Only total memory loss might make me forget that meal. But I still have photographs as a reminder. Now I am older, and when in need of a bit of a perk up, or when a bit of melancholy hits occasionally, out comes the camphor smelling aged album with photos of that evening.
Page one displayed a yellowing newspaper clipping about a competition associated with the visit of the Miss World beauty pageant winner. The prize winner was to be coiffured, then, chauffeur driven to the winner of the previous year’s national best restaurant competition. There, the newspaper winner would have a four-course dinner in the company of Miss World and the Miss New Zealand competition winner.
It did not start too well as the limousine arrived late and so the coiffure was missed.
Page two was an enlarged photograph of three seated people snuggled closely. The male in the centre was a very young and smug looking me. Each side a crowned beauty feigned kissing me on the cheek.
I had never won anything like a raffle before. Suddenly, I was to have two beautiful women as escorts, and consume cuisine prepared by the finest chefs. What more could a man in his late teens desire?
Page three was similar to page two, except standing behind me was our exclusive waitress. I was the thorn between three roses.
Then there was a succession of publicity photos, without me in the frame. The owner was first up, with his hands almost indecently placed in areas on the beauty queens, which would have resulted in a slapped face in other circumstances. I vividly recalled the owner’s wife watching, her dark eyes looking blacker than they were when I first walked in, and now reflecting the look of death each time she looked at her husband.
The owner’s wife, their three sons and their wives, and all the other creatures of the Ark, passed through the lenses of the photographers. That was followed by a horde of tongue-happy reporters trying to interview the beauty winners to extract some pearls of wisdom.
Meanwhile, our personal waitress had led me away to a comfortable lounge and I was given a fancy glass with a straw, slices of lemon adorned the side, and sugar crystals coated the top. The glass contained chilled lemonade. The only thing missing was an umbrella on a floating orange. The waitress apologized when she gave me the drink and she sat on the lounge beside me.
“Unfortunately because you’re under 21 we can’t give you alcohol.” She was right of course. In those days that was the law, and they had forgotten to put a lower age limit on the competition.
The photo and reporter interview sessions continued. I did not really mind, because the waitress, though older than me, had the same music tastes and interests. I was just hoping she could not hear the rumbling of my empty stomach. My concentration on our conversation blotted out the other happenings nearby.
Hand clapping brought me back to the awareness of the outside world.
“That’s all everyone, thanks for coming,” said a voice.
I looked down at my watch. Two hours had rapidly passed since my temporary seated pose at the dining table.
“Ah, do I get to eat now?”
“Oh no. The evening dinner patrons will start to arrive shortly. I was on lunch shift and due to leave an hour ago but I enjoyed talking to you so I stayed.”
“So there’s no meal then?”
“Not now, it’s too late.”
“What about the prize?”
“I guess meeting the girls was it.” She looked at me as though examining livestock for purchase. “Please don’t think I’m being forward. I’m not doing anything tonight, so, because that tight old bastard wouldn’t honour his dinner prize, and if you’d like, I’ll take you home, cook up a nice fat steak and play some of my favourite albums.”
I accepted, and she took me home.
She prepared the tastiest fillet steak, rocket salad and crispy chips I have ever eaten; followed up with my first ever “Bombed Alaska.”
That was only second to the energy replacing freshly squeezed orange juice, bacon, eggs, French toast, tomatoes and sausages served up as breakfast in her bed the next morning. That breakfast was definitely my most memorable meal.