My Dinner with Nancy

So it was Nancy’s birthday again, and I had promised to take her out to dinner. It was two weeks delayed, but she had tickets for a Joan Baez concert, so we decided to combine the two events. I had recently had a delightful lunch at a new restaurant, Restaurant Eloise, in Sebastopol, which was on the way to the concert venue in Santa Rosa. By the time I picked up Nancy at her condo in Tiburon, my anticipation was peaking as I looked forward to a divine meal followed by an equally spectacular concert.

Arriving at Eloise I bounded in ahead of Nancy and greeted the staff with great enthusiasm. There was a charming young lady with a lip piercing, and Brian the manager remembered me from my lunch. We were ushered to our table and the waiter asked if we wanted tap or bottled water. “Both!” Nancy exclaimed, ordering a sparkling lime Calistoga in addition to her water without ice.

I first sensed trouble when the waiter arrived with a bottle of Calistoga but sadly announced they were out of lime and had only plain or orange. “Forget it then!” Nancy snapped, her words too late to stop the hissing sound caused by the waiter who had already started to open the plain Calistoga, thinking she had meant to forget about the lime. “No, I meant forget about the soda!” she clarified, sending the chastened waiter slinking off with his half-opened bottle.

Things quickly deteriorated. “Hmm, nothing on this menu looks any good to me,” Nancy noted with obvious concern. The waiter returned to ask if we had any questions about the menu. “Yes,” Nancy inquired. “Tell me what kind of food this is.” “What kind of food…umm,” the poor waiter fumbled, then recovered his footing. “Well, its French country farmhouse cooking with an emphasis on local ingredients, many of which are grown in our own garden…” etc etc. Nancy seemed unimpressed. “Well,” she said, fixing upon the paparadelle with rabbit sugo, “I’ve never had rabbit before. What’s that like.” “Its kind of…well…a little gamey,” the waiter stammered. Nancy cut him off. “Ewww…forget it then!” “Well, we do have a couple of additions to the menu,” the waiter continued hopefully, describing one item which I forget, other than that it possibly included some kind of organ meat. “Yuck…stop right there! I would never eat that!” Nancy wailed. The waiter left us alone to ponder our choices.

I was starting to get desperate. “I can’t bear to read this menu, there are so many awful things on here that its ruining my appetite,” she said, referring to the sweetbreads and launching into a tirade about what an awful thing they were and how she was served them once on a cruise to Australia with her parents in the 1950’s. Must have made quite an impression. Somehow our conversation drifted onto the subject of her recent appendectomy and how I had taken her to the doctor to have her stitches out. “And when he pulled them out my insides started oozing and stuff was dripping all over” she remembered, obviously not too concerned about the effect on my appetite. The waiter returned just as she was wrapping up her graphic reminiscence.

I had tried to suggest a couple of things but each one had backfired. Thinking she could be looking for something simple I pointed out the black cod poached in milk. “That’s just going to be boring and bland,” was the retort. Remembering that she had mentioned that she might want to have fish when we were planning the dinner, I proposed the salmon. “No, I don’t like salmon.” Well, the skate wing then. “No, I’ve never heard of that.” “But you like fish,” I protested meekly. “I only like fish that I know,” she said firmly. So we decided on the lentil soup and the veal chop for her, the chicory salad and the skate wing for me. A brave choice for her, as she couldn’t remember what veal was or whether she had ever had it before. “How would you like that?” the waiter asked, solicitously. “I don’t know, I’ve never had it before,” she said, looking at the menu, which read “Pan roasted veal chop…” “Pan roasted?” she mused. “Yes, its pan roasted,” the waiter repeated, a bit of panic showing in his voice. “But I mean how would you like it cooked…medium, rare…?” “Yes, medium rare!” Nancy interjected, much to the relief of all.

The tension abated a bit, but still I felt apprehension over what would happen when the food actually arrived. Soon enough the soup and salad made their appearance. Nancy took one sip of her soup and immediately pushed it aside. “That’s terrible” was her instant verdict. “Lentil soup is my favorite but that’s just awful.” Now the misery was really descending upon me. Here I was treating Nancy to what I thought was going to be a wonderful meal and she was sparing nothing in sharing her contempt for the entire experience. “Just do me a favor,” I begged, “and try not being quite so scornful.” “Its nothing personal,” she snapped. “I’m just very particular about my food and this is French food which I’ve always hated.” “But you liked that other place I took you last year and that was very similar,” I pleaded. “No, that place had lots of good things on the menu.”

Through the windows we could see new diners arriving for their meal. “I wonder how those cowboys are going to deal with this food,” she said condescendingly. Later she would add “I’m glad I moved out of Sebastopol. I really prefer living in a more educated and refined environment.” “Which is why you like being around me,” I couldn’t resist quipping. “No, I’m just used to you,” was the caustic retort.

Contemplating the rejected bowl of soup, I grasped for the only solution—I would eat the soup and give her my salad. “Oh, now this is good,” she said with barely concealed surprise after taking her first bite. It was a colorful mélange of chopped chicories, candied bacon, with a sieved egg vinaigrette. I watched wistfully. I too had had a bite of the salad and it was delicious, but not for me. We finished in short order, and the main courses arrived. She tried my skate wing, which she liked, and gave me some of her veal chop, which was delicious. Even she approved.

When the waiter returned for our dessert order, Nancy decided she wanted a latte, served to her outside so she could smoke. The logistics of this became quite involved but I finally managed to arrange for my dessert and her latte to be delivered to our table so as to avoid too much fuss. The latte arrived, Nancy took one look at it and declared “I’m going to need more cream.” “But I made it with half and half like you said,” the waiter noted. “Yes but I need more.” She then proceeded to retrieve five packets of artificial sweetener from her purse. “Are you really going to add all that?” I asked in disbelief. “Oh yes, this is really good for you,” she affirmed. She got up from the table and walked over to a cabinet that was against the wall, opened it up, and retrieved a wine glass. I looked around furtively to see if the staff was looking. Apparently nobody noticed. She opened the packets of sweetener and poured them into the glass, then added some of the latte, spilling a goodly portion on the table. The waiter returned with the cream, and she added some of that, then got up and went outside, wineglass in hand, to enjoy a cigarette. Surveying the mess in front of me, I sat alone at the table waiting for the check.

Happy Birthday Nancy!

~ by PB on November 17, 2008.