la familia
Friday
I am putting on mascara when Clerk arrives early. He feigns fatigue as he reaches my apartment on the fourth floor, handsome in his traditional navy sport coat with shiny gold buttons. I greet him with a quick kiss and then continue to flit about, putting on makeup, pouring him a glass of water. I dig through my closet for my shawl, stuff cash in my purse, adjust my bra. He studies the enormous new red painting in our living room. Finally, after squirming into my strapless black corduroy polka dot dress, and black high heel slingbacks, I sit down next to him on the couch and breathe.
We talk for a few minutes and then leave for the restaurant, only a few blocks away. It is a New York institution. High, soaring ceilings, light fixtures covered in swooping white fabric, the elegant buzz of a happy crowd. At a large, round table, already crowded with wine glasses, his family friends, Dr. and Mrs. H, are already seated: a trim Midwestern couple, the father, a handsome cardiologist, in sleek, rimless spectacles, and the mother, with blond, short hair, and a tweed jacket. Their daughter, K, a soft spoken blond writer and her fiancee, M, a graduate student are seated as well. Clerk sits on my right. The parents, Mrs. H, asks "You live right around here, right?" and Dr. H jokes, "So you must come here all the time." I joke, "Oh yeah, you know, I get take out all the time." They laugh out loud, and I can tell they are surprised. I think, Score one, me. We sit down, and the parents are shamelessly curious: "Do you live in New York? Where did you go to school? Where do you work? Where did you grow up?
Soon, his parents arrive. His mother is short and bubbly, with white hair and little glasses, and his father is tall, with a bald spot and dark eyebrows, bumbling in a sweet way. Everyone is happy and excited. As we study our menus, Clerk's father tips his wine glass onto his plate. He seems slightly embarrassed, but recovers: "Well, I wanted to make an impression on ______ (my name)," and everyone laughs.
Someone proposes a toast: M, the fiancee, has just defended his dissertation and Clerk's parents are celebrating their 35th wedding anniversary. As everyone raises their glasses, Clerk's father looks at me, smiles, and says, "To first meetings," and I smile back, pleased.
We gush over the menu and the number of courses. Someone mentions the foie gras, and I offer to order it and share. Clerk's parents start to tease him. His mother says, to me, "Oh, you share your food. You know, Clerk doesn't like to share his food." He confesses that this is true.
My first course arrives: a delicate mixed salad of baby greens, just barely flavored with a sherry vinaigrette. I discover that M, the fiancee, is about to start law school at my alma mater, and I enthusiastically answer their questions about housing, restaurants, jobs, relieved that we have such an easy topic to discuss. My second course soon follows: gingerbread crusted foie gras, poached pear, and preserved kumquat. The foie gras is velvety and rich, and the kumquat flavor is perfectly bittersweet. Clerk tries a little bite, and I smile and accept when he offers me a taste of his risotto. After the foie gras, my third course, roasted salmon with braised escarole, beets, and mushrooms, is uneventful.
Clerk makes fun of his lack of table manners, "Look at me. I'm a mess. First, I was just taking butter off the dish and putting it directly onto my bread, instead of politely putting a small piece of butter on my plate first, and then I thought I was using the communal butter knife so I left mine on there, and you had to move it away..." I smile at him, and say, "Can't take you anywhere..."
I am fairly quiet during the dinner, and am pleasantly surprised at how talkative Clerk is, recounting funny anecdotes about his work. He mentions his judge, and how conservative she is, and Dr. H, asks, appropos of nothing, "She's not black, is she?" Clerk replies, confused, "No..." and finishes his story. At one point, when the discussion turns to marathons, and how one feels at "mile 20," I resolve to run more this week. The conversation turns to words, and I am comfortable again. I ask M, slightly embarrassed, "Do you get the word of the day email?" and am overjoyed when he admits he does. He recounts our conversation, "I told _______(my name) that...dating a Red Sox fan requires a lot of patience..." and I think, I guess we are dating.
As we wait for dinner, I move my chair closer to him, in order to talk with his mother, who sits on his right. Under the table, I put my right hand on his knee, and am surprised and pleased when I feel his hand on mine. For a few minutes, we sit there, holding hands under the table, and I wonder if everyone else can tell.
M drops his knife on the floor, and as he is about to put it on the table, a waiter holds out his hand for it, disapprovingly. M sheepishly hands it to him. We all laugh, and Dr. H says, "And he's from Mexico! I mean, it's not like they're..." I look away and tune out the rest of his sentence.
Clerk's father writes a joking criticism on the comment card about the chef avoiding our table, and Clerk sneaks it out of the credit card holder and into his pocket, rolling his eyes. I am amused at his embarrassment but also slightly uncomfortable.
Afterwards, we walk his parents and the other older couple to the subway station. I glance behind me, and Clerk's parents are walking hand in hand.
We get home, and he sits down on the couch. I pour two glasses of water, and sit down next to him. Finally, we are alone. He puts his arm around me, and I lean against him. We talk about dinner, about the other family, about his parents. He kisses my shoulder, and I turn around to face him. Eventually, I am sitting on his lap, and he stands up, and carries me almost to my room, while we are still kissing. I start to giggle. "I'm really heavy," I say. "No, you're not," he replies, but then when my knee grazes the wall, I squirm down. "I'm running you into the wall," he says, and I laugh and lead him into my room.
I am putting on mascara when Clerk arrives early. He feigns fatigue as he reaches my apartment on the fourth floor, handsome in his traditional navy sport coat with shiny gold buttons. I greet him with a quick kiss and then continue to flit about, putting on makeup, pouring him a glass of water. I dig through my closet for my shawl, stuff cash in my purse, adjust my bra. He studies the enormous new red painting in our living room. Finally, after squirming into my strapless black corduroy polka dot dress, and black high heel slingbacks, I sit down next to him on the couch and breathe.
We talk for a few minutes and then leave for the restaurant, only a few blocks away. It is a New York institution. High, soaring ceilings, light fixtures covered in swooping white fabric, the elegant buzz of a happy crowd. At a large, round table, already crowded with wine glasses, his family friends, Dr. and Mrs. H, are already seated: a trim Midwestern couple, the father, a handsome cardiologist, in sleek, rimless spectacles, and the mother, with blond, short hair, and a tweed jacket. Their daughter, K, a soft spoken blond writer and her fiancee, M, a graduate student are seated as well. Clerk sits on my right. The parents, Mrs. H, asks "You live right around here, right?" and Dr. H jokes, "So you must come here all the time." I joke, "Oh yeah, you know, I get take out all the time." They laugh out loud, and I can tell they are surprised. I think, Score one, me. We sit down, and the parents are shamelessly curious: "Do you live in New York? Where did you go to school? Where do you work? Where did you grow up?
Soon, his parents arrive. His mother is short and bubbly, with white hair and little glasses, and his father is tall, with a bald spot and dark eyebrows, bumbling in a sweet way. Everyone is happy and excited. As we study our menus, Clerk's father tips his wine glass onto his plate. He seems slightly embarrassed, but recovers: "Well, I wanted to make an impression on ______ (my name)," and everyone laughs.
Someone proposes a toast: M, the fiancee, has just defended his dissertation and Clerk's parents are celebrating their 35th wedding anniversary. As everyone raises their glasses, Clerk's father looks at me, smiles, and says, "To first meetings," and I smile back, pleased.
We gush over the menu and the number of courses. Someone mentions the foie gras, and I offer to order it and share. Clerk's parents start to tease him. His mother says, to me, "Oh, you share your food. You know, Clerk doesn't like to share his food." He confesses that this is true.
My first course arrives: a delicate mixed salad of baby greens, just barely flavored with a sherry vinaigrette. I discover that M, the fiancee, is about to start law school at my alma mater, and I enthusiastically answer their questions about housing, restaurants, jobs, relieved that we have such an easy topic to discuss. My second course soon follows: gingerbread crusted foie gras, poached pear, and preserved kumquat. The foie gras is velvety and rich, and the kumquat flavor is perfectly bittersweet. Clerk tries a little bite, and I smile and accept when he offers me a taste of his risotto. After the foie gras, my third course, roasted salmon with braised escarole, beets, and mushrooms, is uneventful.
Clerk makes fun of his lack of table manners, "Look at me. I'm a mess. First, I was just taking butter off the dish and putting it directly onto my bread, instead of politely putting a small piece of butter on my plate first, and then I thought I was using the communal butter knife so I left mine on there, and you had to move it away..." I smile at him, and say, "Can't take you anywhere..."
I am fairly quiet during the dinner, and am pleasantly surprised at how talkative Clerk is, recounting funny anecdotes about his work. He mentions his judge, and how conservative she is, and Dr. H, asks, appropos of nothing, "She's not black, is she?" Clerk replies, confused, "No..." and finishes his story. At one point, when the discussion turns to marathons, and how one feels at "mile 20," I resolve to run more this week. The conversation turns to words, and I am comfortable again. I ask M, slightly embarrassed, "Do you get the word of the day email?" and am overjoyed when he admits he does. He recounts our conversation, "I told _______(my name) that...dating a Red Sox fan requires a lot of patience..." and I think, I guess we are dating.
As we wait for dinner, I move my chair closer to him, in order to talk with his mother, who sits on his right. Under the table, I put my right hand on his knee, and am surprised and pleased when I feel his hand on mine. For a few minutes, we sit there, holding hands under the table, and I wonder if everyone else can tell.
M drops his knife on the floor, and as he is about to put it on the table, a waiter holds out his hand for it, disapprovingly. M sheepishly hands it to him. We all laugh, and Dr. H says, "And he's from Mexico! I mean, it's not like they're..." I look away and tune out the rest of his sentence.
Clerk's father writes a joking criticism on the comment card about the chef avoiding our table, and Clerk sneaks it out of the credit card holder and into his pocket, rolling his eyes. I am amused at his embarrassment but also slightly uncomfortable.
Afterwards, we walk his parents and the other older couple to the subway station. I glance behind me, and Clerk's parents are walking hand in hand.
We get home, and he sits down on the couch. I pour two glasses of water, and sit down next to him. Finally, we are alone. He puts his arm around me, and I lean against him. We talk about dinner, about the other family, about his parents. He kisses my shoulder, and I turn around to face him. Eventually, I am sitting on his lap, and he stands up, and carries me almost to my room, while we are still kissing. I start to giggle. "I'm really heavy," I say. "No, you're not," he replies, but then when my knee grazes the wall, I squirm down. "I'm running you into the wall," he says, and I laugh and lead him into my room.
posted 1:29 PM
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