Fine Dining
Samantha DeMartino
Every weekend, we went out to eat. Whether it was at Charlie’s in Bay Head or La Mondina in Brielle.
“Sam, can you pick out a red and a white?” my father always asked, knowing I was the oldest.
I moved slowly toward our dining room kegerator and grabbed the dual slot carrier–I usually picked based on the simplicity of the label. We are a family of five, so I always felt like the odd man out. The five of us piled into my father’s burnt orange Toyota Tundra pickup as the radio played 80s on 8.
“Oh! Jason and Diana! So wonderful to see you again. And Sam! You’re here this weekend!” the manager at Charlie’s shouted. This felt pretentious.
The sommelier uncorked the red–my stepmom thought it would pair better than the white with dinner. We all sat in silence, scanning the menu. I didn’t know how to feel about indoor dining now. Everyone peeled their masks off, and I too was obligated–knowing my family was the most judgmental audience. The waiter came with a round of ice waters and two diet cokes–knowing Brooke and Travis wanted them.
“Would you like to hear our specials for tonight?” My father always replied with a resounding yes.
“For appetizers, we have Tuna Tartare with House Pickled Ginger, Sesame Wonton Crisps, Wasabi Mayonnaise, Scallions, and Red Miso Vinaigrette. For dinner, Pan Roasted Halibut with Parmesan Risotto and Lemon-Caperberry Pan Sauce.”
We thanked the waiter, and he went on his way. This was the moment when my stepmom tried to generate awkward conversation. I hadn’t been there in two months, and we all knew it.
“So, how’s school, Sam?” I hated saying the same three responses every time. “Oh, you know, I’m just tired and want summer to come.”
The waiter was back to break the conversation, thankfully. It was basically required for us to all order appetizers and dinner–I never understood that.
“Take your headphones out, we are at dinner,” my father shouted, as he pretended to parent my younger brother in front of the waiter.
Travis ordered littleneck clams, like always. The rest of us agreed to share their homemade guacamole and chips.
I liked to argue with my dad. He was that traditional white republican that grew up in the 70s and 80s, just to go on and work as a law enforcement officer. I pretended to joke with him–make him think we were on the same page. I reached for the bottle of tap on the center of the table and poured myself a glass, shaking because my biceps were undeveloped. Now we wait.
“So, how’s school?” my father probed.
Jesus fucking Christ, I thought I already answered this question. Okay, think of something stupid just to satiate him. No, you need something substantial that will lead to maybe one or two follow up questions. But nothing too revealing; we don’t want him to know about the guy you kissed or the beach house you spontaneously rented or the partying you did last weekend or the test you failed.
“Oh! I was sent an email yesterday about a writing internship for the fall. My expos Professor recommended me because I got an A in the class. Looks really cool, so I applied”
“Is it paid?” he followed up.
I never quite understood that. His bottom line was always money and time, but he had an influx of both. I sat there with a pissed look on my face because I just wished he could say congrats and good luck.
“Not sure, haha,” I responded reluctantly.
I thought we were done, but I should’ve known I needed another response prepped. Umm…
“Oh, and the other day I got into an argument with a classmate about religion. We really went at it,” I muttered.
We haven’t really talked about this before. Religion. It was always a touchy subject for me, but I never knew why. Maybe because the hypocrisy reminded me of my father. Or maybe because I wished I cared more about having faith.
“Oh, really? Cool. Are you thinking of taking a summer class this year?” he responded.
Are you fucking kidding? So, he isn’t going to ask me about what I said or how I felt? Typical.
“Uh, I don’t know yet,” I said.
When I say “I don’t know” that means I know exactly what the answer is–I just don’t want to engage right now. But thank god the waiter came with our food. I never really cared for guacamole, so I just sat there and waited for my dinner to arrive.
“Sam. Why aren’t you eating?”
I always despised that question because everyone asked it. Whether it was at family dinner, my grandma’s house or with friends, I hated being asked that.
“I’m just not in the mood for that. Plus, I want to save room for dinner.” Truly the most generic answer I could give. The real one would’ve been, “The amount of anxiety I have from school and life and you are the reasons why I feel too sick to eat right now,” but no one wanted to hear that. So, I ate a couple of chips.
“So Sam, do you have a boyfriend yet?” my step mother asked.
Oh. My. God. There are five people at this table and for some reason I’m the special guest on tonight’s Dateline episode. I knew the truth and they never would.
“Uh, no. It’s really hard to meet people during the pandemic, you know?” I reassured them.
My dad always wanted me to date or have a partner or be happy. The thing is that I was. I didn’t care about that as much as he did. The truth is that I could date if I wanted to.
“Okay, so who ordered the lobster roll?” the waiter asked as he floated to our table.
I raised my hand with contentment. We were one step closer to leaving. My father looked at me with proud eyes. He was always happy when it came to food. Or when I reminded him of himself. We thanked the waiter and he left again; only to return in a short while with the check.
My meal felt heavy. Not because it was full of carbs or because my plate was filled but because I was nauseous–again. But this was a $40 lobster roll. So, I took small bites out of the golden-brown buttered brioche only to be met with the succulent taste of freshly caught lobster. Interestingly, expensive dinners reminded me of my family. It doesn’t matter how much my father spends; I would still rather be eating Wendy’s at 2am with my closest friends.
“Jesus! Did we break a window?” my father always said jokingly.
I quickly put my mask on and got ready to leave.
We got home and this was the part I hated the most. The feeling of entrapment. The lingering effects of alcohol. And the pressure to choke down my dinner for the second night in a row.
Samantha DeMartino writes, “I just wanted to thank you for taking the time to read my memoir. Currently, I live in Robbinsville, New Jersey, and am excited to live on campus for the first time in Fall 2021. I am a sophomore (Class of 2024) studying Marketing and Supply Chain Management with a minor in Biology and have a passion for imaginative expression. I hope to pursue Journalism and Media Studies alongside my current degree path to continue my love of creative writing. hope you enjoyed my personal take on the classic family dinner.