Dining Alone

If I could marry a place, I would want it to be The Delachaise, a restaurant on St. Charles Avenue in New Orleans. And not in the “objectum sexuals” sense—as in folks, usually women, who fall in erotic love with inanimate objects such as the Eiffel Tower, a church banister, or a picket fence. Although I fancy the building itself—its curved, elongated shape, sparkling outside and inside with tiny white lights so that I feel I’m in a cozy, Christmasy train car—it is more than the structure that I want to merge with. Forgivingly dim lighting; decadent, eclectic small plates (the fries, done in goose fat with a creamy aioli, always make reality sting less); wine served in decanters so scents and flavors can unfold over time; cute bartenders, one with a 50s pompadour; a European feeling of sophisticated yet soccer-game-casual privacy that makes me comfortable sitting there alone with a book... Do I really need a reason? I go at least once a week, swallowing my financial guilt, alone and with my latest novel or poetry collection; and have written unsalvageable poetic nothings in a Moleskine while sipping Malbec, eating Shrimp Clemenceau, and eyeing one of the friendly yet beautifully distant staff members. Outside, a lit streetcar bearing tourists glides past every few minutes; the sky grows darker and darker, letting me know that it will soon be time to regretfully take a last sip of wine, close out my tab while flirting slightly and I hope imperceptibly, and hurry to Sara’s daycare to pick her up (Mommy is not drunk...).

At almost 3 years in length, my relationship with The Delachaise is among the longer of my passionate entanglements. It was the first place in New Orleans that my child’s father, now ex, and I ate at—I instantly loved it, his response was lukewarm. We'd traveled down from upstate NY to check out Tulane, where he was considering completing his undergrad degree. I still have a picture on my cell phone from that early March night: reluctant to be photographed, J. is sitting across from me, with his muscly arms crossed on our table, wearing a green “Ithaca is Gorges” shirt. Every time I looked at this image after our return home, it reminded me with a rush of why I was in love with him: this surly, not-to-be-captured sexiness that filled out his T-shirt and watched me guardedly, yet with a melting hint of openness, from across the dark little table.