Last Supper

Oh, where to begin?

I’ve spent the last five nights down at the coast with Roger and his parents. Apparently, living in the back yard doesn't allow us to spend enough time with them; we need to trek six hours to a cozy B&B on the beach to get some real quality time. So where do I start? Do I begin with the M-I-L’s refusal to dine anywhere without white tablecloths? Or with my poor father-in-law’s gloomy conviction that his chronic back pain is bone cancer? Or perhaps I should start with his fits of rage behind the steering wheel. Better still, maybe I should begin with the M-I-L’s Tourette's Syndrome (Tourette's is the only plausible explanation for her belligerence towards total strangers). Or maybe I should start with this cloud’s silver lining – the sweet ways in which my husband attempts to make these long five days fun for me…

But, no. It’s late and I’m only just getting back to my computer, so perhaps I should begin with the ending – a recap of last night’s evening meal.

We meet an old friend of Sally’s at a nearby restaurant. I’m introduced to a petite sun-worshipping woman named Frieda who kisses both of my cheeks before promptly insulting me.

“Robyn is from America,” the M-I-L declares. She often does this – places a stronger than necessary emphasis on the ‘mer’ in America and draws out the syllable. I think this is an attempt to say the word with an American accent, though I’m sure I don’t say it that way.

“So what part of America are you from?” Frieda asks.

I smile sweetly, despite the fact that I would rather be anywhere but here. “Atlanta, Georgia,” I say.

“Oh, well,” the woman says, looking back at the M-I-L, “Very American.” They laugh and I laugh along with them until it occurs to me I’m not sure what she means. So I decide to ask, not to be a smartass – I’m much too polite to be a smartass – but out of genuine curiosity.

“What could I have said that would make me less American?” I ask with eyebrows raised.

“Well you could have said Canadian,” the woman quips. “At least that would be a bit better.” Both women continue to laugh but the smile vanishes from my face. I am so sick of this kind of crap. But we’ve just sat down to eat, and now is not the time to battle it out with an old biddy. So I mutter, “Well, thanks for that,” and open my menu.

So now we order. Wine first, of course. The waitress brings out a Chardonnay and pours five glasses, leaving a few mouthfuls in the bottle. Bryan says to go ahead and bring another, which she does – placing the new bottle in the ice bucket and emptying the first one into Frieda’s glass. Somehow this slips by my father-in-law and when he goes to refill his own glass he finds only the new bottle. “Well, who got the end of the first bottle?” he gripes. Roger wisely tells him that the waiter topped everyone up before opening the new bottle. I say that this was wise because had Bryan known Frieda got the last half-glass, he undoubtedly would have made a rude comment on her overly rapid consumption. I tell you this about the wine to demonstrate that despite my father-in-law’s genuine generosity, he is very aware of exactly what and how much is being consumed at his dinner table. I forgive him this because he was a child of World War II, with strong memories of food rationing. So it’s all perfectly understandable…until he turns his attention to me and my food.

I ask the waitress about the salmon. It’s usually quite expensive in SA but the price on the menu is surprisingly low – or at least no higher than all the other entrees.

“Oh, that salmon will be hugely filling,” Bryan says. I resist the urge to say that generally eating is designed to do just that – fill your stomach. I only comment that it sounds delicious. “Well, I just mean you definitely don’t want a starter if you’re getting that,” he continues. Irritated, I say that I wasn’t planning on ordering a starter. “Oh well, fine; that’s fine. I don’t care.”

Deep breath.

You see, it would be one thing if Bryan was paying for my meal, but the fact is, Roger and I pay our own way at least 90% of the time we dine out with his parents. So even if I wanted to order the friggin' oysters rockefeller and lobster thermador, he has no reason to comment…but he just can’t seem to help himself.

I order the salmon.

After the others eat their appetisers, the waitress brings out the main courses. As predicted, the salmon is huge. It looks delicious though, and with the veggies on the side, it’s exactly what I wanted.

“Good Lord, that’s huge!” the M-I-L comments.

“Well, you’ll never eat all that,” Bryan mutters. “I told you it would be hugely expensive.” My head snaps up because I know for a fact that my meal cost less that three out of the four other meals at the table. “I meant filling!” he says when I start to defend myself. “I meant I told you it would be hugely filling.”

I’m not sure how to respond to all of this because, to be honest, I’m unsure of my sin. My paranoid self thinks they're saying something about my figure by commenting on how much I’m prepared to eat. So, I won’t eat the whole thing, I decide. I will be dainty and eat like a girl who hasn’t run thirty miles this week. But then again, maybe eating the whole portion will be my redemption – if I eat it all, nothing will go to waste and my father-in-law’s WWII issues won’t be aggravated. My mind is spinning as I contemplate the large piece of fish and its even larger implications, until suddenly – miraculously – I mentally smack myself out of this people-pleasing frenzy.

I calmly place my knife and fork down and look up at my father-in-law. “I’m not sure if you will feel better if I do eat the whole thing, or if I don’t,” I say pointedly, but with a slight smile to ease the tension.

“Oh, I don’t care. It matters nothing to me,” he grumbles, diving into his own huge portion of fried fish and chips.

“Don’t be so silly, Robyn,” the M-I-L interjects, “Why should we care?”

My point exactly.
I reach for my wine glass, intending to drown my irritation, but stop myself. After all, I can’t have them thinking I’m consuming more wine than someone else at the table. That would be the ultimate sin.

We manage to avoid prolonging the experience with coffee and dessert, and the waitress brings the bill. Roger and Bryan produce their credit cards and the bill is split in half (the horrible friend made no effort to pay for herself). I pat myself on the back for getting through the evening without throttling anyone. All in all, it has actually been one of the more tolerable evenings, I think. But of course we haven’t made it home just yet. There will still be a screaming match over the best route to take back to the B&B. But I will close my eyes in the back seat and consider how I will tell these stories to you. Can I do it in just one post? Certainly not. So look forward to more fun with the fam next week…