The Restaurant Read online

  And when everyone had had enough helpings of the main courses, Mike emerged from the kitchen with the summer pudding Emily had made earlier, along with a bowl of softly whipped cream, and after that they all had coffee, and some of Emily’s lemon and ginger cookies.

  And at the end of the evening, Heather from San Francisco, who it turned out had been living in Ireland for years – I got a kid who’s nearly six, she’s never been to the US – left Emily a generous tip, only slightly less than she would have paid if Emily had charged her, and said it was the best food she’d had in forever, and promised to come back. And she did come back, she does come back: she’s become one of the regulars. I was her very first customer, Emily has overheard her declare many times.

  And happily, over the days and weeks that followed, there was a slow and steady blossoming. The residents of the street showed up, driven by curiosity to come in. A positive review appeared in the local paper from a journalist who’d eaten there incognito. Comments on social media were mainly good. The same faces returned, saying they’d told others about it. And every night when she’d finished serving, Emily would sit and join whoever was there and eat dessert with them, so that another chair would be filled.

  And one evening, about six weeks after opening, there came a night when there was no room at the oval table for Emily, when three people had to be turned away because the place was full. It’s time, she thought, listening to the buzz of conversation, the spatters of laughter as she removed empty plates. We’re ready, she thought, so they began offering lunch as well as dinner, and in time that took off too.

  It isn’t always easy. Every so often there are diners who look for something that’s not on the menu, and who sometimes take umbrage when they don’t get it. There are others who assume they’re coming to some sort of dating event, and who aren’t pleased to discover otherwise. There have been those who have slipped out without paying while Emily was in the kitchen, and a woman once who claimed to have burnt her tongue on the soup, and who took a case against the restaurant. Thankfully, these instances aren’t commonplace.

  Mostly what happens is that people come in and eat, and exchange chat and stories. Mostly what happens is that Emily feels she’s doing something right, something worthwhile. Mostly what happens is that friendships are born around the big oval table – and yes, maybe romantic love has ensued now and again. It wouldn’t be inconceivable, given the circumstances, but it doesn’t concern Emily.

  With her ticking-along business, and her other job that makes up the financial shortfall, and her rescued cat, and the regulars she’s come to count as friends, and the street that has become home to her, with its community of neighbours who look out for one another, she can’t say she’s unhappy. Most of the time she’s too busy to be unhappy.

  And if there are moments, late at night maybe, listening to the rain tapping on the window, or in the middle of an afternoon, reading her book before Mike arrives to set up for the evening, if there are moments when she feels a pang of loneliness, she nudges it aside.

  She has enough. She won’t look for more.

  Astrid

  ‘CAN YOU PASS THE BUTTER?’

  She looks across the table and regards the speaker. Forty at the most, she thinks, although the older she gets the harder it’s becoming to tell. Mid-brown hair streaked with paler shades, cut short enough not to need a comb. Gold stud passing through his right eyebrow, for goodness’ sake. He should know better at his age.

  May I please have the butter, she says in her head. Manners not a priority for some: every day it pains her.

  ‘Certainly you may,’ she replies, handing over the butter dish, and he gives her a look that tells her he thinks she’s gaga, and she realises that her response was out of sync with his request. Not gaga though, far from it. She may be in her ninety-third year, but thankfully she’s as sharp as she always was. She remembers everything, when there is so much she would rather forget.

  She allows her gaze to roam about the table, and counts ten seats filled. No Bill, which is a shame. She likes it when she and Bill coincide. She senses the quiet sadness beneath his cheery exterior, and doesn’t seek out its cause. Let him choose to confide in her, if he ever wants to.

  So lost he seemed that first day. So unsure as he stood in the doorway, looking like he might turn and bolt at any second. She was glad when Emily brought him over to sit with her – and now Astrid sees him doing what she did for him that day, making diffident newcomers feel at home in this special place.

  Her own discovery of The Food of Love, over a year ago, happened entirely by chance. She’d been wondering where to find an out-of-print poetry book when she’d seen a small ad in the local paper for a secondhand bookshop. Worth a try, she’d thought, so she’d written down the address and taken a bus to the main street, and made her way on foot from there, stick tapping along the pavements. The book wasn’t to be found on the shelves, but the shop and its owners were charming, and Astrid emerged with two substitutes stowed in her canvas bag.

  But the walk from the main street, and the standing in the bookshop, had tired her. With her ninety-second birthday approaching, her energy was seeping away with the years. Tasks that she’d carried out without thinking now needed to be carefully planned, with rests in between. She scanned the street in both directions and spotted an orange bench on the path, four or five doors away: that would do. She reached it and sank down thankfully, settling her bag beside her, and took stock of her surroundings.

  She’d been on the little street before, but not for quite some time. Nice neighbourhood feel to it, a mix of private homes and unassuming shops. Nothing flashy, nothing higher than two storeys – and the trees, parading down the length of it, were a bonus.

  A few people passed. Astrid smiled, and was smiled at. The August day was mild and a little grey, but no rain had been mentioned on the forecast that morning. She heard a church bell chime noon – and directly afterwards, the metal thunk of a bolt being pulled across, and a door opening behind her. She turned to see a woman with beautiful burnished copper curls standing in the doorway.

  You don’t mind my sitting here? Astrid asked, and the woman assured her she didn’t mind at all, and enquired if Astrid would like a glass of water, or a cup of tea. Taken by surprise, Astrid said yes please to the water and no thank you to the tea – and when she was alone again she turned her head to scrutinise the building she’d hitherto taken scant notice of.

  A restaurant it was, or a café, its name in cursive lettering above the window, painted orange to match the bench. The Food of Love it was called, which caused something to stir in Astrid’s memory, something about music and the food of love. Maybe this place featured a pianist, playing quietly in the background as people ate.

  Have you been open long? she asked, when the woman returned.

  Coming up for eighteen months now. It was my grandmother’s premises, and she left it to me. She had a hat shop here for over twenty years – maybe you remember it.

  Astrid searched her memory, and thought she recalled the little premises, although a shop selling hats would never have tempted her. Some people had heads for hats and others didn’t, and she was definitely among the latter. A big change, she said, from hats to food.

  The owner smiled: a dimple popped in her cheek. It certainly is. I could probably bake a loaf of bread blindfold, but I couldn’t make a hat to save my life. Would you like to have a look inside?

  Funny now, when it’s become such a familiar place, to recall her surprise that day on seeing it for the first time. She did a rapid count of the mismatched chairs around the large egg-shaped table and got fourteen. One table and fourteen chairs: clearly not the setting for a potentially romantic first dinner date – but maybe it happened here in a group. Maybe it was a place where singletons got together, seven men and seven women, hoping to find love over the boeuf bourguignon, or whatever. And maybe, since nothing was taboo now, there were occasions when the diners were all female, or al
l male.

  She took it all in slowly. The cream cloth that covered the table, the little glass jars of colourful blooms dotted about, the blue butter dishes, the water jugs with floating lemon and orange slices. Today’s soups: chicken and mulligatawny written in yellow chalk on a large blackboard affixed to the rear wall, hearts instead of dots topping the two ‘i’s. Today’s breads: granary and poppy seed.

  She turned back to her companion. Fourteen chairs, she said, and one table. This is not a typical restaurant.

  Indeed it’s not. Another smile, another dimple. With so little space I didn’t really have much choice, so I opted for a place that offered company at mealtimes for anyone who wants it.

  And there it was, as simple as that. No organised blind dates; no motive other than to feed people who preferred not to eat alone. The food of love, for those who might feel the need of it.

  Astrid thought of her own situation, her main meals for the entire week arriving each Monday morning in their foil containers. Which do you want left out? Pat would enquire, and she’d pick, say, the chicken stew, and he’d store the rest in her freezer. His offerings were competently put together if a little unimaginative, lacking the spices and herbs Astrid loved, a small shortcoming she forgave him in return for the convenience. Not too pricey either – she went for the mini option, which was more than enough to satisfy her diminished appetite.

  Pat had been a find, a leaflet thrown in her door around the time she was falling into the habit, in her mid-eighties, of opening a tin of beans or poaching an egg when dinnertime came around. Nutritious meals delivered, she’d read. Reasonable weekly rates, friendly service – so she’d phoned the number on the leaflet and made the acquaintance of Pat, who’d put his full brochure in the post for her. She’d chosen two meals from it to try out – introductory offer, he said, the first order half price – and she’d been satisfied enough to stick with him, and in seven years she has hardly used a saucepan.

  But with her few remaining friends gone to nursing homes, or taken in by their children’s families, she found herself eating alone, always alone. She didn’t mind the solitary breakfasts – somehow the first meal of the day seemed to suit the silence, when her mind was still unfolding after sleep, when her limbs were warming up for another day of movement. The other times were more of a challenge, the lone midday and teatime meals. Sometimes, sitting by the electric fire in winter with a tray on her lap, or at the kitchen table during the softer months, every tap of her fork against the plate, every soft shake of the salt cellar, every bite and chew and swallow would drive home her solitariness.

  She looked around the little restaurant again. You’re open now?

  That’s right. Our hours are twelve to two for lunch, and seven to ten for dinner. We’re open five days a week, and closed Mondays and Tuesdays.

  And you serve … just soup?

  Just soup at lunchtime – we like to keep it simple. A choice of two every day, and two different breads to go with them. Everything made fresh this morning.

  Astrid had no objection to soup. Today’s offerings, wafting through the air, smelt more tempting than the slice of Pat’s quiche she’d taken from the freezer last evening. She must come here one of these days, try it out.

  Or …

  Do I need to book?

  No – we don’t take bookings. We prefer people just to show up.

  In that case, can I stay? For lunch, I mean. Now.

  You’d be most welcome, the owner told her, extending her hand. I’m Emily, and very glad to meet you.

  Astrid, she replied, and that was that. She had a bowl of chicken soup, and made the acquaintance of three young Australians on a tour around Ireland who’d heard about the restaurant from someone in their hostel. The soup was a flavoursome broth with a peppery kick and hints of garlic, basil and parsley, and a generous amount of shredded chicken. The poppy-seed bread was thickly cut, and tastier by far than the supermarket loaves she’d turned to when baking had become too challenging. She spread it with a little butter and ate every crumb, dipping the crust into the soup to soften it.

  On her second visit, three days later, Emily greeted her by name. Come and sit here, she said, placing her next to a large woman in her twenties wearing jeans and a blue shirt, her black hair pulled into a tight ponytail. I think you should meet Heather, Emily said. My very first customer.

  Potato and leek soup she chose that day, sundried tomato bread to accompany it. I’m a Jack-of-all-trades, Heather told her, in an accent that to Astrid’s ears could have been American or Canadian. I wash cars and clean windows, and lots of other stuff besides. I’m a single mom with one daughter, who’s wonderful. She’s at school right now.

  I’m a widow, Astrid told her in return, which was the truth. I have no children, she said, which was also true. My family left Austria before the war and came to Ireland, she said, which wasn’t the truth – because what really happened wasn’t the kind of story people wanted to hear over a lunchtime bowl of soup.

  I ran away from home when I was sixteen, Heather said. Never went back. Haven’t set eyes on my parents since. What do you think of that?

  Astrid didn’t quite know what to think of it. Are you in touch with them?

  Oh yeah – we talk on the phone. They got over it. She chuckled, showing good teeth. She was pretty, Astrid thought, but unaware of it – or aware, and unaffected. No make-up, no need of it. Clear skinned, bright eyed. Confident, not bothered by what others thought of her. Someone you could depend on, Astrid decided.

  My windows, she said, could do with a clean – and Heather immediately produced a phone and took her address. Since then she’s been turning up once a month to wash the seven windows of Astrid’s little bungalow. It’s a business arrangement, but they’ve found time, over cups of green tea once the work is done, to become friends.

  In The Food of Love, conversations across the big table tend to remain casual, even if the same diners find themselves once again sharing lunchtime and a chat, like Astrid and Bill and Heather frequently do. No significant confidences are exchanged over the soup bowls, no real intimacies shared. Astrid respects that: isn’t everyone entitled to keep to himself what he wishes not to be known? Hasn’t she as many secrets as anyone?

  Today she’s surrounded by strangers, which never bothers her in this safe, familiar space. She exchanges a few remarks with the slender, beautiful woman on her right, who tells Astrid that she lives in Limerick, but that her daughter Pauline runs a crèche a few doors down the street. ‘I like to pop in here when I’m up for a visit.’

  ‘I’ve been coming for over a year,’ Astrid says. ‘I’m a regular.’

  ‘You’re not Irish though,’ the woman says, lifting an eyebrow, smiling to take any sting out of the observation. Such minefields conversations have become, everyone terrified now in case they say the wrong thing, and offend.

  ‘I’m from Austria,’ Astrid tells her, like she’s said so many times. Baffling how she still sounds foreign to Irish ears, after living here for almost seventy years.

  ‘Austria? I was there at Easter.’

  It’s the man across the table, the one with the earring in his eyebrow. Shoving himself into their conversation, whether he’s wanted or not. Astrid makes no response other than a small nod of acknowledgement, hoping he’ll take the hint and leave them alone.

  He doesn’t. ‘Holiday with my kids,’ he says. ‘My daughter’s fluent in German, languages come easy to her. We had a week in Tyrol, doing a bit of hiking, then on to Vienna for a couple of days. What part are you from?’

  ‘Vienna,’ Astrid replies. Impossible to ignore a direct question.

  ‘Nice place, bit pricey but great cakes.’ A grimace then, a shake of his head. ‘That Holocaust memorial, though – if you don’t mind my saying so, bit of an eyesore. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I go along with the whole never-forget thing, but this is like a giant cement block, isn’t it? No style about it.’

  Something tightens down low
in Astrid. Something twists and clenches, making the rest of her soup impossible. She sets her spoon onto her side plate. Quietly, no drama. She raises her napkin and dabs her mouth. ‘I wouldn’t know,’ she replies, as lightly as she’s able. ‘I’ve never set eyes on it.’

  Another lie. A sort of lie. She hasn’t seen the stark edifice in the square in which it sits, hasn’t made a pilgrimage to it, like so many others. She hasn’t reached out and placed her hand against its cold blank greyness, or stood before the huge double doors that don’t open. She hasn’t lowered her gaze to see the Star of David that’s carved into the ground before the door, and flanked by three versions – German, Hebrew, English – of the same dignified, terrible statement.

  She hasn’t walked around the structure to read the list of places inscribed on the sides and the back of the plinth, the hellholes where the lives of sixty-five thousand Austrian Jews were wiped out. To this day she can’t hear the names of those places without feeling her insides rise up and threaten to spew out.

  She hasn’t been to see it, but of course she’s aware of the monument. How could she not be, with photos of it splashed all over the papers, accompanied by column inches of description, when it was unveiled twenty years ago? Didn’t heads of state from everywhere come to view it? Didn’t Pope Benedict himself pay it a visit – and offer up a Christian prayer, no doubt, for all the Jewish souls who had found their way too soon to the World to Come?

  You want to go there? her husband had asked, not knowing much because she had never told him much, and Astrid had said no, and it was never mentioned between them again.