My mother, a woman as demure as a kitten, refuses to have dinner in a restaurant with me ever again. Mamie is not quick to criticize. Let me tell you why she refuses to eat out with me.
Several years ago, I invited her to travel with me to Savannah for a pre-Mother’s Day treat. We stayed at the De Soto Hilton and she visited an antique shop while I spent my morning in meetings. That evening, I surprised her with reservations to eat in a famous seafood restaurant. It was colorful to say the least. Occupying several historic houses linked together by cave- like halls, the place was cluttered with brass compasses, ship prints, fishing nets and old turn-of-the century photographs showing swimmers clad in baggy black bathing suits.
As we were being seated, my mother remarked to the waitress that there seemed to be a kind of haze hanging in the room. The waitress responded only with a nervous smile as she handed us our menus. Mamie (all family members called her “Baby”)fidgeted. Her eyes swept the room like a radar antenna, searching.
When our waitress- a bouncing coquette with wavy bangs- returned, she announced apologetically that, because the kitchen stove was out of sorts, we would have to make do with a visit to the salad bar. Since the salad bar looked like the banquet scene in the old Robert Taylor movie “Ivanhoe, “ I decided to go with the flow and make the best of things. But I noticed a slight stiffening of my mother’s spine and her lips pursed up like she had been weaned on a sour pickle.
As we sat back down, we heard the wail of a siren that seemed too close. It was so close in fact that we could see the fire truck as it pulled into our parking lot. So close, I could read the firemen’s names on their slickers. My mother’s color changed to a kind of pale green and her lips looked like stretched rubber bands. Foolishly attempting to reassure her, I said, “If there really were a fire, I’m certain they would warn their customers and see that they got out of this ramshackle old place.” She neither spoke nor looked directly at me.
The last little shred of confidence I had left faded when I saw the firemen begin to screw their canvas hoses to a nearby fire hydrant. While I was trying to get the waitress’ attention, the firemen in their helmets and rubber boots unrolled their hoses down the very aisle on which we were sitting. I frantically tried to catch our waitress’ eye.
When she arrived, we were not exactly sitting, having stood up wearing the hems of the tablecloth and with our mouths ajar. Our bubbly waitress returned on hurried, dainty toes. Beads of perspiration had uncoiled her Shirley Temple bangs. She said, “I am sorry to have to tell you, but we are going to close early tonight because of a little problem in the kitchen. There will be no charge of course.” She forced her mouth into a smile, but her brow crinkled with concern.
Just then a second and larger fire truck, a huge hook-and-ladder rig, arrived and the scene outside reminded me of pictures of London during the Blitz. Well, that was that. The following days’ newspaper told about the fire that consumed the kitchen of one of Savannah’s landmark restaurants. It was closed for months for repairs.
A year or two later, I suggested we go out for dinner to celebrate Mothers’ Day. Sarcasm is usually my mother’s last verbal resort, so I was taken off guard by her response, “Oh, let’s try the Titanic, I heard they turned it into a restaurant after they dreged it up from the bottom of the sea.”
This piece was originally published in North Georgia Living
This is a wonderful story.
And a true one as well! Thanks, Sue.