Dianne Williamson
My oldest friend, who I’ve known since pre-kingergarten, appeared skeptical when I invited her to dinner.
“All I’d have to do is eat?” she asked.
“Well, you’d also have to be entertaining,” I noted.
If you knew Moira, you’d realize that wouldn’t be a problem. She’s the sort of girl defined by the motto: “late, but worth the wait.” When it comes to punctuality, or lack thereof, suffice to say she takes full advantage.
Cathy drove in from Marshfield, where she owns a small summer cottage. Cathy has three grown children; she lost her husband to cancer seven years ago, but she’s never lost her quick wit and the sort of indefigable energy that would impress a charm of hummingbirds.
The occasion? Not that we needed one, but I was recently ordered invited to pen a monthly column for Pulse by its new publisher, Kate McEvoy (see hummingbird), who made an offer uniquely designed to seduce my inner sloth: take a few friends to dinner and write about it.
“You’d have an open canvas,” she promised, and said I could take my time, unaware that it’s the meanest thing you can tell a columnist, accustomed as I was to blaming tight deadlines for the sort of off-the-cuff opinions that often inspired readers to conclude, en masse, that I’m an idiot.
I haven’t written much since retiring several years ago, but was drawn to this offer for two reasons:
- It would give me something to do besides snapping at people who feel compelled to ask if I’m “keeping busy,” even when I’ve already discussed my Netflix binge schedule.
- It involves free food, which happens to be my favorite kind.
I mean, let’s face it. Restaurants have become so expensive that diners are often forced to seek pre-approved financing before making reservations.
And with Kate’s offer, I envisioned penning a random mix of “Sex and the City,” “The View” and perhaps “Golden Girls,” with a dash of that “Seinfeld” episode when Kramer installed the old Merv Griffin set in his living room. In other words, let’s see what happens.
So I summoned my two friends and we met at Bocado, a lovely local eatery that specializes in “tapas” and “small plates,” trendy terms for what the cretins once called appetizers. Restaurants have learned that you can use such terms to increase the price of potato skins by 17%, on average, and even more if the dish is served with “red-veined sorrel” and other mystery garnishes you’ve never heard of but typically involves lettuce.
Bocado is operated by the ubiquitous Michael Covino (see hummingbird), who, at last count, owns approximately 250,000 restaurants in the downtown area and has been frequently spotted at all of them simultaneously. No one ever asks Michael Covino if he’s “keeping busy,” because he strides around the city with vigor and purpose, whereas if retirees don’t keep busy there’s apparently a real concern that we’ll wander into oncoming traffic.
We started off with the Kobe burgers, which were delicious, and I promptly showed off my new pink leather slingback shoes because I’m superficial but also vain. I splurged on these shoes and they cost so much (for me) that I secretly believe they make me a better person.
“How much did you pay for those?” Cathy asked. I told her. She raised an eyebrow, a vague gesture I chose to accept as approval, because friends can denounce your politics but it’s paramount they support your footwear.
Meanwhile, our personable waiter was schooled in the latest serving speak designed to make diners feel special.
“Perfect!” waiters tell us now, after each menu selection, even if we ordered a Hot Pocket. Maybe it’s because we baby boomers need constant reassurance that we’re wonderful at everything, to compensate for the fact that we used to look cute in a mirror but now apply makeup with Spackle.
I should note, however, that my two friends—both 60-something women—remain lovely and vibrant and busy to the point of utter obnoxiousness, but I still like them anyway.
“This is my favorite decade,” Moira announced, as we dug into the fried goat cheese. “I have so much freedom now to do what I want and go where I want.”
We talked about whether we’re happy or simply content. We exchanged juicy secrets that are, quite frankly, none of your business. We laughed about the long-ago rager we hosted at the home of my aunt, who entrusted me to feed her cats while she traveled, despite clear evidence I was an actual teenager. She won’t make that mistake again, primarily because she is deceased.
Not once did anyone refer to their cholesterol levels. Instead, three women who accumulated enough shared memories to fill a library reveled in one of the few things that improve with age: the easy company of old friends.
(Note to young people: libraries are buildings that contain books. Books are antiquated written devices that never ask for passwords, personal data or whether you’d care to enable “cookies,” whatever those are).
Speaking of cookies, nobody needed dessert but we ordered it anyway. Then we settled up and said our goodbyes, with warm hugs and assurances to meet again soon, and it struck me as we left Bocado that our waiter turned out to be right: dinner was perfect.