Winslow.
“You’re late,” she reproves us. We had waited at home to watch the sunset and are already a little drunk. Harry had mixed martinis. “I almost gave up your table. We are very busy tonight.”
Waiting customers crowd into the small bar, where Kosta pours drinks. We wave to him and follow Anna to our table. The decor hasn’t changed since I first started eating here in the 1970s with my parents and probably not since it opened in the 1950s. The walls are brown with age. “You wanted to sit inside, right?”
There is an outside dining porch during the summer, but it is too brightly lit for our tastes. It’s where the millionaires sit. The interior room is cozier, the tables and chairs wooden and solid, not the cheap plastic found outside, the red-and-white checkered tablecloths patched and worn. An enormous old cast-iron stove sits unused in the corner. We order more martinis from one of the Vietnamese girls who work there. There is a family of them. They all live in a trailer behind the restaurant.
“Wait till you try this meat,” Harry tells Claire, leaning across the table. “It’s the best steak in the world.”
She looks at the prices and whispers to me, “Walter, it’s very expensive.”
It is expensive. This is not the kind of place where she would normally come if a man wasn’t paying. I can see her doing the math in her head. I remember what it is like to go out with a large group with expensive tastes when you only have a few dollars in the bank.
Once in college I joined some classmates at a restaurant on the Upper East Side, students down for the weekend on a spree. My first credit card sat chastely in my wallet. When my father had given it to me, he said, “Now, Walt, this is for use only in emergencies.” I had about fifty dollars in cash too, a fortune back then. One of our group, the son of a wine importer who had been raised glamorously in both Connecticut and England, casually informed us that he was having the caviar. Several others, equally privileged, did as well. I gulped when I saw the prices. He then ordered wine, champagnes and Bordeaux.
This was not the way I normally lived. Part of me was greedy for the experience, the other part appalled by the extravagance. And, mind you, we weren’t poor. But a closely controlled lifetime of allowances, boarding schools, country clubs, and college had kept me sheltered from this kind of decadence. Scrupulously, I ordered the cheapest thing on the menu. Chicken of some kind. It didn’t matter, of course. When the bill came we all divided it up equally. I was horrified to see that my share was nearly one hundred dollars. I had never spent anywhere close to that on a meal in my life. If my companions were equally aghast, they hid it. As I found out, that was the code. Gentlemen don’t quibble about the check. As I reluctantly handed over the card, I felt a tremendous fool, especially at the thought of those who had gorged themselves at my expense.
When I told my father what had happened, he assured me he would pay the bill. This time. “I hope you learned a lesson,” he said. “Next time I won’t bail you out.”
I turn to Claire and whisper, “Don’t worry. This is our treat. You’re our guest.”
She doesn’t say anything, thanking me instead with her eyes. They are truly lovely.
We order. Our drinks come. Then hot plates of saganaki, which is basically melted Greek cheese. Incredibly delicious. Taramasalata, bread, and olives. Wine. We are all laughing a lot, and Harry is standing up and telling a funny story in some kind of accent and doing a little dance, which has us all roaring.
Finally the steaks arrive. Large hunks of seared beef, thick, charred crusts of salt, pepper, and sparkling fat dripping down the sides. We fall on them like sled dogs.
“Oh my god, this is the most delicious thing I’ve ever eaten,” gasps Claire.
The rest of us grunt appreciatively, too happy to stop chewing.
In midbite, I sense Claire tense. I look at her, thinking she might be about to choke. But it is not that. She sees something. I look around, following her gaze.
“What’s the idea, Winslow?”
It’s Clive. He’s standing over the table. Staring hard. He looks flushed.
“Clive,” says Claire. “What are you …?”
“Quiet. I’m not talking to you.”
Harry puts down his knife and fork. The rest of us sit expectantly. Ned pushes his chair back. The muscles bunch in his neck. Harry says, “Clive, I’ll ask you not to speak to Claire like that.”
“I’ll speak to her any bloody way I like. So,” he says, now turning to Claire, “have you fucked him yet?” Turning to Harry, he continues, “She’s a pretty good fuck, isn’t she, ’Arry?”
I notice him dropping his h’s, revealing his true origins. Yes, I know, I am a snob. But is that worse than pretending you are something you are not?
“Get out of here, Clive. You’re drunk.”
“So what if I am?” To Maddy he sneers, “You better watch her, or she’ll be shagging ’Arry the moment your back’s turned.”
“All right. That does it.” Harry is on his feet, moving toward Clive.
For a minute I think he is going to hit him. Clive seems to think so too because he involuntarily flinches, awaiting a blow that never comes. And Harry is a powerful man, maybe not as strong as Ned but big enough. You don’t play hockey the way Harry did and not be good with your fists. Instead he grabs Clive fiercely by the lapels.
“Clive, I don’t know what you’re talking about, but obviously you’ve had too much to drink,” he says. “I want you to apologize to my wife, Claire, and Cissy. Then I want you to pay your check and get out of here.”
Clive looks nervous but responds, “What if I don’t?”
“Then I’ll take you outside and beat the hell out of you.”
By this time Anna is at our table, and diners sitting around us are staring. “What’s going on? Mister Harry, what are you doing?”
Harry releases Clive. “Nothing, Anna. One of your guests was just leaving.”
“Fuck off, ’Arry,” says Clive, regaining his composure as he retreats from the room. To Claire: “And fuck you too, you slag.”
Ned is about to go after him, but Harry puts his hand on his shoulder. “Let him go. It’s not worth it.” To Anna, he says, “My apologies, Anna. Hope that didn’t spoil any of your other guests’ appetites.”
“I don’t like that kind of thing here, Mister Harry,” she says. “I don’t want him coming back here. You can always come back. You’re almost like family, you, Mrs. Winslow, and Mister Walter.”
“Thank you, Anna.” Then he turns to Claire and puts his hands on her shoulders and asks, “Are you all right?”
She nods, her eyes red. “I’m sorry,” she chokes. “I’m sorry.”
“Some men just don’t like being dumped, eh?” someone jokes to break the tension. I think it is me.
“Harry,” says Maddy, rising regally to her feet. “I’m
