The Meal

The Meal

You could tell by the way he paused between bites that enjoying the meal was the most important thing in his world. At least for that short time while he sat at the table with his coat in his lap like a pet—his hands in the soft fleece lining for warmth while he waited for the steaming plate to arrive. Before it would be delivered to his table he always had one small bourbon in a shot glass. Drinking it down in four or five short sips he rolled it around on his tongue and let the fire burn towards his belly. The after effect of the drink---a slight light headedness—was nothing like drunkenness but more like transcendence, which, when tightly controlled allowed him to savor the meal with elevated senses and fuller enjoyment.

When the shot glass had been taken away and the meal set before him (today it was pasta shells stuffed with a mixture of ricotta cheese and eggs and cracked pepper and basil with a sauce made of Elisabeth’s home grown tomatoes. On the side was a salad with the same tomatoes, some cucumber and mixed greens and lastly a fresh garlic bread just this side of burnt but soft on the inside with garlic and olive oil…) He perched over it as he spooned some roughly grated aged cheese and inhaled the steam rising up from the plate . The first bite. Eyes closed. He chewed the pasta and the stringy cheese as slowly as his hungry mouth and tongue would allow. The entire rest of the meal would be framed within this sweet, dynamic tension between desire and patience. Between each bite he would put down his utensils and prop his arms up onto the table. Resting his elbows and entwining his fingers like the tines of two forks his eyes would close and he would chew. And chew. And swallow. And dab his mouth occasionally with a napkin. There was not a shred of doubt that this was the most important thing in his life and if all else failed he was determined to taste this food—this meal—for all that is was worth.

That he can take such pleasure in the glass of water! There is proof enough of the reverence with which he approaches each and every element of the meal. He once exclaimed to me that “this water came from the depths of the earth. Taste it! It is the only water I have ever had that has such taste.” He took a great swallow and another and asked me for a refill. Easy enough. It comes right out of the tap from the well in the back. “Seven hundred and fifty feet down. That water comes from seven hundred and fifty feet”. He will not allow me to put in any ice. He says that he enjoys it at the temperature at which it rests—the temperature that it has come from the stream below the earth. He drinks two full glasses with his meal. He claims it balances out the meal. He drinks with his eyes closed as if he were in love with the water and he is kissing it—shyly and with trepidation. I can not watch him some time as he eats and especially as he drinks. I am embarrassed by the bobbing of his Adam’s apple and go back into the kitchen to work on the meals of the other patrons.

He rarely eats more than one helping of food. He is not thin. Over the years he has put on some weight but not a lot. He has developed a small belly more from a lack of exercise, I think, than over eating. The one sin he commits, I have noticed, is that he must have a small sweet directly after his dinner. A cookie or a small finger of cake that is all. He usually eats it while he pays the bill—standing up near the owners counter and stool. He is sometimes licking his fingers as he walks out of the door and the tiny bell over the door tinkles to announce his departure.

He will be back again tomorrow night. He is as constant as the stars. He told me once that as he becomes older there is less and less that he has to look forward to. I had been telling him about my children and their recent party for Halloween. He laughed and told me to enjoy them for as long as I could and my patience would allow. “Soon enough they will be gone and you will have to find other things to fill up the space in your life that they once occupied.” I asked him what he did to “fill the space” and he replied “Little. But there is Elisabeth’s food. And the walk home. Occasionally a chess game or a piece of music on the radio.” I felt a little sad when I saw the way he stared off to a far away place. He must have sensed my discomfort. “No, no! These are good things. Food is beautiful! And come here…look at this…” He took my arm by the elbow and led me to the front door of the shop. “Look at that.” He pointed up to the stars and still holding onto my elbow he whispered into my ear. “Look at those stars! They are millions of miles away”. And he said it in the same way he said “seven hundred and fifty feet down” and the warmth of his breath sent shivers down my spine. “The stars are free but so few of us looks up to see them. Our meals are so common that few of us taste them. Our children are precious but who among us treasures them? Do you see what I mean? It is all up to you to take the gifts that are given you.” With that he let go my elbow and bowed slightly at the waist. He looked up at me and said “What is on the menu for tomorrow?” “Short ribs”, I said, “and a casserole of potatoes au gratin”. “Wonderful!! That is my favorite.”