I can’t cook but an ex-girlfriend thinks I can. According to her, I once made a Moroccan-inspired lamb stew that sat on a bed of garlic and herb couscous. I allow her that delusion.
She also remembers that we had pasta carbonara at a bad Italian restaurant on a Saturday night. The place was empty. To add some spark to what would otherwise have been a dispiriting evening, she put Patsy Cline on the jukebox. We got up and danced.
I remember that night, but distantly, as if it was from another life — which, in a manner of speaking, it was.
In the intervening years I’ve been married and had a child. I’ve grown doughy and somewhat world-weary. I puff when I climb the stairs. I wear comfortable plaid pajamas when I go to sleep. And I’m soon to be divorced.
B and I dated briefly ten years ago. In all other respects (besides the meal I supposedly cooked for her) she possesses an extraordinary memory. With crystalline accuracy she recalls the things we did together and what we said. She remembers a night out at Carnegie Hall and what she wore, or the morning we met by chance at the Farmer’s Market, even the street where my parents lived when I was born.
B and I recently met for drinks. She looked terrific; the intervening decade had treated her well. Her face, which used to be cherubic, was slimmed down into structured early middle age, with fetching smile lines, an inscribed dimple and endearingly deep care wrinkles across her brow.
We met at a swanky restaurant and sat informally at the bar. I ordered a glass of pinot noir and she asked for a Californian chardonnay. We chatted about mutual friends. But after we had our second glasses of wine, and had ordered crispy calamari and a cone of savory French frites, (sliced thinly and lightly salted), we began to wade into deeper territory.
B told me about her latest breakup. He had loved her deeply, she said, but he had few friends. His style of intimacy was to become almost claustrophobically close. At first, B was attracted by his frequent emails and check-in phone calls that punctuated her days at work. She had been single for a long stretch of time and this new relationship made her feel less lonely. His need for contact charmed and softened her. With him, she was “living in the bubble”, which was re-assuring. But the bubble began to exclude too much of the world, too many friends, relatives and activities. In the end, she decided to pop the bubble. Regret suffused her face while she told me this story.
Over trout with Chinese long beans and a confit of tomatoes and capers with an almond puree we talked some more. She asked me why my marriage had gone south. To tell you the full story, I said, would take hours, perhaps days. I looked down at my plate. I didn’t want to be coy. It was like a vase, I said. Even at the start it had hairline cracks. We tried to cover them over but incrementally they just grew wider until the whole thing just split apart. B looked at me skeptically.
Ok, I said, we didn’t have sex for over a year.
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I remember much about N — how as a child she would bring ring-dings to her grandfather every Saturday afternoon, and how, when she visited me in the country, she brought nutmeg, garlic, avocado and tender autumn squash. I remember the frittata she made for me the morning after our first night, the crunch of the red bell peppers and the sun yellow of the eggs that were perfectly cooked, soft but not runny.
She was a woman who was all about appetite. I didn’t understand that at first. She was my first post-divorce date and I arrived at the appointed bar sweaty with anxiety. The place was packed, heaving with twenty-year-olds looking svelte and velvety (the women) and toned and groomed (the men). I was neither and neither was she. She had a proud bearing and a striking face: strong features, chestnut hair, lush lips, iridescent eyes: an empress. It was a face that belonged on a Roman coin, a face that should have been painted by Picasso.
We drank strong vodka tonics and talked about Russia, her home country. Her family had left under extreme duress. They had fled through Italy, only to arrive in America with almost nothing to their name. In the intervening years and with unwavering persistence and unrelenting work, they had done well for themselves. When N was seventeen, they returned to Russia for a visit. She watched in disbelief as her mother grew meeker the longer they stayed. The memory of the dark shadow of the Soviet Union still held her in its repressive grip. Her mother shrunk into herself.
The bar was now heaving and further conversation was impossible. I hadn’t eaten and was woozy. N took command. While I wove and wobbled down the street she searched for food. We passed a pizza joint that was closing up for the night. We passed a tacqueria. She whipped out her iPhone from her handbag and steered us towards an upscale vegetarian restaurant that served only raw food. Although it was late, they were open and we sat down.
The waiter informed us that the kitchen was closed but they were still serving appetizers. I ordered a plate of crostinis with crimini mushrooms and a caper béarnaise sauce. In my semi-drunken state the béarnaise sauce reminded me of eggs benedict, which reminded me of the hangover I was bound to have the next morning. Somehow, by ordering this dish, I reasoned that I could forestall the pain I was going to feel the next morning. Delusional thinking of course, but not, as it turned out, as delusional as my hopes for N.
The dish arrived. The serving was miniscule. There was just enough béarnaise sauce for a few bacteria to have a bath. The crostini were the size of nickels. I ate the whole thing in one slobbery gulp.
For some reason I found myself telling a story from my early twenties when I had spent six months working on what had I hoped was an idyllic farm in Denmark. The story did not end well (it involved illicit sexual desires, the mysterious killing of a cat, a possible love child, and with me fleeing on a boat bound for Liverpool, England). N laughed at my story but, I fear, was left with the impression that I was a screwed up kook. A female friend later made the astute observation that the conversation should have been more about N.
We left the restaurant and, to my astonishment, I was able to assertively flag down a taxi, plant a gentlemanly kiss on her cheek (neither too aggressive nor too meek), wait for her to settle comfortably into her seat and close the door with aplomb.
On the way back to the subway I passed another pizza joint and wolfed down two slippery slices and felt immediately ill.
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On our first date N had told me that as child she had taken the Staten Island ferry with her father and that the trip had made a big impression on her. I immediately knew what our second date would be. I had romantic images of sea breezes, the statue of Liberty, tugs pulling in and out of New York harbor and, of course, the skyline at dusk.
I planned a light summer evening’s picnic of goat cheese, hummus, pita bread and whitefish salad. I emailed her directions to a mysterious rendezvous spot near the river. Just before we were to meet I bought a half bottle of chilled champagne and hid in my bag. It was a very warm summer evening. She arrived at the appointed location (walking serenely, as is her way) and lit up when I revealed the surprise plan to her.
I had unfortunately overlooked the fact that the ferry is basically a bus with a bow. Exhausted workers sat slumped on wooden seats, lit by harsh florescent lights, grumpily waiting to disembark at Staten Island. European tourists, snapping photographs, crowded all the viewing areas. It was impossible to spread the food out and eat. The champagne seemed inappropriate amongst the commuters who were slurping cans of Red Bull, soda and Budweiser.
We made the trip both ways without eating. We disembarked and walked over to the edge of a nearby park. We found a bench and sat down. Cars were whizzing by twenty feet behind us. We were both starving and tore into the food. The goat cheese was smushed into a blob but N gamely scooped at with a shard of pita (I had forgotten cutlery). I had brought a linen napkin, which I tried to spread across our laps but it felt weird, like huddling under a blanket. The whitefish salad was by that time a fizzy disaster and N stayed away from it.
I decided that I had nothing else to lose and brought out the champagne. Of course it was warm by now and the cork, instead of popping festively (and hopefully) merely sighed with a soft puff of air like an old man settling into a chair.
I remember these details because food is a powerful trigger for memory. And memories — the distinctive and tender and humorous ones — are often tied to love.
To paraphrase Nora Ephron, I’ve made a number of mistakes in love. I look back at some of them with regret. But although the goat cheese was smushed, the crostini were miniscule and the champagne was flat, I’ve never regretted the food.
Adam Harrison Levy is a writer and documentary film-maker. He lives in New York.