Three Meals
For us it looks like love.
The time I spend in Florida is often far from joyful, but dinners with dear friends balance me out. They bring my spirits back up at the end of what is usually a wrecked-to-shit day that makes my insides crawl out of my body like prehistoric whales from the ocean. I’ve started to plan my nights in town this way, making sure my evenings are accounted for so I’m not sitting alone in my hotel room with a hamburger (although once I did that too and it was healing in its own way).
I had to tend to bulk pickup this time, and my first task was to lug to the corner all of this crap I had been meaning to expel from the garage for months. But ah, bulk pickup is during the week, and on a Wednesday morning no less, so any attempts to leave tokens at the Altar of Refuse had to wait until I could make such a trip. Yet here I was, and lucky that my friends could make time for me on a school night.
Tuesday
Marci schlepped from Miami to eat Haemul Soondubu, Soon Dae, and Tukpoki with me at Gabose, a Korean-Japanese restaurant I hadn’t been to since we had eaten there some eight years prior. There were different jobs, different men, different stories to tell and now there are new ones that make us a lot happier. I remembered the Soon Dae in particular, though I could only cite it as “blood sausage” when we first sat down, its thick, dark, so-black- it’s-almost-purple slices springing with rice etched in my brain.
For years, my family lived around the corner from Gabose, and ended up there looking for Japanese food. The place was smaller at the time, and they became friendly with the owners, who slowly but surely invited them to try Korean dishes–they got my parents into bulgogi, “thinly sliced beef rib-eye marinated in Gabose BBQ sauce” and hemul pajun, a seafood pancake. I remember trying all of the banchan from tiny dishes, how one of the owners came over to talk about how they were trying to have a baby. My parents continued going while they lived in the neighborhood, but once they moved I don’t think they went back, and I hadn’t either. I’m not sure if I ever told Marci this. I see one of the owners in the back talking to customers; I don’t mention it to him. I will have to explain why I asked, who my parents were, tell him that they died. I wonder if he and his wife ever had a baby.
Marci is kind enough to walk me through the menu and we decide to have hefty bites (Soon Dae, Tukpoki) followed by a lighter one (Haemul Soondubu, a mixed seafood and vegetable stew with egg and tofu). We sit and pick and laugh and eat for almost three hours. Marci wears Star Trek earrings and tells me she is excited for The Sheep Detectives movie, which sounds delightful. I want the sheep to solve all the mysteries. We talk about writing and business and creative time and what it looks like to put all those things together.
I’m beside myself that someone would make such a journey for me, and on such short notice. But Marci says that I am doing physical and emotional labor at every turn, something I don’t quite realize until she says it. Maybe it’s okay that I let someone take care of me.
On the way to the restaurant I saw a Sonic–we do not have these in New York, at least not nearby, and their Diet Cherry Limeade is one of my favorite things in the world. I slurped one in the car on the way home, delighted to find once I arrived at my destination that they put maraschino cherries at the bottom.
Wednesday
Jenna meets me for sushi after work. She has a new job with a big office and I hope she gets to wear all the kimonos she wants there. I grew up eating sushi with Jenna. We lived close to each other, virtually around the corner, and she’d come over for sleepovers. My favorite restaurant was a place called Su-Shin, where we’d also become friendly with the people behind the sushi bar. One night they let me try octopus and I fell in love. The next time I went with Jenna I made her try it and she loved it, too (at least that’s how I remember it). She told me once that she loved trying new things with my family.
Neither of us have been to this place before and we share everything, edamame, a salmon roll with miso glaze, a tuna cucumber roll. We sit outside–it’s 6pm and the sun isn’t even close to setting. Behind Jenna, the sky is an almost-white butter yellow and the flies are frisky. The waitress brings over one of those fans that makes them go away but is benign enough that I don’t slice my hand open on it (because truthfully, if it was going to be either of us it would be me).
After dinner, we walk along the plaza, making a fruitless stop to a local Kilwin’s. I ogle the fluffy stacked marshmallows drowned in chocolate, the oreos drizzled with rainbow sprinkles, but I get nothing. Barnes and Noble is next door–independent bookstores in these parts are rare–and we wander the aisles talking about Legos and the stacks of books we haven’t read. One of the biggest thrills for me is when someone wants my recommendations for something–I’m realizing only now it’s a love language. Still, after 33 years Jenna must know this because she asks me to pick something out for her. I recommend Eve Babitz (I am always recommending Eve Babitz) and Banana Yoshimoto and try not to drone on about how much I love Yoshimoto’s take on magical realism (it’s like 70-80% reality, I say). She goes for the Yoshimoto–Babitz’s L.A. Woman is already on her wish list and it’s a good fit since she’s making her way through a book of Jim Morrison’s poetry.
We part ways and send each other off into the night. I’m still craving something sweet. I go to Sonic again and get a large this time.
Thursday
When we were tweens, a plaza opened up called The Oasis, and it quickly became a place teens would hang out and annoy anyone outside their demographic. Curfews were imposed, it became uncool, the movie theatre closed, etc. I hadn’t been in probably 20 years until Jocelyn recommended a new restaurant in what became the new old Oasis. Google Maps took me to some far away parking lot, but Jocelyn told me where to go–into the plaza, a few minutes walk, next to the Cheesecake Factory. I didn’t even have to think, and my body carried me there like I was 16 again.
As I walked to this new restaurant, I remembered everything that used to be there–an arcade, a bath and body store, a store like Claire’s geared at older teens called The Icing, Ron Jon Surf Shop. The Nordstrom Rack where I got a lot of my “Work Clothes” when I was about to move to New York was still there. I remembered how we used to go to the Cheesecake Factory, feeling glamorous and independent.
The restaurant across from it was now a high-end Peruvian restaurant. There were giant photos of a man painted turquoise holding various dead fish. Jocelyn told me later these were pictures the owner had taken of himself. A taxidermied peacock was suspended from the bar. Giant gold and glass fish were hung from the ceiling along with a wall of golden scales. It had been such a day I hardly paid attention to what I ordered aside from the restaurant’s version of a Cosmopolitan, because I’ve been into pretending it’s 1998 again. Gossip, life changes, when to use retinol and not use it with my friend of 26 years.
We left and walked the plaza like we used to as teens, pointing at the bridal dresses covered in sequins neither of us would ever want to wear. We sat on an outdoor patio that never used to be there. I accidentally put my arm in bird shit because of course I did; it’s hilarious but not surprising. The night was warm–I brought a cardigan but I didn’t wear it. More laughter, more gossip. For us it looks like love.