And a Nightcap

Fiction: A faltering cornucopia of dinner dates.

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—and how about that dinner? Can you believe it?”

Sunset as dried rose leaves, late summer swoon, days before the end of the vernal apogee—nights lighter, peak clench no longer.

She tells him it was truly just remarkable, that expectations were not only met but exceeded. He very much likes hearing this. He continues his praise, presuming she’ll join the chorus. She intends to listen.

They first met at a party where a friend set them up. He liked her, was very interested, and did not hide it. So keen he was after their introduction he implored their friend to tell her his thoughts straight, to shed all mystery and to let flow what sprung. She thought it was cute when the friend explained his instructions as she read the note he scribbled to ensure every detail was relayed completely and without error. She already liked him, she knew, but wasn’t yet ready.

So they went with other friends to a beach or a bar, to dinner or brunch. In no instance did he seem a poor match. He speaks well, has a good job, and has a charm about him. He is confident and not afraid to show it. He had said she was pretty in front of the others and how much he looked forward to taking her out one day. He sat next to her and held the back of her chair or even her hand when they were sat around a table. She enjoyed the small caresses, the firm squeezes, as he told stories of places traveled and people seen. Her friends laughed and looked to her to see her reaction; they whispered with eyes gesturing at the odd placement of an arm. After, they asked her if she was with him yet, if they were finally together. She said not yet.

A month of this passed. A month where not a weekend went without them seeing each other—though never alone, accompanied by friends always. Days and nights ended with him asking her to come with him the next day to a park or a bar or even just a walk about town. She declined three times, and each time he asked why: it’s not that she wasn’t interested, it was just bad timing, that she did like his company and wanted to see him more when the time came.

All got together again for the long weekend, her friends and his. But there was no telling of stories or held hands this time, however. He was quiet, reserved, and she worried he was embarrassed or defeated, that she had strung him along, or—even worse—he was no longer interested. She grabbed his arm before the night was over and asked if the dinner he offered was still available.

Glasses of wine are brought to their table. The server asks if they are ready to order, and they are. Some cheese would make a nice ending he suggested upon leaving the restaurant. She asked if it was far, and he told her it was not: it is just around the corner. Just up Queen to King, mere feet. He spoke to the staff as friends upon entering. He is something of a regular here.

But dinner: it was fantastic, she thinks, as he places their order—dinner was wonderful. The rustic décor of the place, all matched with plates and glassware and trim—even the aroma of logs stacked near the entrance: it all harkened back. Even the forks—the cutlery!—and the butter plate and the repurposed driftwood charcuterie boards, and the blinds! Yes, every detail—but these cannot hold her mind as much as what was served.

And what was served? What of the food?

Berkshire and a Red Wattle make Berkawattle; then conceive with those burnt-clay Durocs—for we are stewards of Creation—to make Berkawattleroc; then, finally, to finish the Promethean pig, to resurrect Soto’s cerdos pitched from caravel, give him an Ossabaw sow. Serve your food cooked of the fat, make lard-tongued these people, with your famous Berkawattlerocabaw.

They take these old things and make them new. Benne seeds, Carolina Red Peas, Cistercian-handled fungus that absorbs the flavors of boiled peanuts and ember roasted cabbage. Seeds once revered by those gentlemen scholars, spilling ink to catalogue these varieties in this land, shipping the many impulses and studied species of Michaux. What didn’t work was tossed and what prevailed became fixtures. Hoppin’ John no longer the same?—like Lazarus raise them. Melodramatic? We beg to differ: to extinguish the taste for the sake of utility will make Man something other than he is. He will accept what he is given though it is not what he asked for—and soon he will learn to like it.

A side of skillet-cooked cornbread; chicken with a fine braise and spilling juices into chantarelles, spinach, and brioche croutons; and the pears!—compressed to enhance the flavor. Southern gastronomy, with all its haecceity, refurbished with the time and skill material prosperity can destroy by induced comfort.

But does the line cook prepare this morsel with fear and trembling? They don’t even think of it and move on.

Cocktail with passionfruit, cantaloupe, lime, and celery bitters. The vodka was smooth, not a singe. He ordered a rare breed to sip with his plate of pork—she liked how he finished his plate. He could not get over the taste as they sat dining, it was brilliant, incredible, everything advertised, exquisite! He wonders still how they did it: ingredients or methods, or is it both?—she tells him very likely it is both.

All well put together, well worth the price. She knows he spent a sum.

Their cheeses are brought on one board. There is a baguette skillfully sliced, with no quarter of an inch difference—there is a machine in the back, no venerable artist. They do not need another glass, no thanks—ils le sirotent. Two cheeses: he chose one, she the other. They admire the display of these, the fresh shimmer there, the green freckles interlacing the other. He compliments her order, and she returns in kind, not sure what to say.

The straw mat imprinted on the rind where it sat to ripen, the heavenly texture, the just right give-and-take—this knife is so clumsy, I need a better tool, some better means, to grasp and apply this miracle. Brie de Meaux, in her best season, from Seine-et-Marne only: you show forth so many things. Delicate beauty, yet fortifying. Is this the meek who inherit? Wisdom-made and forming: truly more than cheese.

Smell, the faithful guide, is aflutter for the heap of Roquefort on the board. Sadly, no jams or slices of fruits to abate the pungent decay. The pencillium roquforti makes royal the bloodline of this bulwark. It commands a legion, dux feles, Gallica cohorts eternal remaining to serve, to protect. Roquefort-sur-Soulzon, shadows on walls in cabanes, the chalky way, the ewe’s milk sits three months under those thousand eyes. And in that season, those forty days, when he could not find a fish, the Frankish king sat picking out these precious bits.

They discuss the qualities in neutral accents. They wonder what it would be like to be raised in this, to know it all like the back of your hand. This isn’t authentic, they say, it just isn’t right! Well, it’s been heated and sterilized, per FDA—these are knockoffs. Imagine knowing it all, knowing the lay of it, to watch it all be made. It takes time, they agree, these things are so easy to destroy but so long to create.

And is near four-hundred years enough? No, there are much older—but there were times when this was in hand. Is it too far gone? No, it will just be different—but very much the same. It never changes.

These thoughts come when they are full, so re-constituted after a day of nothing at all.

King Street is empty. Queen is silent. How can we extend the evening? Their glasses are finished and the board is littered with debris and crumbs and streaks of these delicious labors. Conversation has reached a peak with only a few servings left. Now, there was only that moment of decision.

So much time. And what is lost? Here, a little over two-hundred dollars in an evening. These many narrow alleys, that wrought iron, the sword-bearing gates; congregations innumerable on this sun-soaked sliver, bells resounding pleading unto ages: none can be lost for they will all come again. Steeple-lined to break the feet of giants, Nimrod pleads incoherent when treading this bed of nails—let these be as caltrop to insolent Capaneus! Deliberate and negligent be as pricked equal unto the root! But Man will see this and know—he will know!—it can all be done again—you cannot deprive him for so long. Redound out and unto and upon all them still waiting—line up to get in. Mania for mummies, terminal and dread ending, mercenary reverence, awaken that molding and sweetness of life. Change and decay in all around I see; you who changest not, abide with me! Give it time and it will all return, raise it all up again—but it will take some time, and won’t be the same. As many evolutions as her namesake, restoration is always in style. The old goat’s garden is never far, but upon it must come our better nature.

He watches her twist her foot to the tune, the aquamarine nails upon her bitty toes, the uncalloused curvature. She looks out the window, pensive and striking. How much longer must we wait for these things? Delay until when? Cover over this ditch and let me in, there can be no gradual step.

“You are never going to sleep with me—are you, Elise?”

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