Tibbie Chiu
The restaurant is just busy enough to guarantee anonymity. Located just off the main drag of George Street, down a little alleyway with entry by way of a nondescript doorway, it emits an audible buzz that draws you in the door. Every now and then you will hear a laugh that breaks up the hum of chatter. It’s an intimate space but not so crowded that you can hear the actual details of the conversations around you.
It’s the type of place you choose for an illicit date, and the owner accommodates this by liberally dotting tables of two around the candlelit space. A veil of casual romance lingers in the air intermingling with the intoxicating scents emanating from the small open kitchen.
You can tell she has dressed up for the occasion. Her initial reluctance to be an accomplice to this dalliance gave way to her vanity. The dress she chose for the evening reveals her shapely figure while still leaving something to the imagination. She took extra care in applying her makeup this morning, knowing she would have to come straight from work and would only have time for a quick touch-up in between.
She is a little nervous because if this dinner turns out the way she had hoped, it will change everything. She looks down at the cluster of sparkly gems on her wedding ring finger and turns to examine the clothbound menu. She is just about to order something familiar when a sudden urge to throw caution to the wind takes over and she gives the chef full control of her culinary destiny for the night.
It’s not that she doesn’t want to be here. In fact it is the exact opposite, she just wishes she was more comfortable with the situation. She is conflicted—she feels freedom, guilt and joy all at the same time. She can’t help but wonder if the judgmental eyes boring at her from all sides are real or a figment of her imagination, a manifestation of that uneasy guilt. But it’s too late now, there’s no turning back; she will just have to see how the evening unfolds.
Just when her mind overwhelms her with insecurity and she’s about to flee the restaurant, the waiter brings over some freshly baked bread in a small basket. Carbs are calming, she thinks to herself, and promptly grabs one of the rolls, slathering on the accompanying house-churned butter luxuriously dotted with flecks of truffle.
The breaking of the bread signals a flurry of dishes of exquisite design and imagination, one after the other from the kitchen. She is surprised and delighted, at times confounded by what she’s tasting but at no point in the meal does she have any doubt in her mind that she is finally doing the right thing. The feelings of guilt are pushed to the back of her mind as she samples one magnificent dish after another.
The freshly shucked oyster with an ice pearl of lemon chilli sorbet that she greedily slithers down her throat in one motion. The cube of perfectly cooked veal with the rich jus, surrounded by smoke haze smelling of pine forest with a hint of barbecue that assaults her nose when she lifts the dome covering the dish. The crispy skinned duck with wild mushrooms foraged by the chefs that very morning. All these dishes and more, along with the decadent climax of chocolate done four ways, give her back the sense of identity that she has so longed for.
She needed to get something of her old self back. She is not just Ben’s wife; the mother to two-year-old twins Jonathan and Joshua; and personal assistant to Mark Brennan at HGA Insurance. She has been increasingly suffocated by the feeling of putting others’ needs before hers. She saw her reflection in the mirror the other day and barely recognised the woman staring back at her. That’s when she decided that she needed to organise a date with herself and finally do something that pleases her, and her alone.
She is a foodie, and has been from the day her parents drove their carsick-prone daughter two hours out of town to get the best ice-cream. Ben sees food differently; for him it is fuel rather than pleasure. At the beginning of their courtship, when they were both trying to impress each other, Ben would be more adventurous and she would play down her desires, settling on his favourite local Italian restaurant whose menu covered the classic mom-and-pop style of home cooking.
Somehow it just became the status quo … she lost her foodie self along the way, got married and then the twins came along. Time and money became major constraints, she no longer had the yearning or the lust for food, and the thrill of menu planning gave way to whatever she could be bothered to slap on the family dinner table.
This date she made with herself had awoken something inside her. She knew things would have to change, and soon. Her misery was starting to affect her relationship with Ben and even the twins. She wanted to be a better wife, mother and version of herself.
As she walked up the driveway to their home, she felt energised and ready to tackle the challenges ahead.
‘How was your meeting, Des?’ Ben asked.
She popped a chocolate truffle she saved from the restaurant into his mouth, watched his initial surprise then saw that, through his confusion, he was savouring the truffle’s taste.
‘Ben, you are long overdue for a performance review. Rumour has it there will be an imminent restructure of the organisation,’ she said with a knowing smile.