The Best Restaurant in Town.
This is not about food — this is about lust versus love.
“Where should I go for dinner?”
You’ve got a catalogue of places in town you consider,
and I’m a line on your list, a “must-visit”; lusted.
A pin marked on a map, a menu forever glanced at.
You keep me under the kitchen salamander’s light, my name a whisper on the tip of your tongue —
“Will we go there tonight?”.
I look plump, I look juicy; you want to gobble me up at the sight. I look foreign to you, a bit exotic — but not daunting, no, not quite. The opposite, really: like something familiar, a fish you nearly caught; a catch you covet to slurp up with a straw —
only to spit me back out once you’ve chewed me up, raw.
I look like that co-worker from years ago, whom you wanted a fling with but you didn’t succeed; like your childhood crush grown up, your favourite nighttime fantasy. I look like something to get lost in; that’s my prettiest trait, isn’t it: this offer
of distraction.
You feed off the wonder; what do I taste like? But you like the wonder more than you like the price. You like the thought of opening my door, this temporary fancy; replaying in your head, entertaining your mundanity.
I leave my door open, storm a’blustering, waiting to see the empty belly you keep promising. Whatever you’re craving, I make sure it’s in stock; never take a reservation; kitchen shelves piled high with a pathetic rot.
Your lurid curiosity dangled down the tip of my nose, I’m lost in a cross-eyed linger; prepped and ready in case it’s me you finally feast on for dinner …
I have lived this life of men showing up to my restaurant’s counter.
Leaning over my edges with eager elbows propped, chin resting in palms, eyes batting up, they say “Miss, I’m hungry”.
“I’m hungry, I’m starving — I need you to feed me.”
No food in their lives that they currently like, they see the warm oven of my life — that I have slaved over with pride — and they ask me to open it wide …
And I do.
And I do and I do and I do, every time.
My thoughts one burning pan into another: are they cruel, or is it my fault
for being a fool, and asking a loveless desert to like my restaurant?
Like.
Once, all I wanted was to be liked — to be picked, to be chosen — and “love”, the men who seemingly gave it, arrived in dozens. My ripe 20s were packed with feeding customers, desperate cries for business just what they lusted for.
Hating my brick and mortar, when any customer came to sit in my seats, it was like an umbrella amidst a perpetual rainstorm
now above me. I was so thankful they’d arrived to the restaurant at all — so grateful, I did not care what kind of customer they were; my servitude on a plate for them, no order too tall.
I extended my hours and I lowered my prices; the uniforms shorter, the uniforms their tightest; I baked anything they asked for, a feeble attempt to keep a loving customer staying past my doors.
But as time went on and these men fed from me … They always became angry at their own gluttony. They trained me — at 15, 19, 23 — to be loyal, be fast, but now they’re bitter,
with stomachs swollen and chins fat.
Used, and then used, and then used again, I was once this shiny, new oven they dreamed to simmer in; a heat they’d hunt for, to subside their rumbling need, I’m now rusted with resentment,
for keeping the room hot and hands far too sticky.
My oven breaking down, the light fading inside, they get bored as they bleed my electricity dry.
You picky boys, you don’t know what you like; you see a new ingredient, and you want to taste it for a night.
But you always fail to see the history, passed down for years in this secret recipe. It’s the soup and salad; she’s not a character, she’s real; if you want to dine, it comes with the meal.
A history with men; a history with heartbreak; a history with no love.
A history of a father’s slap — “I hate women!” — across the face, across the scalp, across the back. I told myself I deserved it, you learn to believe you do — even when I was yet old enough to know to tie a shoe.
A stalking; a stranger I met once, who I let inside once, because I was scared once. Who then wrote me letters, saying we were meant to be and that, because of this he would find me; slipped into mailboxes and under doorways for what felt like a hundred, a thousand days. Police on speed dial, streets to avoid; independence lost, I had to change my job.
A face, a mouth, it’s mine and it’s buried — it’s deep in the crotch of a man who told me we’d marry. The same man who told me, sand’s sleep on my eye’s brim, he would not drive me home, two hours in the dark, until I buried myself deep enough to choke just for him. Every Sunday for a year, our own religion.
A grown man’s body, almost ten years my senior, pinning down my bones as I pled to leave; he knew I wanted out: of that room, of that relationship, of that responsibility. So he draped his whole self atop me — a weighted blanket I wished to return, but was three years past the warranty.
A “love” I nearly suffocated under, I’m still rinsing my plates of its poison; still see the red swell of my arm, still feel his weight on my young skin; watching a burn brew from his fingertips, hiding in the bathroom, finally pulled free,
free from his grip.
Back then, I only wanted my restaurant to be full — and that was all. But now — now, I want my restaurant to be treated well; now I’m 30 and now I’ve been put through hell, so please, will a loyal customer just treat me well?
I don’t want the cutlery and crockery to be pick-pocketed anymore; I want to rinse the graffiti off my bathroom door; I don’t want you to yell at the staff and I don’t want you to send that steak back. When your wine spills on the banquets of my embrace, please tell me right away, so I can clean it
before it stains.
I’ve taken the time to build a worthy institution; I’ve crafted a menu with knack and with flare. The delicacy of the night a well-formed me, I now hope to be treated with care — and, suddenly,
love is scarce.
I no longer want the hooligans in, and when they hear the murmurs that I’ll ask them to change, they up and flee — and my restaurant is left empty.
But I fear I’ll always let the hooligans in, they’ll always fool me; three childish boys in a trench coat, it’s a nice and good man I mistakenly see.
Trained under the guise that hard work
is love,
how will I recognize the real thing served in a silver sundae’s cup? I’ve been working too hard, timesheets scribbled all my life, learning to lick love
off a piercing knife.
There is no such thing as romantic love — a life manning this counter has taught me such.
There is need and there is lust
and sometimes, like piss and like blood, they merge into the same puddle — and we tell ourselves it’s a pretty shade of red.
Red like jolly Ol’ Saint Nick, another thing I couldn’t believe in — didn’t get the chance to, this lost little kid.
My parents’ attempt to curate Santa’s illusion was thwarted by an older sister’s nosiness; closet doors opened each night, wrapping paper tape expertly sliced. Come the time my cognition could begin to perceive, all my parents mustered was a shrug, while other’s left out the milk,
the fresh and warm cookies.
Slipping through the cracks of belief, I watched as children ooh’ed and aww’ed over a magic they could not see —
and I was told to keep my mouth shut, to not spoil their fun. Come morning, they raved of these gifts they gained
from this secret warmth; my smile feigned,
“He surely must be real!” — but I have never been served up the chance to understand what they feel.
Grown, I’m still caught, hopeful cries at a snow globe’s door, in a December frost. Still crossing my fingers and closing my eyes, I say a little prayer like a good girl each night: praying this pretty shade red comes down my chimney and I’m wrapped in the sweet arms of love,
finally.
But stewing and simmering on the stove of my heart is this rife history. Cooked up by men, they write on the chalk’s board
“Today’s Special: Daddy Issues, a wildcard”.
Men who hated me because they hated their mothers, and I have hips and I have a womb and it could’ve been the one that pushed them out into this nasty world,
so cruelly too. Men who hated me because they loved their mothers, and I have soft arms and breasts that they could not lie in and feed from like only hers once did.
A history dog-eared with men who, over the time of three courses — appetizer, dinner,
dessert — talk of themselves and never ask to hear
one single word. They’re the same men who message you to say
“I felt no connection” — connection? That’s a chocolate souffle,
that’s rich,: of course, sweetie, how could you connect to something when you never pried for the ‘on’ switch?
No, you’re right — because you can’t connect to an object, and that’s all I ever was. Nothing but a prop, amusing; a toy meal to shove your proverbial forks in — only to dump me in the trash days later, turned off by the sight of your own stab marks.
Men who like knowing you’re an open door for them, but heave a frustrated sigh to close any others, should they walk in. Men who don’t want to date you, no — no, that’s too intimidating; who don’t want a relationship with you, no — no, they’re not ready to give up the fun, but …
But they want to watch you. They want a revolving door of access to you, 24/7
— and you’re a bitch if you don’t let them back in.
They absorb you as content:
they want to watch your Instagram stories forever, like your selfies forever, read your Substack forever, orbit around your lonely planet from a safe distance forever. These little astronauts want to take pictures of you to show their friends and scrape from your surface terrestrial remnants — all while knowing they will never build a home there. They won’t tell you this while they’re visiting — otherwise, you’ll shoo them away and they won’t have any fun while they play!
While they play pretend-boyfriend in the morning, kiss your forehead come the night, thread fingers between yours, tell you they’ll teach you to learn to ride a bike …
And I’m supposed to say ‘thank you’, right? You want me to be happy that you acknowledged my existence — when, actually, no — you didn’t;
all you acknowledged was that you could play with me, your newest toy Barbie.
Tell me this, what do I do for a living? Do I have any siblings? Do you recall my last name — do I exist in the world, or only in the hormone-heavy confines of your brain?
Oh, but thank you, mister; thank you kindly for paying me a visit. And then,
he’ll forget about you, his shelved terroir — he’s busy peeking in the windows of that restaurant next door. He’s curious to see what that kitchen cooks, wondering if it’ll be thinner, perkier, wondering how it looks … All while you drown in the overflow of your boiling pots, the aftermath of a feast he begged for,
but wasn’t satisfied with what he got.
“I’d never treat you that way,” the hooligans say,
as they hear my stories of the men who dined and dashed on me. I feel milked to tell you these, the caked crust of damage forming on my skin
as you chuckle at the retelling of my atrocities; why do you enjoy hearing them?
“No, I’d never let that happen to you,” — yes, you would. But you like the fantasy that you wouldn’t; it amuses your idle mind, your sick little kink. You love the character you get to pretend to be in the story you’re writing, using my flesh as your paper and my tears as your ink.
“Yes, I want what you’re serving,” — no, you don’t. What you want is to watch my cheeks flush with blood, the seed you planted in hot bloom, telling yourself
big boy, you caused that flood;
you want to watch yourself be wanted. But when I turn into a buffet just for you, just like you taught me to,
you will leave me to run cold.
You stare, through my skin of window glass, lost in the lusty puddled reflection of a woman you only want to gaze at.
Your eyes trace me on the menu of the world, mouth salivating, dreams forming the words; order up, steam abundant, legs spread, napkin tucked. You begin to devour me, and as your knife and fork pry — breast or thigh? —
you pick me apart. Too dry.
Too lumpy. Too much sauce.
Not enough spice. Not quite what I was expecting. “I don’t know what I want,
but it’s not what I thought.”
You didn’t even take the time to find my flavours, appreciate my cooking technique; it was painstaking, it was laborious, sweat on my forehead — but I wanted you to like me.
You read me with eyes bigger than your heart, and built up some fantasy taste in your mind … Disappointed now, you run off, don’t you, every time?
Carelessly in and out of restaurant doors, you’re a dog chasing not a ball but the feigned raise of an owner’s arm,
as you search for this dream-girl flavour you conjured, tongue flapping like the feral animal you are.
What did you find on the other side of that door; baby, what did your belly rumble for?
Younger, simpler?
Sexier, thinner? Less emotional, or less mature?
Someone with affection harder to win, a chase greater — or, no, someone with a life plainer? What was smaller; what was bigger — what should I change to service you better?
I was once the new chef in town, with skill and with talent, and a history that made me
trendy, sexy, tasty. But now,
I am a money-suck that they spurn for being too good an employee; for, too, having wants and having needs. Their thick hunger to satiate now appeased, they see no use for dining in me. It must be so frustrating to realize when you want a good woman, you have to become a good man too;
how awful of me to demand that of you, how dreadful of me to ask that you see
my lovingly cooked up value.
Yuck!
“Where should I go for dinner?”
With the pregnant swell of time, I mount on never-ending lists of desire; my social media shared, I’m shown off, I’m a prize heifer. You admire,
you point, you leave little space between us on the street as you walk —
“I always think about trying this spot.”
But my tables sit empty, your admiration no currency, and the cost of keeping the lights shining bright, staying alive, leaves me wry. In the end, you’ll choose another convenient store meal, won’t you? You’ll settle and swim in that safe comfort of your $1.00 pot noodle love, a little bored, but
it’s cheaper and it’s easier — and that tastes so much better than bearing the task of having to meet this inconvenient meal of a woman where she is at.
Months later, you’ll wake up one day, and think to yourself,
“Shit — I actually liked that place”. You do the same as the man before you and the man before him: you send your little apology text, your cum-covered olive branch —
“I shouldn’t have done that.”
“Maybe we can meet up and try again?”
But, uh-oh, I’ve been forced to shut, seemingly sudden; gone bankrupt.
The groans of grumpy men, their wallets selfishly plump, will fill this loveless desert tonight, brimming with ungiving love.
You were just another man in a line of many, telling me he’ll take me to the best restaurant in town.
(It’s Host, it’s in Ranelagh.)
You silly men, when will you learn: it was never about me.
You’re hungry; learn to cook — you only want to eat.