Opinion
My social life was dead in 2016, but there was one place I felt at home.
A trend swept across Instagram last month. Without notice, every post seemed to be themed around the concept of “the year 2016”. It was the year we lost David Bowie and Prince, heard Beyoncé airing her dirty laundry on Lemonade and watched as a cruel reality TV star was elected president. All the dark moments of the year were, of course, edited out by those playing along with the nostalgic trend.
While I didn’t participate, I was curious to see what my own camera roll had preserved from a decade ago. The lack of many major updates was a reminder of just how preoccupied with work I was that year. I was 26 and had just signed a deal to write a memoir (I know how that sounds). My life in 2016 consisted of working four days a week on a job that didn’t quite cover my living expenses, so I could spend the fifth day trying to summon the energy to finish my manuscript. My social life was shot to hell, with one major exception.
When I needed a change of scenery and swapped the laptop screen that left my eyes twitching for weeks after I met my deadline for printed pages, I’d decamp to a cafe in the city that opened for breakfast early and stayed open late in the night. I’d sit there alone with a highlighter and a red pen, reworking my chapters with something close to fresh eyes.
As cups of coffee arrived and plates were whisked away behind my stack of pages, I’d share little pieces of information with the servers who recognised me after a few visits and poked their head over to bring me back to reality.
“What are we working on today?” one would ask, when she brought me my favourite mildly spiced scotch egg. We didn’t know each other’s names but she knew more about my progress and thought process and nerves around the whole thing than some of my friends did.
One morning, in November 2016, I arrived empty-handed. Before I could order, the server asked for the latest on my book. I’d been there the previous month tearing my hair out over a round of structural edits. “It’s all done!” I told her. She scribbled something on her pad and came back a moment later with a glass of champagne. Over the course of my solo breakfast, I was hardly left alone, so warm and celebratory were her colleagues behind the bar.
I thought of that moment recently while reading New York City restaurateur Keith McNally’s memoir, I Regret Almost Everything. As he described the nagging guilt he feels as a working-class kid from London building venues in the most expensive city on earth for its wealthiest diners, he slipped in anecdotes about the way truly excellent restaurant service transforms a forgettable night at dinner into something excellent. There was the night two wine orders were mixed up – and the most expensive wine on the menu “accidentally” landed at the table of a couple who’d saved up to dine at Balthazar and sheepishly ordered the cheapest bottle available. Or the policy that any solo diner at the bar be offered a glass of champagne on the house.
When dining out can often mean long lines, punching in your personal details after scanning a QR code, or feeling like a burden on the staff, the gestures that show a restaurant’s arms are open to you make the world of difference. I often quote Besha Rodell’s review, in this masthead, of France-Soir – a French restaurant in South Yarra that’s become a citywide institution – to friends who’ve never dined there. The review captures its messy magic, delighting in the ways unpredictable dishes matter less than the feeling you leave with. “There’s the charm of the service, the teasing and cajoling in French accents, and the potential you might become one of those customers they kiss on both cheeks when you enter the room.”
I’ve gone to hypey, cool new restaurants where the staff tire of checking in and I leave feeling forgotten about, and I’ve gotten the red carpet treatment at 20-seat cocktail bars despite arriving in sneakers. Each one reinforces the fact that a memorable experience – one worth remembering 10 years on in a fleeting fit of nostalgia – is defined by a lot more than what is on your plate.
