the table
It was like a cold slap in the face, the door giving way into a darkened room, a welcome wall of cool air in the summer heat, embracing, rushing over us.
The aircon was on full bore no doubt.
The eyes taking time to adjust, contrast to the scorching daylight.
The dim reality of mum’s favourite Chinese restaurant, growing out of the gloom.
No lights on, saving money, not a busy day.
Simple economics I thought.
Scattered tables, red table clothes of course, dusty tired lace curtains.
Very tired!
In the bar at the back, the only occupants silhouetted against the bar.
A table of about eight men, beers all round.
The babble of conversation, laughter, welling with the closing of the door, and of course
the tinkling doorbell, announcing our arrival.
Heads turned; conversations slowed, then eased back to full volume, as we were shown to a table by the owner’s daughter, who obviously enjoyed the restaurants food.
To be kind!
We ordered, the waiter disappearing, into a wormhole of brightness, that was the open back door.
The wine and entrees arrived, out of this halo of radiance.
A deliverance.
My mother always ordered, just for her, no sharing, a plate of honey prawns.
It was her favourite, having no teeth of her own, it was one of the only things she could eat!
Guarding them jealously, while hating vegetables!
Only liking sweet wine.
Usually not served in a Chinese restaurant, mum added saccharine to the Riesling.
I flinched.
With the mains arriving, the main man from the table at the back, came over, with a plate of crab, gliding it onto our table.
I caught it himself, so enjoy!
Thanks, followed him back to his table, as the beer flowed on.
Bursting through the wormhole of divineness, came the owner, an elderly Chinese Australian.
Embraced by the main man, planting him a beer in his hand, sitting him down at their table.
They obviously knew each other well.
I remarked to mum.
That is what I like about Oz!
Another plate levitated onto our table, prawns this time, mum was delighted.
She tucked in.
Me, broadcasting a resounding.
Cheers!
Into the dimness, cheers and clinking bottles resounding.
Walking around his table, slapping the guys on the back, toasting a good year.
The main man, swagged over, with a ceremonial wave, landing a big plate of lobster on our table.
It was too much for us.
Unabated, the main man, continued.
You see, I’m a plasterer, and this is our year-end function for the guys.
I caught everything myself, bringing it into the restaurant for John to cook it up especially for them specially.
It’s our yearly ritual.
One arm on my chair, with a beer in the other hand, he obviously wanted to chat!
I am a local Port Stephens boy, living in Nelson Bay with my own boat.
I had spent my honeymoon therein Nelson Bay, so I am familiar with the place.
I’ve had own plastering business for years, work always comes to me.
I never advertise; the business does well!
My father was also born in the region, but left a long time ago, leaving seven sons behind, of which I was the youngest.
I finally tracked my father down a few years ago.
He had married four times and had fourteen children in all.
They have only just spoken for the first time in 35 years and the whole clan is getting on well.
The main man.
I don’t hold any grudges!
Shrugging the shoulders, slugging the beer.
My mother, interrupting his monologue.
She can’t handle someone else taking centre stage.
I lived in Darwin during Tracy!
Seeing a worthy advocate, the main man, chimed back immediately, not missing a beat.
I would love to go to the Territory, a mate of mine has offered a trip to the Cape Country to
fish for Barra, do some shooting.
Mum, volleying back, my head just following the bout.
Keith, my uncle was a great fisherman, who loved the Cape Country.
Rising to the volley.
I would love to go out to the edge of nowhere.
Even if you shot a black, nobody would know or care.
His eyes, darting to me, to gauge my reaction.
The main man, giving me the once over.
Obviously, a dandy, a mummy’s boy.
This is what I don’t like about Oz.
Sensing the dip in the conversation, the main man, bid adieu.
Hope you enjoyed the food!
In a platitude of thanks, I offered to buy them all a drink.
Gees mate, no problems we are well underway.
Me, eying the owner.
Can you buy the main man a beer from us.
It was duly delivered, with a raised, chinking of bottles.
As we disappeared, through the wormhole into the radiant heat, I helped mum totter to the car.
Once again, I had pandered to my mother.
HER favourite place.
Bloody awful food.
Bloody expensive.
In a suburban shit hole!
With interesting, basically generous people.
A window into Australia.