As the group of girls got up to leave I remained seated. My decision to separate from them felt entirely natural as I soaked up the ambiance of my favourite restaurant and anticipated my next visit with good company.

  From Mykonos to Meteora

  Lisa Dempster

  She rolls dark kalamatas in her mouth, sucking the salty flesh and quietly spitting the pips into a napkin.

  It’s late, but there’s no hurry. She can keep eating, for hours, if she wants. She knows this. The people here take their time over dinner, talking, sharing plates, pouring wine. Laughing. The Greeks, they know how to eat. How to live.

  She doesn’t need the menu. She knows what’s on it, the same list as at any half-decent pension. Thick-crusted white bread, no more than a few hours old. Greek salad. Fresh calamari, lightly crumbed and grilled over an open flame. She tastes hints of olive oil,
lemon, a touch of oregano; she didn’t expect it to be so good this far from the coast.

  Souvlakia on a silver tray, doughy bread with onions cut thick and garlic sauce, chunks of succulent lamb dripping oil from plate to mouth. Yes. Hot golden chips, yes, yes, yes. She will eat it all and more.

  Rocking back on her chair, she stops to breathe, looking around the patio. Grapevines entwine wooden beams overhead. The night sky is clear and bright in this part of the world. Meteora. The word is magic to her now.

  She’d arrived the night before. Drooping with exhaustion, she’d unfolded herself out of the taxi that had driven her for forty minutes from the station the next town over. Before that, a crowded six-hour train ride from Athens. She’d been overwhelmed before she even started, suffocated by the dirty heat of the city, stymied by the ticket men who kept sending her to different counters in the station, shaking their heads with miscomprehension when she spelt out where she wanted to go. Meteora. Meteora. Meteora. Come on.

  Beyond the patio, karst and limestone cliffs plunge dramatically upwards, reaching up into the darkness. Perched on their tops, though she can’t see them in the dark, sit ancient stone monasteries, thousands of years old, hidden in the scrub. She’ll hike up there. Soon.

  The waiter approaches, clears some plates.

  Red wine? Mythos?

  She shakes her head, waves the boy away. She can’t drink anymore.

  It had caught up with her, the Greek summer. She was tired, bone tired from the weeks and weeks and weeks on the islands. Mykonos. Behind the bar in the club all night, doing promos during the day, catching the sunrise party at Super Paradise Beach, the afternoon party at Paradise Beach and chasing romance in between. It was all cocktails on the islands. Cocktails, coffee and coke: racking up lines and getting thinner, thinner, thinner every day.

  But she wasn’t there anymore. She was here, on this patio, on this balmy night.