The Restaurant Man

I am the restaurant man. No one knows my name. The only person who did was taken from me on my seventy-third birthday.

When we were married, she said my name at the altar. She said it when she woke up by my side every morning. When she said my name, it always meant “I love you”, and I took every chance I had to say “I love you” in return. Every day, all I wanted to do was make her smile and hear her say my name. It wasn’t a very difficult task- she loved to smile. That smile was the most beautiful thing I’d ever laid eyes on- one of the many things that made her my treasure. She was everything I’d ever wanted in a wife and more, save for one thing. She was a terrible cook. Anytime she put something in the oven, it came out looking like a puddle of all the ingredients mixed together.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not trying to say that women are supposed to be the house chef. It’s just that I’m a terrible cook, too. I can’t even make scrambled eggs. Which is why we always had to eat out.

In a big town like this, where no one but your wife knows your name, there are plenty of places to eat. We found gems of eateries hidden behind billboard stands on the street, underneath fancy apartment complexes too big for their own good, and even inside the upstairs of other restaurants. Thing is, we could never decide on a favorite.

There was one place that was in the running for a while. Arnie’s, they called it. They had the best apple pie I’d tasted since I was a kid at Grandma’s house. My wife loved it, too- the pie, the people, the pictures on the wall. It could have easily become the place we would regularly go to celebrate birthdays, anniversaries, or even just a successfully completed Tuesday afternoon. There was just one problem with it- the cook.

He was a mean old man with a liking toward my girl, and he’d do anything to get her away from me. Luckily for me, I picked a loyal one. She wasn’t going anywhere, and that made him mad. Mad and mean don’t mix very well. They lead to actions you’ll regret. Actions that hurt others, even the ones you care about, actions that take people’s loved ones away from them, actions that get you thrown in jail for life. Actions that cause a would-be favorite restaurant to lose its two best customers and its cook.

I never went back to Arnie’s after she was gone. But I went practically everywhere else, since I still hadn’t learned to cook. The life insurance she’d insisted we take out when we were younger was a nice addition to our meal budget, but it wasn’t worth nearly as much as the company it had cost me.

I’m still searching for that favorite restaurant. I try a new place every day or so, and when I do, there always seems to be another couple there. A young couple going out to eat because neither of them can cook. Sometimes their waitress will return with their check already paid for. They’ll leave happy, but confused. And I’ll sit alone in silence with my mediocre slice of apple pie, at a table for one.

Like I said- I am the restaurant man. No one knows my name.