Lillian Boxfish Takes a Walk by Kathleen Rooney

Author:Kathleen Rooney
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Press

14

Mulligan

The golden Ds on the scarlet awnings—surrounded by laurel wreaths in heraldic style—seem to stand not merely for “Delmonico’s” but also for “do over.”

The restaurant lofts steak smells over the intersection of William and Beaver, and as they waft toward me, I feel, finally, famished. I should be, I suppose, after a three-and-a-half-mile walk.

During our marriage, whenever Max was away on business, which was often, I missed him terribly. What I did not miss were my evening dates with pots and pans. I rejoiced in rest from rump and roast, from spuds and the suds of dishes washed. Max taught me to cook, but it brought me no joy without him, so I kept the food simple when I just made it for me, for me and Johnny: fragrant coffee, honest stew.

We had a cook, too, a few nights a week, to help me then while I was freelancing. She made hearty food: roasted chicken and creamed potatoes, oysters and grilled tomatoes, squash or scrambled eggs or scrod.

For the second and last time in my life I step up the three steps and stand in the doorway where I last stood almost thirty years ago. Whether and how the place has changed I can’t say; I have no memory of the entrance. Despite my damned good health, I do take note of things like steps—and hips, and trips, and falls—differently now than I did in my fifties. Thirty years! I was in sorry shape then, but I was younger, younger, younger.

Alone this time, free from entanglements, I can pay closer attention, see the place for the institution it is and not just for what it means to me. So many ubiquitous dishes were invented here: eggs Benedict, Manhattan clam chowder, chicken á la King, and baked Alaska. The Delmonico’s that served Max and me our final meal together, Oscar’s Delmonico’s, closed in 1977, but the restaurant reopened under new management in 1981. The posted menu appears to include all the classics.

Not that it matters. I’m getting a steak. A make-up steak. A steak to compensate for the spoiling of my last one by the one true love of my entire life.

I place a gloved hand on the brass handle of the wooden door and step inside. Into a crush of people that makes the restaurant lobby resemble a rush-hour subway car.

The harried woman at the hostess stand greets me with shell-shocked solicitude.

“Dinner for one, please,” I say, raising my voice above the clamor.

“Do you have a reservation?”

“Actually,” I say, “I haven’t a reservation. This is a spontaneous undertaking. One last great adventure for 1984.”

“I see,” says the hostess. “I’m afraid we’re quite packed.”

“So I noticed,” I say. “Very good to see such a good business doing good business.”

“Mm-hmm,” she says, eyes down, scanning her list.

Mild dismay—I feel it, for not having thought of this: a popular restaurant on a massive holiday. Of course they’re overrun. But I also feel as though I should be able to talk my way in. I’ve rarely been unable to persuade.

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