There’s an adult film that aired on the Playboy channel in which the social custom around sex and eating were reversed. Eating was an intimate thing that you did in private, only with people you love. Sex was a publicly accepted activity supported and satisfied in open establishments.
I never saw the film, but I thought the concept was interesting. Sex and eating have lots in common after all. Both are steeped in etiquette if not ritual. Both are engaged in as a result of powerful, primal urges, but refined through artistry and practice. Both are messy. Both can be routine or elaborate affairs. Both can drastically affect your health. If used judiciously, whipped cream can enhance both if you’re in the mood. And both are natural appetites that serve a biological purpose but can be engaged in for pure pleasure.
This was on my mind when I ate at a restaurant for the first time since the lockdown began.
I ate a Sonic in my truck about 4 months in; it was nerve-racking and I felt positively lewd. People could see me, see my face, watch me eat. I was constantly questioning how far away I was from everyone. I’d repeat the experiment a couple of times with my wife in front of the eatery that used to be our Sunday brunch habit. Still, I’ve resisted the idea of eating in public, even when restaurants were accomodating the “new normal”.
The risk just seemed too damn great.
Eating out is one of life’s great joys, as Alton Brown once said. He also said never eat a meal from someone you wouldn’t hug. I would definitely embrace the little place we go that serves French-inspired cuisine mixed with American standards like bacon and eggs.
Today, vaccinated and still socially distant, we took the plunge and brought our to-go containers to the patio. We opened the containers and I looked at them for a good minute with my mouth covered in the tiny barrier that has been my bulwark against organ failure for months.
I looked at my wife. I looked around. I finally took it all off.
I felt like an exhibitionist.
The exposure was soon replaced by the smell of eggs, bacon, and nutella filled crepes. As I couldn’t get the scent a moment before, I was glad to know the mask was, in fact doing its work. I was also ready to eat.
Any time someone walked behind me, I held my breath, a reflex I’ve developed over time. I eyed people walking up, waiting for my internal six-foot measure to start blinking red; people kept their distance.
The eggs were fluffy. The bacon was crisp. The crepes were divine.
After about ten minutes, I think I was in some sense of customary breakfast normalcy. I ate, caffeinated, checked my phone, and talked about the day’s plans as well as the goings-on in the world. As exposed and naked as it felt, it also felt familiar.
We finished our meal and got on with the rest of the day. We haven’t talked about it becoming a regular thing again, but it wouldn’t be bad if it did. I still am wary of my neighbors, especially people who are tossing aside masks or wearing them like they don’t get the concept. I know for a bone-deep fact that I am not ready to eat inside.
But for a sec, the decade that has been the last year seemed firmly in the past and a bright day ahead.
I think we could all use a few of those to look forward to.
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