Coffee shop observations

Meeting there seemed wise, she knew that nobody would suspect anything if they saw her meeting him in that kind of place. Affairs are not conducted in coffee shops. If she met him there, people would think she was having a business meeting, nobody would suspect a thing, as long as he didn't stare at her longingly, like he had the other night, when they'd met at an edge-of-town motel, all affair-like, while she told her husband she was going to a PTA meeting. Her husband had a 'late meeting' - his most unoriginal euphamism for 'a date with my secretary, who I've been shagging for three years.'

She couldn't do another motel meeting, it had made her feel seedy and dishonest, rather like she was having an affair or something. She worried, too, that she'd bump into her husband and said secretary. That would just be awkward. So, yes, a coffee shop was a better option. They wouldn't be able to touch, but at least she could see him, and talk to him, and try and quell the fierce missing that they both felt.

What she hadn't taken into consideration was that love and passion can't be hidden by the aroma of coffee and baking muffins. Holding hands or not, the lady sitting waiting for her friend in the corner having a glass of wine can see it shining off her. It's alright, though, she has made up a story in her head and will keep mum. You deserve some happiness.

Habitual dinner

I go out for dinner regularly with my parents and their old friends who I call That Other Lady and That Other Lady’s Husband. They’ve known me since I was born so they’re always a comfortable kind of dinner. We always go to the same steak house around the corner, owned by a grumpy man who I adore.

It’s all very predictable always. That Other Lady’s Husband brings a bottle of red wine which they share, although sometimes That Other Lady abstains and drinks lime and soda instead. My father brings a bottle of white wine, which we share, with lots of ice.

We all order the same things each time, altering only the choice of baked potato or chips, according to the time of the month. My father allows himself chips once a month, otherwise goes for the healthier baked potato option. I normally have the baked potato, because I like the sour cream. My dad always orders his steak: “Rare, underdone.” My mother and That Other Lady have their’s medium, I have mine rare and That Other Lady’s Husband has his medium rare.

We talk about how much fun it is to be retired (them), how busy I am at work (me), whatever sport is going on (oh, our boys at the World Cup, sigh) and, newly, because they too now have their first grandchild, the grandchildren.

Last night was a little different, though. A shared close friend of ours, a woman whose kids I grew up with, died on Saturday after a long battle with cancer. She was a warm, generous character with three sons who were the most destructive creatures ever created. She loved them, despite this. I remember being mortally affronted when they broke our much-loved hammock when we were children. She longed for daughters so loved my sister and me and we loved her.

Her youngest son produced a daughter with his girlfriend aged 16-years old about 16 years ago. She was there to catch the baby and had a most joyous 16 years helping raise her. The daughter she’d never had. She was oh-so-brave, and went through three sets of chemo and then decided, with the last recurrence, that enough was enough. We spoke about her a lot last night, remembering her loveliness, her abundant love. I hope she’s peaceful now.

Also different last night, was the empty red wine bottle. Well , not that it was empty, that's normal. However, unbeknownst to those drinking it, them being my dad and That Other Lady’s Husband (That Other Lady was on lime and soda), in amongst the delicious wine were four floaty things, which we only noticed, stuck to the side of the bottle, when it was finished. Four, differently lengthed, furry-looking things.

I tried to fish them out with a long spoon but had no luck. It provided much amusement during pudding as we wondered how many had been in there to start. I have e-mailed them and wait to hear. I’m hoping to get a case of wine out of the deal…

Backed into a corner

I backed myself into a corner, all of a sudden. I don’t know how it happened, it just did. One minute I was sitting at the table by the fire, drinking wine, reminiscing about our youthful folly, and catching up on the new, not-as-youthful folly (yes, we struggle not to be follyful, still now). And the next minute, the deadline loomed up big behind me and then it was there, next to me, and then it had passed me and I watched it’s lithe bottom streak ahead of me. Oh shit.

Reading that back, perhaps I do know how it happened – wine, reminiscing, folly, all in one sentence. So that’s where it went. It was worth it though.

Excuse me for a minute while I chase after it… it really does look cute in it’s little Deadline Running Shorts. And I'm sure its thirsty, I must give it some water to drink.

No punctuation

We went for the celebratory birthday to the very smart restaurant at the terribly elegant hotel. It was one of those places where everyone looks like they've just walked out of the pages of a magazine. I felt underdressed, even though I’d especially put in earrings and be-mascara-ed myself for the occasion. You know those places: Where the staff are obviously hired not only for their waitering talents but also for how good they look in their black waitering outfits (ours was gorgeous. More on him later); where there is music, but it’s that subtle kind, in the background, tinkling away, almost as if there’s a dude in the rafters above playing his piano. The kind of place that just oozes, well, subtlety. I always feel a bit like a bull in a china shop in them. It was lovely though.

The wineglasses were huge. It was like drinking out of a fishbowl. Luckily without the fish. My father is a connoisseur of wine. I’m a pleb. I can tell the difference between red and white (and so proud! Don’t blindfold me though). Anyway, Papa duly ordered some delicious wine to pour into the bottom of our fishbowls.

The menu. Well, it’s what they call Asian fusion I think. Everything sounded mouthwateringly delicious. But the menu has no punctuation. Whatsoever. An example:

venison –
springbok shank terrine potato mushroom puree carrot puree herb emulsion savoy cabbage buffon pangratta crumb jus

Hard to work out really, what you’re getting. I had scallops to start, with a crunchy deep-fried seafood specimen on top, served in some seafoody tasting bisque. It was good. I’d only had scallops once before. They had stuffed this version with some fragrantly delicious red stuff. Then I had rib eye steak, vacuum-cooked (?) for two hours, served on garlic mash. Yum. The others had various things, some of which we could discern what was what, others, well, just tasted good. We may never taste those tastes again. It’s difficult to recreate the taste of something when you don’t what it is. We're the pass-around-the-table-so-everyone-tastes variety (as are the neighbours (my parent's neighbours who are like family and actually have a gate between their houses so their kids can come and go freely and swim in their pool), luckily). A smorgasbord of tastes.

The waiter looked like a grown-up cherub. We were a table of six and he payed me lots of attention. I like that. In fact he payed me so much attention that I thought perhaps he might (mistakenly) think I was paying the bill. This was odd, considering the paternalistic (is that the right word?) society we were in (the hotel was one of those Old School kind of places) and I was a younger woman at a table which had amongst it’s guests, two older men. We'll not get into that feminist debate thing. At least not here, now.

Anyhow, I’m going on a bit, let’s leave it at: The food was beautiful, the company great, the hired help delicious and the violet flavoured marshmallows sublime.

When making violet marshmallow do you think they actually crush the petals into the mixture?