Robin Whitten

Meal Time

Robin Whitten

I love to watch Andre eat. The happiest part of our life together has to be meal time, especially when we eat in one of those high end restaurants in Charlotte. The evening begins with a flourish. He often calls the restaurant in advance to make certain we get the best seat in the house, near a window or in the back of the restaurant, far from the passersby. He helps me into my chair before he sits down, then studies the layout of the restaurant. Andre studies the people who are already eating, scrutinizing each dish that is served.

I watch his eyes as he reads the menu. They open so wide at times that most of his cornea is visible. His bushy eyebrows flitter and rise on his forehead as they attempt to cover the creases and divots of his skin. His eyes sparkle with the pure joy of what he tastes in his imagination. Then they close as he reviews the menu in his mind.

He sometimes says, "Ah, what a great combination of flavors and smells that would be." Or, he'll finally look up at me and say, "No that won't do. I know you want oysters, love, but it won't go well with the lamb pearls." He peaks at me under his eyelashes and whispers, "The lamb will be marinated in a very delicate sweet sauce. It'll never do." He shakes his head his wiry wisps of white and gray hair following in slow motion.

Breathing deeply, he peers over the menu, as he declares finally, "Oh, my dead, that's it. It will e the perfect meal." He confides in me. "I've outdone myself this time, I know I have."

The waiter walks to our table to take our order. Andre sits up and beckons the waiter to lean in. "You don't want to miss a word of what I'm telling you, my ear boy." Then he begins.

He orders the Sauternes wine to accompany the appetizer. The wines he chooses always have a perfect blend of fruit and bitter to offset the flavor of the food. We sip the wine and talk while we wait for the creation he has ordered. I never really know what the outcome will be until large hands magically bring plates of feed and orchestrate them around the table.

He catches his breath as first the roasted butternut squash ribbon with arugula pancetta and hazel nut salad is placed in front of him, anxious to take that first taste. "Aw, magnificent," he says as he places his mapking in his lap with a fourish and takes a sip of his well-chosen wine. He inhales in each plate's fragrance, picking and choosing which plate will best serve his taste buds first.

When the appetizer plates are removed, the main course arrives in a flourish. Crawfish etouffee with Chinese pork dumplings, along with a basket of the olive oil challah with figs. The waiter brings another bottle of wine, a sauvignon blanc, and begins pouring it into fresh glasses.

Finally Andre takes my hand and says, "This is the beginning of the perfect meal." He picks up his dinner for, and lifts a sample of a combination of each item on his plate. Then he offers to me. I take it, sucing on the fork until all of the food rests happily on my tongue. I roll it around, breath it in, only then do I begin to chew. It always tastes perfect. I nod, my approval written all over my face. His fork dances as it heads for the plate of food once again. Then he delicately stabs the second bite. He places the fork with the small bite of food on his tongue. It sits there precariously for a small second as he breaths in its fragrance. Quickly, it disappears into his elegant pink mouth.

He eats delicately and slowly, savoring every bite. He describes each flavor as he chews and tells me he will try this at home one day. I know he won't. He hates to cook, but he loves to talk about it. Before we can even consider a dessert, he asks me to dance. I love to dance with him. He is a large man but takes great care to move slowly and gracefully. He never steps on my feet or pushes me into other people, yet he makes sure we cover the dance floor.

Once we are comfortably seated, he asks for the dessert menu. This is the best part of the evening for me. He orders two desserts: a berry tiramisu and the buche de Noel, that we will share and enjoy together. Then he orders gourmet coffee, a different type for each of us. The coffee will be sweet and it will bring out the flavor of the dessert that he has chosen. I hate for this evening to end. It is such a treat to be with him, watch him at his finest.

I close my eyes to take in the aromas of the room, the sounds of the people enjoying their meals around us. I roll my tongue around in my mouth and savor the various flavors this meal has left me. It's a glorious evening.

I voice breaks into my reverie. "Mrs. Nagel, are you all right?" I have a hard time seeing who it is.

"Mrs. Nagle, you must eat your dinner."

I look down at my food. It's not the same food that the restaurant served us. Various shades of brown and green with a dollop of white meat run together toward the middle of my plate. After the meal I just shared with my husband of sixty years, how can I put this into my mouth?

"Where's Andre? Has he left already? We were dancing," I say.

The woman in the white coat looks down at me. Women in white coats are always looking down at me. "No ma'am, you weren't," she says. "Mrs. Brown was sitting across from you, but she is finished and has gone back to her room." The white-coat woman picks up the fork that rests on my plate. The food slides of of it and back only the plate. I look down at the food, then back at the woman.

"Andre and I just ate," I say. I push back my chair to stand.

"If you don't eat your dinner, you'll be hungry later this evening." The woman in the white coat sounds desperate. She stands abruptly and her chair falls over.

"You needn't worry. I have had plenty," I say as I take my husband's arm and walk with him back to our home.