Personal Yummy #69
Following a full day of copyediting and proofreading e-mail invitations and white papers at the financial services firm where we work, my colleague Carolina—an intelligent, attractive woman in her seventies who has assisted me as a freelance editor for many years now—takes me nearby to La Bonne Soupe for an after-birthday dinner.
La Bonne Soupe is an elegant and lovely French bistro on 55th Street between Fifth and Sixth Avenues, with tiny, wooden tables and chairs lining uninterrupted purplish-blue booths on each side, and colorful posters of Folies-Bergère dancers above—the perfect place for two artistic people to dine.
We arrive at the bistro in no time at all (it is within walking distance), head down the few steps at the entranceway, and settle in at a table in the middle of the restaurant. It is early, around 5:30, so we practically have the place to ourselves, except for a pretty Japanese woman—sitting alone at the table next to us—who is enjoying French onion soup, fluffy bread, and a glass of rosé, as well as My Asakusa: Coming of Age in Pre-War Tokyo, a memoir by Sadako Sawamura, a star of Japanese theater, cinema, and television.
I order a glass of cabernet sauvignon and the quiche Lorraine, which comes with a side of greens dressed in a flavorful and light vinaigrette, and Carolina orders a glass of sauvignon blanc and the croque monsieur, which is also served with a delicate side salad.
We take our time and eat and drink and enjoy our simple but satisfying meals, discussing a few work items first.
But then I suddenly reveal it to her:
After eleven years, and within a few months, I am—finally—planning to leave my job so that I will have more time to audition and to pursue my Broadway goals.
She’s really not too surprised, though, she admits, calmly. She’s just amazed that I hadn’t decided to do it sooner.
So I thank her for receiving the news so well, because I know that my absence will be hard on her.
“Yes, of course,” she says, “but we must adjust…”
And she touches my hand lightly.
Thus, with a feeling of relief that my not-so-secret secret is now out in the open—and that we are now free to leave all of our work issues back in the office—we happily change topics and, as expected, turn to chatting about something more interesting: relationships and family.
Without a doubt, since I’ve met her, Carolina has told me quite a bit about her family, and especially about her parents. It’s obvious how much she loved them and continues to love them, and how deeply she misses them. And tonight, naturally—in this intimate bistro, amid good food and good wine and friendship—she opens up and tells me even more.
“Yes, my mother was from Italy, you know, and my father grew up in the Croatian region,” she begins. “And, I—I don’t think I ever mentioned this to you—but my mother…my mother worked at the Waverly Place movie theater here in the city.”
“The Waverly Theater in Greenwich Village?” I ask. “Wow, I love that.” My mind is immediately flooded with the image of a beautiful young woman, in a beautiful yellow dress, selling tickets for the next show.
“Yes… So, as a child—it was just so wonderful—I was able to go there often and watch all of the foreign films while she was working.”
“Wow, that does sound wonderful,” I reply, taking a sip of my wine and listening to her intently. “And how unusual and romantic…”
“It is, isn’t it? I just had so much fun… To tell you the truth, you know,” she continues, sinking her fork into her croque monsieur, “my mother always said—I love it every time I think of it—that it was better for me to be exposed to lots of sex on film rather than lots of violence, even if I was only a little girl…”
I smile and nod, agreeing with her completely. “I can’t think of a better policy,” I answer.
“Yes, I know. Exactly. It was just so insightful.”
She smiles and nods too, her big, brown eyes full of pride.
“On the other hand, my father—my father… He was a house painter. But, you know, he was the one…yes, he was really the one who—I think about this all the time—the one who instilled such an intense love of opera in me.”
“Is that right?” I ask. With no question, up until I met Carolina, I had never encountered someone who was so passionate about the opera.
In fact, Carolina has a subscription to the Met and is always going to see the performances in the evening after she gets off work, and then the following day she comes in and tells me all about the wonderful time she had, educating me about the opera she had just seen, which she had most likely seen many times prior. Actually, her vast and detailed knowledge of the different productions and the sopranos and tenors who have lit up the stage over the years impresses me greatly.
“Oh, yes. My father and I…we had so much fun together listening to all of the operas that were broadcast on the radio from the Met when I was growing up,” she adds. “And I am so—I just can’t say it enough—I am so grateful to him for it.”
She tries her best to stop it from happening, but her eyes well up with tears.
I give her a moment to sit with her emotions—my sensitive and cultured coworker and friend—and then I thank her for sharing her stories about her parents with me…such heartfelt and sweet stories.
And as we continue to talk, enjoy each other’s company, and eventually savor our dessert of crème brûlée and coffee at this beloved French bistro near our office—as we’ve certainly done before—I realize how much I will miss her.
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