The Dinner
How to fall in and out of love over the course of a twenty-seven course meal.
Dinner first …
He’d text me every time we’d start to get ahead of ourselves.
Dinner first.
He was right, we’d only been talking for two weeks and had basically planned our entire wedding. I was his needle in a haystack. We thought it only fitting to incorporate earthy elements such as bales of hay, old barrels, burlap sacks, and obviously some mason jars wrapped in gingham ribbon, lit up with tea lights, like every wedding in the early 2000s.
Though much older than me, he’d never been married before. I’m not sure if I’d told him at this point that I was still technically-ever so slightly-legally married, but meh, it didn’t matter.
Outdoor weddings in a field of dry grass aren’t legally binding anyways, are they?
I booked my flight …
He lived a thousand miles away. I wasn’t nervous for him to fly up to take me to dinner because a month prior I had a man fly five-thousand miles to spend a weekend with me. This seemed like old hat. I can’t help it if I don’t shop locally, we don’t even have a farmers market in this one horse town.
My overnight bags still packed from the last date, I was pretty much all ready to go. When the day arrived I got in my car and drove two-hundred miles south to the hotel we were meeting at. There was no pressure for me to stay the night, the weekend, or anything else … just dinner.
I brought eight pairs of shoes, in case.
I feel sick …
He texted, his nerves getting the best of him while he waited for me to arrive. I left late, I always leave late. I stopped to get gas and take a pee at Subway, the worker was kind enough to let me use the restroom without buying anything. Even though I would have gladly purchased a foot-long sub to eat on the road.
I’ll meet you out front …
“Please don’t. I’ll be too embarrassed.”
I begged him over the phone, but he didn’t listen. He stood outside the hotel watching me circle around twice before I found the parkade. His eyes burning a hole in the back of my head as I fumbled through my purse to find my keys for the valet. I got out not knowing if I turned my car off, or even put it in park.
Hi, Dink …
We called each other that. Because whenever he would ask me what I was doing I’d say
“Oh just dinking around.”
Sometimes it autocorrected to “drinking around.” which also made sense.
“Hi, Dink,”
I said, then tucked myself under his arms inside his bomber jacket, looked up, and kissed him.
Let’s get a drink …
He scoped out a hipster bar for us when he was walking around town waiting for me to get there. This man reached for my hand, then gave it a little squeeze at the crosswalk to let me know it was time to walk. It was the sweetest thing.
The twenty-year-old hostess immediately hated us when we asked to sit in a section that wasn’t open. We spent the next two hours afraid of her.
Shoulder to shoulder, we sat, two complete strangers on a pre-date date before our real date.
He told me how he’d been catfished online before.
I told him I hate cats. He told me he hates Dachshunds.
“There’s a design flaw. Long body, short legs.”
We ordered more drinks.
Should we get some food …
It was only a couple hours until dinner. The dinner.
The dinner first dinner.
“I could eat.”
He flagged down the horrible hostess.
When the fries were gone and drinks were dry we ordered another round and a club sandwich. Listen, a girls gotta eat. He paid the tab and we walked back to the hotel.
“Should we get your stuff from the car?” he asked.
I’d already had three drinks so I guess I was staying. I watched this poor man carry my suitcase, duffle bag, eight pairs of shoes, and a shopping bag full of Canadian chocolate bars and ketchup chips, up to his room. The snacks were for him.
We kissed in the elevator.
Do you want to have a nap before dinner …
I slipped out of my jeans and crawled into the hotel bed. A portrait of a sad dog on the wall followed me with its eyes, as if judging me already for what I was about to do. He took it off the wall and faced it away from us for the remainder of the weekend.
The housekeeper never bothered to put it back up.
I’m scared I’m going to hurt you …
He stopped kissing me and pulled away. I knew that look. I invented that look.
I used it a month earlier on the man who flew five-thousand miles to meet me.
“I am scared I am going to hurt you.” is code for “I don’t want a romantic relationship with you, but also, I don’t want to be the bad guy.”
I’m no longer in the business of talking anyone into being with me. That was for my 20s, my 30s, and fine, like the first two years of my 40s … but not anymore, damn it!
All my stuff was already in his room so I said …
“That’s so fine. We don’t have to do anything other than have fun this weekend!”
And that’s exactly what I intended to do, despite the fact we’d broken up before we even made it to dinner.
The dinner.
The dinner first dinner.
The Dinner
Omakase …
“Does he know you don’t eat sushi?”
My friend asked me when I told her about my dinner date. I eat sushi, I love sushi. Miso soup, vegetable tempura, and spicy avocado rolls hate to see me coming. Also I had just eaten beef for the first time in five-years when my last date took me to a fancy steakhouse in the city. I had this in the bag.
I did not have it in the bag.
Can I get you two something to drink …
Our waitress asked after she sat us at the sushi bar where four other couples sat silently waiting for the chef to start preparing the “experience.”
I looked over the wine list and couldn’t find anything even slightly resembling a New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc, so I opted for the cheapest, which was a forty-dollar glass of champagne. He had tea. She told us the specials. One of which was raw oysters. I shook my head no politely, super relieved my date didn’t try to convince me.
Here’s your first course …
Our server announced as she set down a small plate with three separate compartments.
A tofu situation, a spicy tuna, and a small purple octopus in the middle. I can do this I thought. He looked at me and we nodded as if to say
“Ok, here we go.”
I ate the tofu and tuna, then gnawed a little on an octopus tentacle as a show of bravery. I watched my date eat his and thought
“Wow, he must love purple octopi.”
He would later say to me
“I wish I didn’t eat that, I didn’t need to eat that.”
What’s your favorite fish …
The sushi chef asked me in his thick Japanese accent. I didn’t think “anything cooked” was an appropriate answer so I deflected and asked him the same question.
“Sardine.” he responded.
Fuck. I will definitely be eating raw sardine tonight. The one and only time I’d tried sardines was when I was on this weird cleanse where you could only eat grated apple left out on the counter until it turned brown and sardines. I still gag at the thought.
If I’m being honest, the sardine sushi was actually one of the better bites I had that night.
Here’s your fifth course …
Our server placed a small ceramic pot with a lid down in front of us. I think both of us earnestly assumed it would be miso soup. I watched as my date was visibly taken aback when his spoon was met with resistance.
What can only be described as a prawn flan; it was a warm thick prawn custard with slimy long stemmed mushrooms and bbq’d eel suspended in it.
May I remind you all that I spent a decade faking a shellfish allergy. To me, prawns smell exactly like my dead childhood dog, Daisy. Before she died, I obviously didn’t smell her after. I’ve made many exes refrain from ordering shrimp when out with me because of that smell.
Now here I am, elbow deep in prawn flan. I looked around him, he looked at me. We nodded to each other as if to signal, we’re here, and we are in this together.
“You know it’s bad when I am fishing out the eel to eat.” I said. He put the lid back on his pot, I followed suit. Our waitress whisked them away.
Tempura for two …
Looking forward to a fried sweet potato or broccoli floret to cleanse our palates, we were met with a plate of tempura’d white fish.
We took a bite as if the twelve courses of raw fish before it wasn’t already swimming around wildly in our bellies. Again, I nodded silently at my date to let him know I’m loving this, and I was … the same way I love math or getting my blood drawn.
I have it under good authority that you two are celebrating something special …
The server asked us if we wanted champagne to toast this momentous occasion.
Our eyes widened. He’d booked this as a romantic valentine’s dinner a week ago, ya know, before he decided he didn’t want to date me.
She asked again. Neither of knew how to answer her. The awkwardness of this moment had started to draw the attention of the other couples dining around the bar.
Dumb struck, the only thing I could think to do was make things worse.
“Oh my god! Are you going to propose?!”
The sushi chef dropped his knife. A hush fell over the already pin-drop quiet restaurant.
Everyone fixated on us.
“No, no, no!”
My date said frantically waving his arms in an X pattern in front of himself and shaking his head.
As if I had asked if he wanted to get another vasectomy, just for fun.
“Rude!” I responded then turned to the crowd whose mouths were still gaping open. “I’m kidding, I’ve only known this man for two hours.”
Everyone went back to quietly eating their spiky black shells full of uni.
Your next course …
Two large fried shrimp heads were placed in front of us. Crispy antennas sticking out in all directions. No longer trying to impress the man who wouldn’t even fake propose to me, I slid my head onto his plate.
He was kind enough to take a bite and put it back on my plate so that I didn’t offend the chef.
“I love you.”
I muttered under my breath and in that moment, I did love him.
He took a few more bites for the team that night when I couldn’t muster up the courage to try something.
This is the best night of my entire life …
Our darling server tapped me on the shoulder and whispered in my ear.
“That was the funniest thing I have ever seen. This is the best night I have ever had at work.” she refilled my water for the tenth time.
I was very proud of myself.
We’re almost there …
She promised us around course twenty-five. Our stomachs distended from the sheer amount of room temperature rice; our eyes glazed over as we watched the chef prepare our next dish.
A piece of nori toasted over an open flame, then smeared with a thick layer of what looked like foie gras (or Fancy Feast), at least sixty-dollars worth of orange uni, and what looked like ten thousand large red fish eggs.
Chef rolled it up and handed it to me.
I’d never eaten any of those things together or separate and thought
“Well, fuck it.”
My date and the chef watched my face as I took a bite. I nodded over enthusiastically while trying to keep everything down. I swallowed the fish eggs whole like Advil, in hopes of not tasting them. My whole body quivered.
I watched as my date took a bite double the size of mine.
“He must love this shit.”
I thought before I saw his face turn green.
The waitress quickly scooped the cones off our plates to make room for the final course.
We’d almost made it.
A green tea ice cream and an egg custard with a layer of white fish …
“Am I hallucinating or did I hear white fish?”
My date nodded his head, then looked down shaking it. Had I not known there was white fish in my dessert it probably would have tasted pretty good.
We finished our ice cream, got up from the table, and stepped out into the cold Seattle night.
We stopped at an Irish pub on our walk home, ordered a drink, and stared at the wall in silence trying to process what had just happened to us.
Back at the hotel we crawled into bed together, I tucked myself under his arm, looked up, and kissed him.
Should we just go for burgers tonight …
The next night we had the best cheeseburgers of our lives; the dive bar even served my favorite wine.
It was perfect —the dinner.
oh CD, one of your best pieces. i am still giggling. (there is so much depth to your writing, kind of like white fish hidden inside a dessert).
I'm sorry, when someone pretends you're going to propose, you roll with that shit.