Nathalie Craig
There was a knot of apprehension sitting in the base of my stomach. It was Sarah’s idea for me to bring us here.
‘You’ve talked so much about this damn place. It’s about time you showed it to us,’ she’d said.
It wasn’t just any damn place. It was like an extension of my family dining table. My automatic choice when dining out.
Half the group was there already when I arrived, wearing typical unimpressed, uninterested smirks on their faces. Since leaving high school a few years ago, the seven of us had met for our annual reunions, but for me they were beginning to feel like incongruous pieces of a jigsaw jammed together. My default façade of feigned interest and approval was beginning to slip.
‘I don’t know what half the crap is on this menu. Not that it matters. I don’t feel like eating out after the huge night I had last night. I’ve been throwing up all day,’ said Reagan.
Kirsty gave her an approving chuckle.
I felt the urge to run, or at least to take the seat at the direct opposite end of the table. Avoiding a reply I looked up to see the other three girls entering the restaurant.
They were scanning the place judgmentally, criticisms already crystallising on the tips of their tongues. ‘Wow, it’s a little gaudy’, ‘Those dresser tables aren’t exactly Thai’, ‘It’s not what I had in mind’.
While the others greeted each other I slipped inconspicuously into one of the familiar high-backed straw seats, the one the furthest away from Reagan and Kirsty.
A Thai waitress smiled gently at me with a shy nod of recognition. My uneasiness grew. Why did I let them come here?
‘Could we grab a coke and a lemonade,’ yelled Reagan at a waitress passing by.
I felt disconnected from their conversations about getting drunk, movies and bands and was surprised how easy it was to be excluded. It confirmed my belief that they really just don‘t care that much.
I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw the food arriving. Looking down at my plate I slid my knife through the beef, tender as always. I closed my eyes to savour the complexity and light spice of the creamy mussaman sauce.
‘Oh, and we got so drunk but we wanted some have some Maccas so we just jumped in the car and went and got it. I could go some Maccas now actually.’ Reagan’s nasal voice had become unnaturally loud. And with those words it became blatantly obvious: I was not longer a part of this group.
Their loud chatter became hollow noise like an unwatched television blaring in another room of the house.
To try and soothe my thumping heart and clammy palms I imagined a protective wall around myself. I couldn’t let them continue to degrade this special place.
With a deep breath I wrapped my hands around the warm cup of jasmine tea. Now, more than any other time I’d dined here, I needed its calming powers. I appreciated its delicate floral scent, its warmth on my lips, remembering the way Aunty Jill swirls the tea around in the cup when we come here together, trying to read her future in the tea leaves. And the way it warms every part of you, like on the icy winter nights when my family and I dine here before heading out to the theatre a little further down the street.
The waitresses moved with the elegance of swans, black velvet ponytails swaying, regal silver bowls full of rice held in the air with one hand. They moved among the tables, refilling plates when necessary. They also kept a close eye on the diners’ other needs: empty teapots were efficiently replaced and water glasses topped up. Diners were intimately engaged in conversation, oblivious to the intricate level of care given to them.
My attention came back to my own plate. Ah! The chilli squid, my choice. The soft fresh curls covered in smalls pieces of chilli are really worth sweating for.
I left my seat to walk to the bathroom, wandering down the familiar corridor that led me past the kitchen. Pausing for a moment, I enjoyed the clang of metal spatulas scraping against the surface of woks. The chefs were working tirelessly in the heat of the kitchen, wiping sweat from their brows with the backs of their arms. The cool jazz music and classy ambiance of the dining room is far removed from the pace of the kitchen. I felt a newfound appreciation for the scrumptious meals.
On my way back from the bathroom lively chatter, dramatic hand gestures and couples lost in each other’s company made my isolation feel more pronounced. Even the lone dinner, tucked away in the corner reading her book, seemed in a meditative state.
Back at my own table the saffron yellow curry chicken was enjoyable but it didn’t have the same zing as when my cousin Katrina pronounced the potatoes in it as ‘eye shuttingly good’. It was the ultimate rating on our potato scale.
I needed my brother Paul to discuss the quality of pad thai with me. Was it the best yet? Or my mum, who is usually overly cautious about eating seafood at restaurants, marvelling at the freshness of the scallop and snow pea dish.
It’s that sense of shared excitement about the food that heightens the experience. I found it odd that no one at my table discussed the food. Food can be ruined by company, too.
But I wasn’t letting that happen. I was dining in my own isolated space. I had become pensive and calm like the sole diner at the back of the restaurant. I was the only one at my table who could see what was really going on in this restaurant.
As the group of girls got up to leave I remained seated. My decision to separate from them felt entirely natural as I soaked up the ambiance of my favourite restaurant and anticipated my next visit with good company.