Marianne Duluk
Reserving a table for one. Indulging in rare black truffles, rich pork belly and more-ish risottos without a flinch of guilt or sharing spoons. The solace in having a precious moment in time away from the tedious small talk of glum weather and base politics is an invigorating relief. No awkward silences around the table, or sipping on uninspiring wines ordered by those with no sense of a palate nor having to listen to overzealous mothers gloating about how seven-year-old Isabelle regularly cooks steak tartare for the family. Call me a social misfit, but does anyone truly care for such exaggerations?
My French husband Rémy works away, often. He’s also a vegan. Before I encountered Rémy never did I entertain the thought that ‘French’ and ‘vegan’ could share sentences. Perhaps it was the abundance of gamey duck cassoulet and coq au vin frequently consumed from an early age? Admittedly veganism is not the most romantic of traits for a wife to attribute to her husband; a chocoholic, camembert addict or even moderate consumer of the alcoholic sort would have been preferred. At least he doesn’t mind a drop or two …
While Rémy graces me with his French accent and vegan recipes of watercress soup and potato-and-chive quenelles for part of our lives, I secretly relish his time away. Not in a malicious way of course, just so the tofu burgers can be wrapped and left to freeze as I delve into the many fine restaurants in town, of the non-vegan variety.
On Rémy’s trips away, my covert life takes form. Diners gawk and waiters are startled by a long satin gown flowing into the room with no clumsy male trailing two steps behind on the polished marble tiles. The whispers are fairly loud. Why is she alone? A loner, desperate, a failure? Little do they know that true contentment surrounds me, knowing that a night of culinary ecstasy lies ahead. Of the meat kind.
‘Are you waiting on friends?’, ‘Is your partner parking?’, are the typical queries that greet this lone diner. I smile confidently because I know I’m dining with my designer sequinned gown, embellished stiletto heels and craving stomach.
Electricity fills the air.
Lavishly set tables are filled with slim ladies sharing flamboyant banter and corporates entertaining investors with magnificent bottles of Barolo and single malt whisky. Intimate couples are scattered throughout the softly lit restaurant. These couples fall into one of three categories. First, the new couples madly infatuated with each other, knowing their dinner date is simply the first course and dessert is swiftly skipped … then, the steady couples who dine as part of a monthly ritual away from the tiring children. The date is somewhat forced but their underlying love is obvious. However, most intriguing are the couples dominated by a wife vying for the attention of her vacant-looking husband, knowing that he fancies his younger colleagues or worse, is attempting to recover from a hushed affair. These wives know they have lost their other half, yet hold on tightly, bound to the rock on their third finger, perhaps more so than to the disconnected figure sitting across the table.
Away from the strained couples attempting to reinvent past memories, my focus turns to the enticing menu. Civet de lièvre, foie gras and descriptors of hearty pork rillettes fill the crisp white pages. The shrill of laughter and silver clinking fades into the distance as I am lost in my world of culinary argot.
‘A newspaper, magazine or perhaps a strong drink, madame?’ a waiter hesitantly murmurs. Do my polished face and glossy Chanel lips convey need for a stiff beverage before entrée? ‘Champagne please, blanc de noirs,’ I hear myself say, we will save the stiff drinks for the brash businessmen on table six—and mindless literature can be read at home.
Vegetable soups and marinated olives are overlooked as starters as beef tenderloin wrapped in honey-cured bacon appears before me. The warmed plate barely touches the pressed linen before my Sabatier fork delves into the meat. Tender and succulent in texture with aromatic hints of garlic and rosemary, the surface of the meat is delicately caramelised. The tofu burgers stored in the freezer are a distant haze as I am transported into a reassuring place of truly soulful food. The ladies beside me awkwardly pick at their simple green salads. I wonder what frightens them from ordering a piece of perfectly cooked steak? Surely the businessmen on table six would prefer a woman to share a steak with, not a salad of overpriced weeds?
Weeds aside, Burgundian pinot noir is ordered by the bottle. As with any firm relationship, fine food excels in the company of finer wine. Crystal glassware is set before me as the glistening pinot slides into the feminine decanter, her perfume and seductive characters already apparent. The anticipation of her intricate layers developing is subtly arousing.
Twice-cooked confit duck slowly passes through my lips as a dark handsome man brushes past, his cologne sweetly lingering. His broad smile presents mischievous dimples that I find myself reciprocating. However, Mr Handsome is unaware I am smiling at the head chef artistically plating veal escalopes, and sprinkling garnish on his works of art. Fresh juniper berries and thyme tease my palate as I discover layers of gently cooked porcini mushrooms generously prepared in brandy and brown sugar. No man, however handsome or muscular, can steal this moment from me.
The head waiter, dressed sharply in a starched black waistcoat, reverently tends to the room. Whilst young in appearance, his neat hair is thinning. His eyes are heavy. Perhaps he devours unfinished bottles of Tuscan blends after lengthy days or finds comfort in expensive gin and fresh cucumber? He offers me dessert from a tempting menu and is surprised when I accept. As I crack the glazed top of dark chocolate crème brûlée my mind wonders: is it a social faux pas for trim females to eagerly order rich desserts on their own, or does my keenness represent a deeper form of nourishment? The silky custard of the brûlée, balanced by delicate sweetness and vanillin nuances, interrupts my thoughts.
Upon receiving the bill, I notice the dessert and champagne apéritif have been omitted. Is this encouragement for a return visit or a pass made by the head waiter, or perhaps an act of pity? As I step out to the restaurant-lined alleyway I feel satisfied and almost rebellious in having consumed bacon, beef, confit duck and decadent desserts in one sitting. How long this satisfaction lasts is uncertain—but I know Rémy’s next business trip cannot come quickly enough, as I anticipate my next solo dining affair, far from feeling alone.