Personal Yummy #100
I order a glass of red from Montenegro, a red I have never tried before, and, surprisingly, he does the same.
He’s more adventurous than I thought.
My friend Sally orders a red sangria, which isn’t that surprising. That’s one of her favorites. She has even made it from scratch before—for a July 4th picnic that she hosted at her house in the Bronx.
She had been tempted to order one of her other usuals, an old-fashioned, with Maker’s Mark.
But given that she got quite tipsy on three of those the other night at the tiny Christmas gathering that I had at my place, she decided to go with something less potent.
We just took a mambo class at the Ailey Extension school nearby on Ninth Avenue and are now in Hell’s Kitchen at the Medi Wine Bar, a restaurant we’ve enjoyed together many, many times in the past.
And this particular Friday night we’ve invited our friend Roderick to join us.
We all leisurely peruse the menu—there are so many unique dishes to consider: grilled Spanish octopus, braised artichokes, Meyer lemon pasta, swordfish kebab—and chat as we do so.
I ask Sally how her just-out-of-college daughter is doing and how she is liking her new job, and she responds that she is doing well and likes her job very much, but that—in her motherly opinion—her daughter is spending way, way too much money on new makeup and new clothes.
Roderick’s eyes light up.
“That’s not such a good thing,” he comments.
Just then, the pretty, young waitress—Giovanna—who unknowingly flaunts her endearingly strong accent, arrives and takes our order, convincing Roderick and Sally to choose the special of the evening because it is “just amazing.”
I am almost persuaded, too, but I had my heart set on the branzino fillet, which I’ve ordered before.
“No?” I ask Roderick, continuing our conversation from earlier.
Giovanna has just finished taking our order and is now politely collecting our menus.
“You think spending a lot of money on new makeup and new clothes isn’t wise?”
I am so curious as to what his thoughts are on the matter, because I’ve had quite a few people—many times over the years, to be honest—comment on how I look and dress, and even on how long I keep certain items of clothing.
Plus, every time I’ve hung out with Roderick, he’s always looked nice.
“No. I mean,” he begins, fortifying himself with a sip of his deeply red wine, “I decided some time ago that I have all the clothes that I will ever need—for the rest of my life, in fact,” he explains.
In this day and age, and all things considered, he’s not even that old.
“I guess you could say,” he continues, “that I’ve adopted a ‘no-more-new-clothes policy.’”
He takes another sip.
Silence.
And then another.
Hmmm……
So what did he say?
I’ve heard many of my friends express interesting and provocative insights and ideas over the years, but never anything like this.
I usually have only one glass of wine with dinner, but tonight I think I may need two.
I mean, sure, I’m no fashionista (although I do love to watch documentaries on famous fashion designers and the celebrity editors of fashion magazines—there’s so much creativity and ingenuity involved)…and, sure, I’ve had some pieces of clothing for an unreasonable (maybe even embarrassing) number of years, but:
NO!…MORE!…NEW!…CLOTHES!!!!!!…
I mean………
Really?????????????
What fun is that?
Maybe he can sense my consternation, because he goes on to reiterate that he has all the clothes he’s ever going to need…and really not enough space to even store comfortably what he does have.
After all, he has a not-very-big apartment in Jersey City.
I get all of this reasoning, too, because I likewise struggle to find enough space in my Manhattan apartment for all of my clothes, and I don’t even buy myself clothes that often; although, at this point in my life, I’m considering being rebellious and crazy and getting rid of my current array of garments and purchasing an all-new, utterly different, super fancy, you-better-notice-me wardrobe, similar to the stunning sartorial assortment that the character Keeley Jones exhibits on Ted Lasso.
Wouldn’t that astonish everyone?
But then, as Giovanna delivers our beautiful food, Sally jerks me out of my oft-visited land of fanciful notions.
“Who has the money to buy new clothes all the time? I certainly don’t,” she says, taking a bite of her just-arrived sea bream, which is protected within a pleasing-to-the-eye parchment-paper wrapper amid glistening shells of clams and mussels and tiny potatoes and carrots. “I can hardly believe the women in my office—they’re coming in wearing new stuff constantly…and always buying new purses and earrings and accessories… I just don’t get it,” she adds.
Meanwhile, the three of us are dining in this expensive Mediterranean restaurant and wine bar, being quite extravagant, ordering expensive drinks and the special of the evening. Some people have no problem spending lots of money on exquisite food, but when it comes to splendid clothes, they can’t negotiate it.
I let all of these revelations go, though, not pointing any of them out to my friends, because, as I like to consistently remind myself: “To each his own.”
I proceed to enjoy my meal—a generous fillet of branzino with cherry tomatoes, kalamata olives, toasted almonds, and a side of broccoli rabe—and the lovely ambience surrounding me, and my glass of red, which is so dry, fruity, and flavorful, that I’m not even that bewildered when he does it.
Roderick reaches below the table and takes something out of his backpack, puts it in his lap, and then reveals it to us—like a sly cat—when we are ready.
It is a beautiful burnt-orange cotton cardigan with an abundant shawl-collar neckline, very comfy and warm and luxurious looking, the tags still on.
“I just couldn’t resist,” he explains, smiling. “From the Banana Republic outlet store in Times Square… Just seventeen dollars…marked down from one-fifty… Can you believe that?”
“It’s gorgeous,” I can’t help but immediately comment, a little thrill running through me.
People are a sand hill of contradictions, obviously.
I’m just relieved we don’t believe everything we say.
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