"Well, let's have lunch. Everything looks better after lunch."

(--Winston Churchill, supposedly, after he was informed that the Nazis had flattened Coventry).

So yesterday was a cold bleak dark-grey rainy day, and I was in a cold bleak dark-grey rainy mood. Mind racing at 3000 mph; mentally writing a particularly angry and tearful piece for this here blog, probably having yet more to do (loosely) with the stupid 9/11 5-year marker, and associating to a few other things, some political, some very personal. Ended up spilling my guts and a lot of tears at the shrink instead. It all came out rather eloquently, if I may say. Would've been a great performance piece, really. very King Lear, with detours into Beckett and maybe some Jacques Brel, and Chris Durang, and South Park. and philosophy, and a sort of strange lyricism at times, and a lot of swearing. You would've been impressed, really. or so i was thinking at the time. anyway, didn't write it down. lost to the winds. so it goes. may be as well. Anyway, once you find yourself trying to have experiences/feelings/ideas in order to write about them rather than the other way around, you've pretty much lost the plot, imho. Maybe I'll talk more about that shit one day. Would've made the last 9/11 piece look like "Sunny Side of the Street." Wait for the next rainy day, the next underslept night and underfed day, the next pointless thrash with pointless people.

but so I come out of there feeling like I've gone through the proverbial wringer. It's raining harder and I'm feeling lightheaded with hunger, if not experiencing it as actual appetite, which is a tad worrisome. Whatever feeble pretense at plans I've had for doing anything "productive" (hand out resumes, go home and work more seriously on this here job hunting thing, hook up the phone, certain other mundane shit I've been putting off and putting off, yadda)--not even a question. The only real question for the rest of the day is: where and what and when do I eat?

And at first I'm tempted to skip the whole thing and just go home, as nothing's really appealing to me and I'm worried about dwindling funds.

but then I reconsider: it's downtown, I've got nothing in, I'm not up for a grocery shop, there's no decent takeout, and if I go back to Queens and especially go sit in front of the computer there is an excellent chance I will just keep not eating and eventually make myself sick.

I end up going into this little seafood joint that I've been to a few times in the past, not for a good long while. Not cheap, especially for lunch. But I'm cold and I'm hungry and it's right here and they have SOUP and well fuckit.

It's jumping, I forgot they're always busy. They seat me at the counter, high near-backless stool, back to the door (and thus a draft). I'm starting to go into endless second-guessing mode, which drives me crazy: should I leave? should I stay? what if?... what if?... fuck this. All right, I say to the guy, give me a bowl of clam chowder and then I'll see. And a coke, sure. Caffeine and sugar: exactly what I need right now. Maybe that's even true.

The door keeps opening and closing. It's not real warm and I'm fidgeting. I have one mental eye on my wallet and am thinking maybe i'll just scarf the chowder and push on.

A small woman comes and takes the stool next to me (the only empty one in the place). Greets counter guy like a long-lost friend. Exchanges hellos and pleasantries with a few other customers as well. Places her order: the cod, yes, you know what I want. and, it's not on the menu, but do they have any more of that wonderful asparagus? If not, sure, the green beans will be fine. And you know how I like my cod: "almost wiggling."

I am: drifting.

Eventually, my soup comes. White and rich and smooth and just dusted with flecks of green chive and black pepper. And very very hot. I don't like very very hot. I am staring at it and poking it with the spoon, waiting for it to cool a bit.

As I am doing this, I realize, the woman at the next stool is speaking to me:

"Isn't that a beautiful soup?" she says.

I turn a little and really look at her for the first time. Damn, that was heartfelt.

My first impulse is to offer her a spoonful--I was raised in the firm tradition of exchanging "bites" and sharing in restaurants, at least among family and friends--but reconsider: it's a tad awkward and over-intimate with a stranger, and especially with soup; I only have one spoon. Instead I just smile and say "yes."

The woman chats away with someone sitting catty-corner to her. I am warming up a bit. I drink some soup.

As I nibble on some of the tender pink and white bits, clam and bacon and potato, I cross-associate, as often happens, to a random book I've read at one point or another; in this case, the "Little House Cookbook" (yes. i have eclectic tastes), specifically the part where they talk about Laura's ecstasy upon tasting oyster soup for the first time, what a rich and exotic treat that must have been for a not-rich girl on the landlocked prairie, not so very far into the Industrial Revolution.

I have never had oyster soup, I think, idly.

The woman's now just sitting there, and, on impulse, I ask her,

"Have you ever had oyster soup?"

It's a bit odd, but not fatally so. "Yes?" the woman says, a bit quizzically. Then, on safer ground, "oh, the soup at Grand Central Oyster Bar is delicious, too. All their food. Oh, I love that place."

I wanted to press her, explain that I was trying to find out whether oyster soup in fact tasted substantially different from clam chowder, but it's not gonna go there; it's cool. We chat a bit about Grand Central, which I think I have been in once, and some other restaurants, other wonderful foodstuffs. I mention my yearning for Maine-style lobster rolls (hot, butter, as opposed to the cold-and-mayo'd deal they do at this place). The countery guy comes back just as I'm finishing this reverie; behind him, someone is just getting a plate of fried oysters.

Rarely and blessedly decisive, I ask the guy for an oyster po'boy, hold the tartar. The woman beams. Excellent choice. I feel a bit better.

I excuse myself and go to the bathroom. When I return, my sandwich is there, and the woman is already slicing into her fish. Fat green asparagus on the side; guess they did have them today. The asparagus looks wonderful. I eyeball Mount Fried and fret a bit over whether this was a good idea, digestion-wise; I'm not ill but I'm still not quite...right, somehow. Haven't really been for a while, feels like.

The woman swallows her mouthful and says,

"You were gone so long, I kept looking at those oysters, and, well..."

"You were thinking about just...TAKING them?"

She grins, a little mischievous.

I grin back. "Would you like one now?"

"Oh, no, no." Then, "I come here all the time. It's WONDERFUL."

I eat some oysters. We both ruminate for a bit.

Eventually the woman catches me eyeballing her asparagus and offers me a spear.

I say, "trade you for an oyster?"

She grins even more widely; there is a shyness as well as genuine delight at the idea. "Yes!" Very Molly Bloom; or, well, opening stages at least.

We make the swap. The asparagus is really good. It occurs to me that I really haven't been eating nearly enough green vegetables lately. It also occurs to me that if I had regular magical access to vegetables that tasted that good, I might eat them more often. It also also occurs to me that I am being unnecessarily self-pitying and to knock it off, for heaven's sake.

I swear she moans a little as her teeth sink into the oyster.

Somehow we're all now chatting away, her and me and the two men sitting catty corner, with an occasional hail and (well-mannered) holler to someone entering or leaving. I forget what we talked about. A few things. Always came back to food, though: what we're eating, what we've eaten, what we will eat, what we'd like to eat. Counter guy brings one of the men a piece of blueberry pie with a slab of cream on it. My seat-mate swoons a bit. We discuss, with increasing animation, the desserts at this place; have I ever had their chocolate mousse? do I remember? do I! too bad it's such a huge portion. Who could finish it? Well, I think I actually DID, once, but mumble mumble anyway.

Sometime between then and the mens' departure (whereupon the woman will say to the counter guy, "you know, I thought at first they were father and son, but I think they might be...together?", making me laugh out loud. They might be; the meal I've just eaten might have been somewhat high in cholesterol), the woman makes me an offer:

"What do you say we split a chocolate mousse?"

"Oh!" I say. "Ohhh. Hmm." Truth is, I'd mentally written off dessert, or really any more food like, ever, but...yeah, fuck, twist my rubber arm, and anyway I'm rather charmed.

She then backpedals a bit: "Should we? What do you think? We don't have to. You did eat more than I did"--I raise my eyebrows at that one--"...it is a very big portion...should we? They can put it on two plates, so...that's a half portion. That's not so much. What do you think?"

I get serious. "Well. It's true: two plates means we each get half. And we'll each have our own spoon, so that effectively divides it in half again. Also, it's raining out, and that halves it again..."

...she's laughing.

"...so, what do you think? I'm gonna leave it up to you." Uh-oh: that phrase. That shy mischievous grin again.

I say, "You want to, don't you?"

Grin becomes giggle.

I seal the deal: "And besides, I've never shared chocolate mousse with a stranger."

Enchantment, clapped hands. Summon the counter guy, who is by now an old friend. Guess what we've decided to do!!!

I figure this might be a good point to introduce myself, and do so. She has a name, too, turns out. Who knew.

It arrives. The theme music from 2001 is playing softly in the distance; or it should be. There is a moment of silence. And then there are many soft happy little noises. Seriously, this stuff is MAINLINE. Later, when the chef comes out ("oh, I want you to meet ___, he's my favorite person here, lovely man and such a WONDERFUL cook), he informs me that it's not butter or cream, it's butter AND cream. and the chocolate is so intense it's barely even sweet. and, yup, fresh whipped cream on that, too.

The woman is coming pretty close to Meg Ryan's infamous scene in "When Harry Met Sally." Fortunately I am already having what she's having. I tell her,

"I really like how much you enjoy your food."

She, well, doesn't blush, but some equivalent. She swallows, and says,

"Eating is wonderful."

"Yes."

"And it's such a privilege. Look at how lucky we are. Sitting here. Eating chocolate mousse. With all that's going on in the world..."

About a thousand feelings rise up, flutter around, and subside again somewhere beneath the oysters. I simply say again, quietly, "Yes."

We stop with about one and a half tablespoons left. My companion, my comrade-in-eating, insists that I take it home. I suggest that maybe it makes more sense for her to take it, since I'm going all the way back to Queens and she so obviously lives in the neighborhood...

(This is a New York I had not quite forgotten about, but hadn't really been in my consciousness for a while either)

She is quite firm: she couldn't possibly. I can have it later tonight! Although, I did have a lot of lunch, she says, again. "Thanks, I needed the reminder," I say, a tad drily. She laughs. There's no meannness in it.

The place is winding down for the afternoon, and so are we. We settle our bills and say our farewells. See you again. Perhaps.

She goes off into the rain; I head back to the restroom first. At the entrance to the bathroom, on the wall, there is something I hadn't noticed last time: some sort of menu or flyer for some event the place had evidently sponsored or been a part of, once. Not sure what for: a charity of some sort, perhaps. What I did see, what I'd missed last time, in big bold letters:

SHARE


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