The Lone Dining Society: A three volume shovel - CHAPTER ONE: Restraint and Persecution

So, I thought I'd do a little reading from the new book, even though I do cringe a little when I hear myself. I really need some elecution lessons...

So, if you can understand it or endure my questionable perfomance: enjoy.

https://video.wixstatic.com/video/f15b8f_9aed791715d64f4083d2a4383ca5e60d/1080p/mp4/file.mp4

Chapter One: Restraint & Persecution

We always used to joke about how certain dishes were highly undesirable or foolish to attempt eating during a first date. Spaghetti, well for non-Italiens, for example. Clumsy attempts at trying to place mouthfuls of devilishly ill-behaved strings of pasta into the mouth without the stray strands slapping against the cheeks, leaving behind unnoticed red sauce stains for the potential future mate to try to avoid staring at during the meal.

Mexicarnish Fajitas, hand assembled with its runny sauces that tended to ooze out and coat both fingers and face in equal measure. Dönler Kebabs also producing a similar result; although it has to be said that if this was the choice of meal for a first romantic date then perhaps a prediction of a very short love story played out inside the Grand Internal Imaginatory Cinema could be easily foreseen.

The jokes we made now a distant memory in the story of our relationship echoing fondly into the present, but at times, mostly in the aftermath of the oft repeated and tiresome repeating sketch that we played out like an uninspiring annual and obligatory junior school festivity play, somehow seemed to mock me gently for being some sort of fool for allowing something of a lost opportunity at the very budding of our longstanding relationship. 

Don’t get me wrong, I love Marjorie. Well, most of the time. What can I say? She’s my companion, for life. Always there, always Marjorie, familiar, comfortable, sometimes a little haranguing in her well-meaning but slightly irritating way. I’m happy, I am. It’s just, well, sometimes, and I hate myself for physically mouthing the words, but sometimes I just wish we’d had Mexicarnish Fajitas on our first date.

So what is this repeating sketch, (apparently called a callback in sitcoms) you may well ask? This situation that has obviously made enough of a lasting mark, building up through the years like some persistent patina in a well looked after frying pan, to give rise to a smouldering resentment or possibly musings on the practical use of a heavy hammer and a shovel, yet not drastic enough to have halted our partnership dead in its tracks years earlier.

Imagine observing a couple sitting in a restaurant enjoying an evening meal out together. Relaxed and in pleasant spirits they order drinks, a starter and main course. The conversation flows naturally as they wait, a little laughter or privately shared smiles punctuating their discourse here and there. The drinks arrive, everything seems perfectly normal; nothing out of place and everything as you would expect. Then the starter is set down before them: two bowls of soup.

If you weren’t actively observing the pair with such a focused intensity you would probably not pick up on the very slight change of atmosphere, or at least the change in the male at the table. It’s so subtle you’re not sure if you imagined it, but somehow it seems something about the man has changed. He still smiles and partakes of their conversation, but somehow, he seems a little stiffer, just very slightly apprehensive. You wonder what it is, glancing around the restaurant to see if anything out of the ordinary has appeared, but everything seems to be in order. Your attention returns to the observed pair. Is it the soup? It seems like a very ordinary sort of soup, there are no lobster heads or fingers bobbing around on the surface.

The man reaches for his napkin and tucks it into his collar. His partner, without touching her napkin, elegantly begins the evacuation of soup from bowl, spoon expertly, yet not too hurriedly, traversing the distance to the mouth and back, a civilised pause before repeating the procedure.

The man momentarily pauses before reaching for the spoon, again it’s almost imperceptible, but it’s almost as if he, in the briefest of moments, takes stock and prepares himself. For what though you wonder? For eating soup?

The couple continue with their starters, the conversation slowed, yet not stunted by the added task of consumption. Still however, the man seems very slightly tensed, not completely relaxed. It’s almost as if he bears an additional task, something unseen, something going on under the hood. It’s like he’s concentrating on something else.

Then it happens. A minute drizzle of soup drops from the man’s spoon as it almost reaches its destination and falls to land on his shirt, leaving a faint discolouration. He throws a worried glance towards his partner to see if she has noticed. To his relief her gaze at this precise moment was focused upon her soup bowl. This seems a little strange. The couple seem too relaxed to be on a first or indeed second date. They are obviously relaxed in each other’s company: albeit one member ever so slightly less relaxed than the other. Why would the man be so concerned about a little stain of soup?

The starters are soon finished, the spoons laid to rest in the bowls.

The woman says something to the man that sparks a reaction difficult to judge. Is it embarrassment, annoyance, confusion? Or perhaps a mixture of these? The woman leans forward with her unused napkin now in hand and proceeds to wipe at the right-hand side of the man’s mouth whilst the man glances around furtively to check if anyone is following this performance. He doesn’t notice you of course, because this is just an imaginary situation. You are a fly on the restaurant wall.

Finally the main course arrives and the couple proceed, the man displaying a similar behaviour as with the starters. As the meal continues it starts to become clear that there are little indiscretions being made by the man that dog the whole affair. Indiscretions in the realm of perfect table etiquette. A splash of gravy here, the dropping of a morsel there and the application of various sauces, condiments and dish constituents to a wide spectrum of areas - namely skin, clothing and his immediate surroundings (tablecloth, wine glass, floor). And throughout this farce his partner reacts on various levels, pointing, rebuking, leaning across and wiping, rolling her eyes and making suggestions of improvement.

Suddenly it all makes sense. The man is a messy eater and is doing his best to disguise this gastronomic disability and straitjacket, or corset himself into an acceptable character more able to toe the lines dictated by the impeccably high standards of this distinguished culinary establishment.

You may have guessed that the man is myself and the woman, my partner, Marjorie. This scenario happened every time we went out for dinner. It also happened at home, whether just the two of us or when entertaining guests. What may also surprise you is that we are both food critics, each with a regular column in the “Guarded Bubble”, which as any refined Bubbler will know is one of the better e-Broadsheets available across the Great Bubble. So, we are both something of celebrities ourselves. It’s just that nobody knows what we look like. Which of course is convenient when visiting restaurants to make a review. And this repeating table play seems to be the secret ingredient to the long running success of our undercover critique gastronomique. No one would ever guess that this slightly socially awkward dining pair could possibly be a team working for big papers and magazines. Of course, gone are the days of print on paper, everything now being read upon a screen; mostly anyways. And reviewing establishments that don’t realise what you’re up to makes it a more pleasurable and relaxed experience and of course gives us a more authentic impression. Being treated like any other punter rather than being fawned over like some rock star food critic deity is the order of the day. And we like it like that.

Well at least I do. 

Sometimes I do wonder whether Marjorie would prefer to blow cover in a bid to perhaps attract the attention of the celebrity chefs that she reviews, for if I’m honest, her column tends to focus more on the beautiful hair, or elegant cut of the kitchen apron of the said celebrity chef rather than anything they present to us on the plate. 

And regarding the plate I’m generally always enthusiastic about what arrives on it. I like to eat, you can probably see the evidence in my body shape. Not overly overweight, but certainly not trim. I appear a slightly swollen and aged version of the lanky slim awkward teen that I used to be. Eating is for me an experience. The mixture of flavours, textures and aromas all playing their role in my own personal gastronomical theatre. Perhaps this is a reason why I am a naturally messy eater. I get wrapped up in the ecstasy, the sublime flavours that lead one into sometimes complex yet irresistible lines of intrigue and suspense for the taste buds. I forget myself, and with that, my table manners.

Or perhaps I am just a messy eater.

It was not so long ago, one stormy night following an evening with Marjorie where we were reviewing a new restaurant that had opened near the West Bubble edge in Hillingdon that I found myself alone on the reflective wet pavements, umbrella clutched in my hand, aimlessly walking nowhere in particular.

We live more centrally in the Great Bubble and don’t often venture to the edges. Marjory had always avoided these areas. She’d never really articulated exactly what it was, but I can relate to it on some level. Like all Bubblers, I have a great mistrust for the Outlands and prefer to live happily somewhere I feel at home. Somewhere I know.

She’d never even been to an Oblivion Eve celebration, only ever watched the Bubble Edge parties on TVtube, the revellers counting down the minutes until it all came to an apocalyptic close.

Thousands upon thousands of rockets reigning jubilant terror down on the Outlands. Well, it’s tradition, a bit of fun. At least for those of us safe in the Bubble. This year it will be a really big event, they say the Oblivion will really happen this year for sure. 

But it’s not for Marjorie. Her idea of a proper evening out is indulging her passion for good food, so she says. Or perhaps it’s the celebrity chefs.

We’d been to many celebrity chef owned restaurants all over the Bubble and as soon as she got wind of a new restaurant opening belonging to Kaur Ahmid, star of “Jumping Chappatis” a popular cooking programme, she literally whipped out her =phone mid-passing of said wind, to find the details online, only to her dismay to discover that the restaurant was situated precariously close to the edge. Following this it only took her a mere four-and-thirty days and six and a half hours to pull herself together and book a table online in order for us to write our articles.

A case of a desire for great food, overcoming “edge-fear”. Or perhaps a desire to see in the flesh, that charming smile of Mr. Ahmid’s to be seen beaming off every cover of all four of his bestselling cookery books and his surprisingly large tome “Me, my chappati and I: memoirs of Kaur Ahmid” that Marjorie has in her “Celebrity Chef” e-book library is what actually gave her the courage and motivation. She has quite the collection of such cookbooks, the front covers set as a rotating screen saver and background on her =phone and annoyingly also linked to a huge wall mounted screen in the dining room. One may also note that the celebrity chefs are strictly male only.

And regarding my suspicions on her desires on the owner of such a smile I know what’s good for me on the subject. I keep my mouth shut. 

The food had been sensational. Of course, as always, I had gone with the unofficial but rather pricy “under-the-counter” menu, invoking the predictable tuts and disapproving looks from my better half. But the experience was marred once again by the almost constant corrective behaviour and rebuking aura of my long-time partner. It was an even more than usually irritative aura, enhanced no doubt by the news given by the waiter the moment he approached our table and was asked by my other half, that Kaur Ahmid himself was not on the premises this particular evening, he was at GBB (Great Bubble Broadcasting) House filming for his new series coming later in the year.

After paying a hefty, but well deserved bill, we left, both of us in a foul mood. And it wasn’t due to the large amount we’d just left at Bubble & Shriek.

As we made our way to the underground we started to row about something. I can’t really recall what it was, something silly and petty no doubt and in a huff Marjorie left me standing, scowling after her as she hurried off alone to catch the tube home.

It wasn’t like me to leave Marjorie running off to travel home alone, especially at night, but something in me wanted desperately at that moment to be alone and with my thoughts. I was angry and I needed time to calm down.

As if the Great Bubble God thought a soaking would snap me out of my sour state, she obligingly opened the heavens and down came a torrent of rain. Luckily, as always, I had my umbrella with me. Another point that Marjorie often remarked upon in an irritated sort of way. ‘Why do you always have to carry that thing around? It’s so Outlandish.’ she might say.

But who was laughing now? Well actually not me, despite my own forethought for being prepared. My scowl was still in place as I unfurled my trusty anti-rain device and set off in a random direction towards the centre.

I don’t know how long I walked for and mostly I stared at my rain soaked shoes treading on slabs tinged with reflections of the colourful and varied high street lights and neon displays.

I don’t know what made me look up, but suddenly I found myself standing in front of the large glass window of a posh looking restaurant. My gaze wandered through into the lavish interior where couples or groups sat in the warm, comfortable and dry. They all seemed to be enjoying themselves. Fully enjoying themselves, without fetter or handicap. I made a half smile, half up in solidarity at their pleasure and half down out of a resigned longing to be able to dine with such abandon without fear of peers making judgements on any lack of polite table repose.

But then I noticed a man sitting a little removed from the other guests at a table where it seemed he was completely alone. At first, I thought his companion must have popped to the toilet, or for a vape, or perhaps was delayed. But there were no vapers out on the street, he was already eating and as I waited for some time it became apparent that he was indeed alone at dinner.

He looked completely at ease enjoying his meal and drink without any sign of feeling uncomfortable or out of place in such a social environment.

Alone. Eating alone. Without any running commentary on how well he was performing the task of dining in public.

Suddenly I saw myself in his place, sitting completely solitary and enjoying my meal in total blissful, undisturbed peace. No rebukes, no wiping of the jowls. I could finally really let my hair down at table. Oblivit! I could even let the whole dish down my front if I wanted to. At least I could if I was situated in a secluded corner out of view of the other diners.

Lost in my imaginary and happy meanderings, as I stared into nothing whilst the rain danced its hypnotic rhythm on my brolly, I almost didn’t notice the sound of the restaurant door opening and closing and the sound of footsteps, the rustle and spring of an umbrella being opened.

Suddenly I was transported back to reality by a voice to my right.

‘Strange isn’t it.’ the voice said. It wasn’t really a question.

I started and glanced across to see a man dressed in what looked like an expensive designer suit, but the style and cut of the suit certainly didn’t seem to conform to regular Bubbler fashion, if indeed there was anything you could call Bubbler fashion. Bubblers were such a vibrant mish mash of people wearing all manner of styles of clothing that it was difficult to describe any overarching characteristic.

But there was something about this man’s clothes that was out of place, even as elegant as he looked in his obviously well-tailored attire.

The man turned to look into the window of the restaurant before he spoke again. ‘You were watching that gentleman dining alone.’ He paused to glance over at me, easing my anxiety almost magically with a very honest, friendly and broad white smile, ‘At least… that was my impression.’

On my current child-friendly rollercoaster ride of tepid emotions, I now experienced the sensation of a little nakedness, like the feeling of being intruded upon by a stranger that was somehow able to read my inner thoughts. ‘I… er I...’ I began, lost for words.

‘You looked happy.’ The man stated kindly.

I looked again through the window towards the solitary diner. Some of my anxiety was eased by this quite obviously charismatic man that seemed to have an ability to put people at ease.

‘Yes,’ I replied, submitting to letting my guard down a little. ‘I was...’ I paused to find the right way of expressing it. ‘...in a happy place.’ was the best I could do.

The man made a single truncated laugh-like sound of approval. ‘Yes, you certainly looked it.’

‘You said it was strange?’ I hesitantly queried, turning back to him, recalling the opening thrust of our conversation.

‘Well, perhaps I should have said that it’s unusual that this gentleman is dining alone. Everyone else in the restaurant is in company.’

Turning once more to observe the scene I pondered upon this before replying, ‘Well, I have seen people eating alone from time to time.’

‘Yes, but it’s certainly not “the norm”.’ the man riposted.

It was at this point that I noticed one lady sitting at a table with a friend glance repeatedly across at the lone diner before leaning in to apparently say something in hushed tones to the friend sitting opposite, who in response turned briefly to glance over her shoulder at the man.

This well-spoken man, this umbrella comrade, sharing the restaurant scene with me in the pouring rain, had a point. I thought of Marjorie and something she might remark upon this “unusual” dining customer. ‘Probably a weirdo.’ she might say, or, ‘He’s bound to be a loser.’ if she was feeling particularly ungenerous. ‘Well to the Outlands with whatever Marjorie thinks!’ I thought to myself. I at once felt a strangely close bond to this unknown lone diner, purely on the basis of the rebellious nature of going against convention and daring to dine alone in public. A rebel with or without a main course.

For the third time in the presence of this charismatic stranger, I forgot myself through my sudden welling up of emotion and passion and before I could stop it,  the sentence ‘Well I think it’s wonderful.’ came forth, in so unprepared a form for reality that it was almost an incomprehensible mumble. My own understated outburst startled even myself. My eyes darted towards the stranger in shame at such a gush and I felt my cheeks start to redden.

The stranger looked at me with eyes that seemed to hold and support me in my moment of weakness. A look that silently said, ‘It’s okay, I understand.’ before he spoke the words with an almost disguised passion, ‘I agree.’ He smiled again, although I couldn’t help feeling there was also something of sadness mixed into his charming smile this time, something flickering just at the corners.

The stranger in a flash switched back to his bright charismatic self and extended a hand in my direction, ‘Charles.’ he said simply.

Before I had time to overthink, my hand was shaking his. It was a firm and brisk shake that reminded me of an almost forgotten time, a bonding action between two men showing mutual respect. I gave my name in return, ‘Arthur Schwarzkoenig’ not knowing why I had given my first and last name.

‘Ah, the Black King!’ laughed Charles.

I laughed a little also, more ice had been chipped away between us and was melting rapidly, ‘Yes, that’s right. It’s Allemanic, my great grandfather came over from Barbaria before the Great War.’

‘For love?’

‘No. For food. Well, you might say for the love of food.’

Charles’ face froze mid emotion for a second before he replied, ‘He must have been an interesting character. I’d like to have met him.’

‘Yes. So would I.’ I said

‘And Barbaria is such a lovely part of the world.’

‘I wouldn’t know, I’ve never been.’ It was true, any family connections to my great grandfather’s ancestral home had been severed.

‘You should visit sometime, I would recommend it.’ Charles said and reaching into his inside jacket pocket he pulled out a small card and extended it to me. ‘And while I’m on the subject of recommendations, at the risk of seeming immodest, perhaps I can suggest this establishment? You seem to me just the right sort of gentleman that would feel at home.’

I took the card as Charles continued, ‘Yes, I think you would fit right in.’

The card, obviously of high print quality with raised lettering simply read:

The Lone Dining Society

We reserve the right to dine alone.

‘You’d be most welcome Arthur. Alone of course.’ Charles said with a slight wink. He extended his hand once more, a farewell handshake which I took. A welcome ritual of a bygone age that could have almost brought a tear of something lost to my eye.

Then he was gone.

I stood there, umbrella in one hand, his card in the other as the rain continued its not altogether unpleasant concerto.

‘The Lone Dining Society.’ I mouthed the words and without my conscious permission a smile crept upon my face.