Beef Wellington and a Bottle of Merlot

The sidewalk of Bright Street had become a sea of colourful umbrellas as it endured its Friday afternoon peak hour. It was just before five-thirty, but the sun’s final glow had been obscured by a dark grey cloud which had settled just before noon and hadn’t budged since. It was, thus, up to the streetlights to illuminate the comings and goings, and they did so, if only bleakly. Beneath their light, shoes of various styles and sizes bustled in every direction. A pair of quite high and quite bedazzled heels, seemingly undisturbed by the rain-drenched pavement, marched along with a muffled click-clack. They were passed by a pair of sleek black business shoes whose morning shine had since fogged, and whose stride was twice as long. In the opposite direction, a pair of fluro yellow sneakers jogged rhythmically, although not hurriedly accounting for the crowd about them. Nevertheless, they slowed as they approached two pairs of boot-clad feet.

The boots shuffled along the pavement at their own pace, droplets of water spraying with each movement. The pair closest to the road managed to sidestep a puddle that had formed in the path’s slight depression. The other hadn’t noticed the puddle and was just about to submerge into the collected rainwater when they were pulled aside. They stumbled slightly and paused to regain balance before falling back into slow and steady synchronicity with the neighbouring pair. They continued together along the sidewalk for some time longer. The yellow sneakers had since passed, had resumed jogging, and were now out of view. At the end of the block, most shoes made a turn, but the two pairs of boots continued along the now less-crowded street. Eventually, the first pair pulled up and turned slightly. The other made to keep walking but seemed to realise they had reached their destination and followed suit. The boots dried themselves on the mat provided and, once the glass door had swung open, entered.

‘Mr Fernsby!’ a voice greeted the man who had just entered as he wiped his boots a second time. Henry Fernsby smiled and returned the greeting. The greeter had turned to the woman by Henry’s side and was now holding out his hand, ‘Mrs Fernsby, how are you? Would you like me to take your raincoat?’

Mrs Fernsby seemed not to have heard this, for she did not look up, nor did she provide her jacket to the outstretched hand. The greeter, however, did not act surprised but rather smiled gently. Henry turned to his wife.

‘Margaret dear, how about you give Greg your coat?’

Margaret now looked up, first to her husband and then to Greg, who was still smiling. She did not speak but turned and let Henry help her out of the raincoat. Henry passed it on to Greg with a nod of thanks, who deposited the coat to the cloakroom, collected a bundle of menus and gestured forward.

‘Right this way.’ The pair followed Greg down a short corridor which opened into the restaurant.

‘Oh! Isn’t this place delightful,’ Margaret gasped.

It was, indeed, Henry quietly agreed. Illuminated in a yellow glow by three hanging chandeliers; The Elwood and Rye never failed to steal his breath…just for a moment. Walls of exposed brick lined three sides of the room. Along these, chairs of green velvet sat coupled at tables made from sleek hardwood. The chair arms, which matched the table wood, spiralled at each end, and, although it was difficult to see in such light, each had a unique carving along the sides. In the centre were group tables, ranging from four to ten. The seats surrounding were made, not of green velvet, but of the hardwood which mimicked the spiral pattern. The kitchen could be seen through a large window along the fourth wall.

‘You just don’t see that anymore,’ Henry would say, thanking the chef after every visit.

Nowhere else could one find charm such as this, Henry was sure.

Greg had long since stopped asking Henry if they’d just like the usual. He had learned quickly that would only cause Henry to hang his head slightly as his wife looked confusedly from one to the other. No. Rather, he would wait patiently as Margaret perused the menu carefully, commenting on the options which stood out to her, before saying ‘ooh Beef Wellington’ as Henry and Greg exchanged solemn glances, ‘it’s been so long since I’ve had Beef Wellington’.

Greg would then turn to Henry and ask, ‘and for you?’

‘I’ll have the same,’ was Henry’s reply.

‘And a bottle of Merlot,’ Margaret would chip in.

Greg would smile and take down the order, although he didn’t need to. He’d collect their menus, place a hand on Henry’s should, and then head towards the kitchen saying over his shoulder ‘shouldn’t be too long’.

And so, it transpired this particular evening.

As Greg left them, Margaret turned to her husband, ‘who is that man? He looks vaguely familiar?’

‘That’s Greg Harlan, Maggie dear,’ Henry took her hand.

‘He looks so familiar…’

Henry didn’t speak.

Margaret's brow furrowed as she pushed away wisps of white hair which had fallen over her eyes. The small creases in her skin seemed so foreign to Henry, yet somehow so defined. He noticed the way her earlobes drooped a little lower, and the skin around her neck ruffled a little closer together. But her icicle grey eyes, with just a tiny hint of sapphire – they had not changed at all.

It was those eyes which had first caught his, as the young, perhaps overly confident waitress had approached his table. Then, The Elwood and Rye was the place to be. Henry had been told as such by his flatmate on his first night in the “big city”. The little coastal suburb in Melbourne’s outskirts had a nightlife unlike anything Henry had seen living on his farm out whoop whoop way. And The Elwood and Rye had it all, he was told – great food, plenty of people, live music, and not to mention, the prettiest waitresses.

After that night, Henry had to agree.

‘Cat got your tongue?’ Margaret had asked with a playful smile as she leant on their table. Henry had felt his mate’s ankle collide with his and he hurriedly picked his jaw up from the table. He shook his head and turned to her.

‘Uh no, of course not,’ he shook his head again, ‘just a tad tired. He faked a yawn. His mate rolled his eyes.

‘What can I get you?’

‘How about we start with a telephone number?’ His eyes darted to the tag on her collar, as he said with a grin, ‘Margaret’.

‘Funny.’

‘You said it,’ He laughed and looked to the menu. ‘What would you recommend?’

‘I always like the Beef Wellington – nowhere does it better.’

‘If you say so, honey,’ he smiled. She pursed her lips.

‘Mhmm,’ she leaned in. Henry could feel her breath on his skin. ‘Pair it with the merlot. Not your typical combination, but you’ll thank me later.’ And she whirled around and strode back towards the kitchen before Henry could answer. His jaw had returned to the table.

‘These chairs are gorgeous,’ Margaret was now saying as she ran her hand across the green velvet. ‘Gorgeous’.

Henry tried to shake the thought from his head. As they waited, Margaret cycled through her favourite topics. She told him about the lovely lady who ran the milk bar down by the river, about her favourite bookshops in Melbourne, about the way the sun made an arch across the park at sunset. Henry knew them by heart by he loved to listen anyhow.

‘Your meals, Mr and Mrs Fernsby,’ Greg had returned.

‘Oh no, we’re not married,’ Margaret laughed. Greg nearly dropped the plate he was holding. ‘Actually, this is our first date.’

Greg glanced towards Henry. He couldn’t quite make out his expression, ‘oh, isn’t that lovely. Enjoy your meals!’ He left perhaps a little too hurriedly.

Henry and Margaret ate in almost silence. She seemed to have exhausted her topics of conversation before the meal. He was otherwise distracted.

Henry’s mate had been sure he’d absolutely blown his chances. It sure seemed that way. A different waitress brought their meals, and yet another waited behind the register as he approached to pay. It wasn’t until Henry was out on the street that a small piece of paper fell from his receipt. He grinned to himself and pocketed it.

Henry’s mate was sure it was a prank. Henry half thought so himself. But sure enough, when he arrived at The Elwood and Rye the following weekend, there was Margaret. She had swapped the waitress dress for a blue polka-dot skirt and white blouse. Her hair, which had been pulled into a ponytail, now flowed over her shoulders. Henry nearly tripped.

‘Are you sure you don’t want to go somewhere else?’ Henry sputtered.

‘Hello to you too,’ she laughed.

‘Sorry, hi,’ he smiled sheepishly. ‘How are you? You look lovely.’

‘I’m well, thank you,’ she swished her skirt a little. ‘And yes, I hardly ever get to eat here.’

The date went much too quickly Henry thought. They both ordered the Beef Wellington and the Merlot. Margaret gave him an ‘I told you so’ grin. And they talked like Henry had never talked with anyone before. She told him about the lady who ran the milk bar, and her favourite bookshops in Melbourne.

‘Oh, and if you cross the bridge in the park at sunset, the sun makes the most brilliant arch over the water!’

And Henry told her stories of hiking to the falls just beyond his farm, and of the way the morning fog wrapped about the mountains during winter.

‘Goodness, it’s nearly nine,’ Margaret had said suddenly. Henry was sure it couldn’t be that late already. ‘I really must go.’

‘Of course, let me walk you out.’

‘Thank you. This was lovely.’

‘This was lovely’, she was saying now as the pair walked towards the exit. Henry glanced towards a collage of photos hanging along the front wall. At its centre, Henry and Margaret danced gleefully. The first wedding reception The Elwood and Rye had seen. Henry took his wife’s hand. She hadn’t noticed the picture.

The following Friday, Henry arrived a little earlier to The Elwood and Rye. He hadn’t meant to, but the day had seemed much too slow, and he just had to get out. The sun had shone late into the afternoon and, as such, the restaurants glow seemed a little dim.

‘Good evening,’ a man’s voice greeted him. It was not Greg. Henry nodded in reply. ‘How can I help?’

‘A table for one, thanks.’

The man led him down the hallway into the restaurant and to the first table along the wall.

‘Would you mind terribly if I sat at the corner table?’

‘Unfortunately, that table is reserved for a couple tonight sir.’

Henry didn’t have the strength to tell him, so he sat in the offered chair. The man waited as Henry pretended to examine the menu.

‘The Beef Wellington please,’ he finally said.

‘Excellent choice sir,’ the man said as he scribbled in his notebook. ‘And to drink?’.

‘A glass of the Merlot please.’

‘Unfortunately, the Merlot is no longer available. Can I interest you in…’? But the rest of his sentence was drowned out as Henry’s yell filled the room. He hadn’t intended to sound aggressive. Nor had he meant for his fists to collide with the table.

Across the room, Greg looked up from the family he was serving. He almost ran over.

‘I’ll cover this table, thank Robert,’ Greg sat down opposite Henry. He didn’t speak. Henry’s head had fallen into his hands.

‘The merlot, Greg,’ Henry choked, after perhaps hours.

‘I know,’ Greg replied. His voice strained a little.

‘It’s gone.’