Table For One

It had been a long drive to the rough-and-tumble town of Buffalo, Wyoming, and I was hungry. I saw several dining possibilities as I rolled down the main street, all of them steakhouses. I smiled. The cowboy spirit was alive and well here, and with that would come many opportunities for a good meal.

Wanting to cover all of my bases, I did some exploring, and soon I happened upon a rustic looking restaurant that just seemed right. Call it a gut feeling. With my mind made up, I parked the car and made my way over. My spirits were further bolstered when I discovered that I had to enter said restaurant via a set of batwing doors, after having navigated through an adjacent saloon. I smiled again. Any place attached to a saloon was bound to serve up large platters of hearty food! Heck, maybe I’d even run into a bar fight on my way out, something right out of the Dukes of Hazzard! What a great place!

Except then I saw that the hostess who greeted me was holding a menu whose contents were easily contained on a single side of a piece of paper. Uh-oh.

Looking around, I saw that I was awash in a sea of fancy drapes, napkins, and tablecloths. Double uh-oh. Nearly every fiber of my being told me to turn right around, but it was too late. Being rude was simply not an option.

Politely ignoring the wild look of fear in my eyes, the hostess led me to the far room – which was empty – and deposited me into a solitary corner. She then informed me that she’d return in a moment to light my candle.

I looked down. Yup. There was a single candle resting elegantly on my table. Triple uh-oh.

Perusing the menu, I saw that I had three main options to choose from, each of which was priced at a tidy, whole dollar amount. Management, it seemed, felt no need to try and play physiological games by charging something like $9.99 or $19.99. Nope, this place was far too sophisticated for something as tacky as decimal points.

After briefly debating crashing through a nearby window and making a break for it, I ended up ordering the chicken-something-fancy, nestled in a bed of something-else-quite-fancy, garnished with something-else-really-fancy.  (I was tempted to go with the filet mignon-something-fancy, but I wasn’t quite prepared to sell a kidney to help and finance it.)

As I passed the time waiting for my meal by watching my candle flicker, people began to stream in. Apparently, I was the beginning of the dinner rush. My seat was facing the afore-mentioned window, and so I couldn’t see any of the new patrons, but on multiple occasions I heard spoken some variation of the following: “Oh, this is so romantic!”

Feeling more out of place by the moment, I quickly began to devise a backstory, just in case somebody asked why I was there alone. It went like this:

Her name was Violet, and her eyes sparkled like the stars in the darkest of night skies. Upon first seeing her on the busy streets of Buffalo several years before, I’d been instantly in love. We’d met by accident, or so she'd always thought. I'd had to make several attempts to accidentally bump into her in the crowd before I finally got it right. The next week was a whirlwind of blossoming romance like I’d never experienced, and I soon found myself hoping I’d finally found the happily-ever-after that I’d become convinced was forever going to elude me. But like a candle in the wind it was suddenly over, and she said good-bye to me one night in this very restaurant, at the same table I was sitting at right now. She said she didn’t want to go, that she loved me, but also that she had no choice, driven by circumstances far too complicated to even begin to explain. We both cried, and then she slipped out into the night, leaving a gaping hole in my chest where my heart used to be. And so, every year on the anniversary of her leaving, I return to this same restaurant and table, hoping that she’ll be here waiting for me, having finally made peace with whatever demons had chased her away.

Or something like that.

I continued to massage my back story – playing with inventing a hand-written letter smelling faintly of her perfume that I could carry around in my jacket – until my food finally arrived. It was exactly what I expected. While tasting excellent (you can never go wrong ordering chicken-something-fancy) I easily could have eaten three times the amount. In fact, by the time I’d taken my last bite I was pretty sure I was hungrier than when I’d arrived.

By now the room was crowded and loud with conversation, and I was itching to make my departure. Seeing my empty plate, the waitress mercifully dropped off my bill, along with some sort of fancy, cinnamon stick thing. I began to sweat. I had no idea how to eat it. Did I suck on it like a candy cane? Break it into smaller pieces with my fingers? Cut it with a fork and knife like a gentleman? In the end I went with option four, which was to shove it into my pocket when nobody was looking, with the intention of doing further analysis at a safer time.

Trying not to look too eager, I arose from my table, crossed the busy room, and paid my bill. I then pushed my way through the batwing doors back into the saloon, where a brawl had unfortunately not yet broken out. This is when I saw the sign stating that a traditional menu was being served there.

Of course if was.

As I made my way back to the car I had to hunch my shoulders against a late-afternoon rain shower, but I didn’t care. I was free! And, unsurprisingly, still quite hungry. Making a mental note to hit up a grocery store, I took one last look back at the restaurant and shook my head.

Time, however, allows for new perspectives to spring forth, and in the weeks since I’ve decided that maybe I should go back and give it another chance. Perhaps I was too hasty in my judgment, too quick with my scrutiny. So maybe in about a year. After all, Violet might be there waiting for me, hoping that I’ll push through those batwing doors, sweep her off her feet, and take her away. As far-fetched as it sounds, I can never allow myself to lose hope, and until then I’ll keep her letter tucked away in the pocket of my jacket, letting the faint smell of her perfume serve as a reminder of the love we once shared, the love that I hope can someday be rekindled into a roaring fire of everlasting passion.

Or something like that.