Carpaccio

Carpaccio Conversation

“I’ve decided to de-center men”, I said ripping my focaccia bread in half and dunking it in olive oil.

“What do you mean?” Elaine asked holding a piece of carpaccio in front of her face and slurping it into her mouth like a vacuum sucking up a slug. She had ordered a large platter of beef carpaccio for the both of us to share. Too embarrassed to admit I didn’t know what that was, I said “sure!” with way too much enthusiasm. I knew I’d heard the word “carpaccio” on the Food Network and was fairly confident it was a type of cheese. I was wrong.

Our waiter, Alberto, lowered the platter onto the table as though presenting the crown jewel, though way more red and definitely more blood.

I immediately googled “carpaccio” under the table. Raw beef!

“Dig in!”, Elaine declared as she hooked two pieces of carpaccio, pink and wet and plopped them onto my plate. They landed like a dirty mop.

“No, seriously, Lor. We have to get you maaaarried.” She dragged out the syllables and sung the word “married” like the closing number in the most boring musical of all time.

Everyone I meet wants to help me “find a man.” Carol has a brother who has a friend who may possibly be singe, Genie’s boss is going through a pretty nasty divorce, and I should “get in there fast” and according to Denise, her handyman “seems like a pretty good guy and doesn’t have a ring tan.” I’m like a charity case for “matchmakers without borders.”

I have had plenty of opportunities.

When I was 22, my father sat me down to discuss an “arrangement”.

“How about you think about marrying one of Marco’s sons.” He said while filling up a glass with his homemade wine.

“Which one?” I asked as there were two of them.

“Either, it doesn’t matter.” He said frustrated by such silly details as to which person I would be committing my life to.

Marco was the owner of the Italian delicatessen in town and my father saw great security in his daughter being married to the heir of “Marco’s Italian Foods and Goods”. I’m not gonna lie, I was tempted by unfettered access to prosciutto and calamata olives, but I told my father that I wanted to marry for other things like love and compatibility, rather than proximity to cured meat.

I suspected my father didn’t have my best interest at heart so much as an ulterior motive for a hefty discount on salted fish and first dibs on the vats of grapes he needed to make his wine.

I never did find love and I am still paying full price for prosciutto, so maybe my dad was right after all.

I also got hit on pretty hard by a squeegee boy at a stop light once. He was thin with long, blond hair wearing a faded Led Zeppelin t-shirt. He was quite smooth as he leaned on my open window, told me this wash would be “on the house” and wiped a drop of soapy water off his cheek. This wouldn’t have been too bad of a deal, at least I knew I could always find him on the Northwest corner of Boundary and 12th between 7:00 and 5:00. That romance was not explored as the light turned green and the impatient Honda Accord behind me, hating love I presumed, leaned on their horn.

“Seriously, Lor, I’m not kidding,” Elaine said mid bite shaking the carpaccio on her fork at me, a tiny piece of landing on my hand.

“I am serious.” I said moving the carpaccio around my plate with my fork until I could inconspicuously slip it into my napkin. I had put so many pieces into it, it was beginning to bulge, coming dangerously close to bursting and splaying raw beef all over the terra cotta walls of “Bella Italia Ristorante”.

“I am serious. I’m just so much happier and at peace without men taking up the majority of my grey matter. They are not on my mind, in my dreams or on my radar.”

“Well, you’ll never find a man with that attitude.” Elaine responded.

Her cell phone rang.

“It’s Carl,” she said.

“Yeah, what do you want.” she said, irritated. She looked at me and rolled her eyes whispering, “he’s such an IDIOT.”

Hallmark movies really do not prepare you for how much the words idiot and moron are used in relationships. If the Hallmark Channel came out with “My Idiot Valentine”, I would definitely watch it.

When Alberto returned to fill up our water glasses, Elaine kicked me under the table, opened her eyes wide and motioned vigorously with her head towards him. “He’s cute. Get his number.” She mouthed.

“Carl, I have to go.” Elaine said hanging up the phone unceremoniously. “Alberto, darling, could you, please pack up the rest of the carpaccio for my dear, single friend, Laura here.”

Oh, good. I thought the evening was just going to be gross food and awkward conversation, but it had the added bonus of crippling embarrassment.

Positive my face was as red as the carpaccio; I rushed to the bathroom.

Twenty minutes later, the bill had been paid, and we were donning our coats and walking out of the restaurant into the freezing cold night.

Elaine grabbed my shoulders and moved her face so close to mine that I could smell blood and wine.

“We’re gonna get you a man, sweetie. Then we can go on a couple’s date”, she sang her words, again. Talk soon.” she said as she shoved a piece of paper into my hand and ran down the street toward her pink VW bug.

I opened my hand and took out the torn piece of notebook paper. Alberto’s phone number was scrawled in Elaine’s writing. As I made my way down the sidewalk, I tossed the doggie bag of carpaccio and the phone number into the garbage.