Pins And Needles: Out To Lunch
...I took myself out to lunch once, long before I understood that a woman alone in a restaurant looks as exposed as a suzette without a crepe, a bump without even a log. I was nine years old, all by myself and hungry...
That was the very last time that Gloria MacKay lunched alone, Small wonder, for you only have to read a paragraph of Gloria's column to realise she would be the very best of lunchtime companions.
Women my age don’t go out to lunch by themselves. With a spouse? Of course. With a partner? What’s a partner? With a friend, a cousin, a bridge group? Just loverly. But we would face starvation rather than undertake a solitary luncheon at a table preset for two.
I took myself out to lunch once, long before I understood that a woman alone in a restaurant looks as exposed as a suzette without a crepe, a bump without even a log. I was nine years old, all by myself and hungry.
I sat myself down at the smallest table in the best restaurant in town (actually the only restaurant in the tiny town where I was spending the summer). I ordered my usual, what I ate when I came with Aunt Clara: cheeseburger, fries and a chocolate shake in a metal shaker twice as big as the glass.
Lunching out was the second big event of my day. I had walked all by myself the few blocks down the tree cooled street from my grandmother’s house to the beauty shop to get my hair cut. I clutched Aunt Clara’s little black purse, so bulging with coins it wouldn’t fit in the pocket of my shorts, and by the time I got there my hand was sweaty from the heat and the responsibility.
I remember standing in the doorway, not sure what to do, until Gladys motioned for me to sit and look at a magazine. Gladys was putting finishing touches on a very old lady hunched under plastic, with blue-white hair wispy as smoke. Gladys half-lifted the woman off the high, swiveling chair, set her in place, and like a wind-up bird the old lady darted out the door.
I figured Gladys had already talked to somebody about how much to cut off because she didn’t ask me, she just snipped away and brushed me off. I zipped open Aunt Clara’s coin purse, still clutched in my hand, counted out the correct amount and added an extra quarter, just as Aunt Clara told me. I was not sure why I had to pay Gladys more than she asked, but Gladys must have understood; she didn’t give it back.
There I was on the sidewalk, sun beating down on my new haircut, my mouth dry as dirt, and my stomach as empty as Aunt Clara’s purse was full—although it fit into my pocket, now. I felt as free as a cloud and as grown-up as a pair of high heeled shoes, so what was I to do next? I walked into town and took myself out to lunch.
Feeling very serious, I ate my cheeseburger, most of the fries, half of the shake and then I asked for a Cherry Coke and sipped it down with a straw. I was ready to walk the long hot walk back to Aunt Clara's.
I have never done this again, walked into in the fanciest restaurant in town all by myself. Sure, I stop for a bite at the mall or drag in a bag from a drive-up window, but I have never leisurely lunched alone in a fancy-dancy restaurant where I would be waited on in the manner I deserve.
I did it in a dream once. The maitre d’ asks me before I ever get to a table, "How many are you expecting in your party today, ma'am?" I shoot back something flip like zero, zilch, zip or nada. Folks around me look up so I smile at them. They look down at their plates.
My server appears feigning solicitous concern. "Would you rather order when the rest of your party arrives, dear?" I tell him the party has already begun. I order. I eat.
My server brings the bill. "I will be your cashier when you’re ready," he says and stands there. I think I will have a little dessert, I muse, and I eat every crumb. "I will be your cashier when you’re ready," he says and stands there. I'll have an Irish coffee please, I insist and sip slowly.
A bus boy tries to clear my table but I slap his hands, gulp down a Cherry Coke, pull out Aunt Clara's coin purse, dump a big pile of small change on the white tablecloth and run.
I don't want dreams; I want the real thing. I’ll bring a book and my cell phone ... with the manual. I could take photos of my lunch and figure out how to email them to my grandkids. This is the lobster bisque; this is the chop chop chicken salad, this is grandma's croissant.
If solitude gets me too flustered I could always retreat to the the powder room and regroup. I wonder if anyone will be there to inquire if I want to use the facilities now or wait for the rest of my party?
Gloria MacKay
editor@bonzerplus.org.au
a good read: www.bonzer.org.au
