The Date
Working as relief receptionist in the Western Suburbs of Sydney during my summer Uni holidays changed my life forever. It was a can manufacturing company. Cans for soup. Cans for asparagus. Cans for baked beans. Just mundane, everyday, garden-variety tin cans. Not the most romantic setting for meeting your soul mate.
But that’s exactly what it turned out to be. Two weeks down the track, after lots of, ‘good morning’, ‘how are you coping with the phones?’, and a myriad of excuses to come into the office to see me, there was definitely sexual tension between the factory manager and this eastern suburbs girl of 21.
Finally he asked me out for dinner. I said yes, probably a little too quickly as you do when you desperately want to go out with that person you can’t take your eyes off. Then he stumped me by asking if I would like an ‘exotic’ or an ‘erotic’ dinner. How would I know? This was my first grown-up date. And dinner, what a treat! An erotic encounter or exotice food! Which?
‘Both,’ I spluttered. And his blue eyes twinkled.
It turned out you could indeed have both. Dinner was at Atelios, a fantastic restaurant in Elizabeth Street, which sadly doesn’t exist any more, but the memories will always live on: oysters Kilpatrick, Veal Scallopini, with vegetables and I can’t remember dessert. I’m not sure if we got that far. What a night. My brown eyes twinkled.
When I look back, the food wasn’t all that exotic but one out of two isn’t bad.
We visited Atelios many more times and worked our way through the menu. Then I finally took the plunge and invited ‘blue eyes’ to my place for dinner. He, of course, said ‘yes’ and promised that he would return the favour and cook his specialty for me: salmon in pastry.
I cooked Roast Lamb, roast potatoes, roast pumpkin, roast sweet potatoes, cauliflower cheese, carrots and peas with gravy . Dessert was apple pie. The entrée was something I can’t give you the recipe for but, trust me, it was good.
It took 25 years for me to finally taste his salmon in pastry. Just as well the way to a woman’s heart isn’t through her stomach. My heart would have withered in the waiting!
We were in Whangaparoa, New Zealand, when ‘blue eyes’ found ‘Cooking for Blokes’ in a second-hand bookshop. His face lit up when he found salmon in pastry was one of the recipes. Mine too. At last I would get my long-awaited dinner.
The first hurdle was rolling out the pastry without a pastry roller. The ‘Bloke’s’ book helpfully suggested using a wine bottle. It took him half an hour to get the wine label off the pastry. Undeterred, my ‘blue eyes’ finally managed to wrestle the salmon into the pastry. Phew! An impressive salad was also ready to go. The potatoes were in foil were the only things to complete. I wasn’t allowed into the kitchen while the finishing touches were applied so I enjoyed my drink on the balcony overlooking the river, relishing the fact that I wasn’t cooking for once.
The table was beautifully laid, the salad was enticing, and the golden-brown salmon was placed onto the warmed plates with a flourish. ‘Just waiting for the spuds,’ he smiled with pride. Then poof! The microwave blew up!. ‘Arcing’ I think it’s called. ‘Who needs potatoes when you have salad?’ I said.
