There are weekends when I, quite literally, barely leave the house. Though I’ll usually still wake early, I will often head back to bed for an early or late afternoon nap, and spend the time in between reading, listening, or watching various things I’ve accumulated during the week. Then, all of a sudden, Sunday afternoon or evening comes around, and I begin to feel guilty for having “wasted” my time. The past weekend wasn’t one of those, with lunch dates and dinner dates on both days.
“The last time I saw you we were eating Spanish food, and it was raining”, I said to my friend Sue, as we caught up for lunch on Saturday. It was a terrific time to catch up on our holiday together, and to reflect on what’s happened since in our lives. We ate at the restaurant, Casa Asturiana, which appears to be the only remaining part of Sydney’s “Spanish Quarter”. Though we couldn’t help but compare the food to that which we enjoyed on holiday, we also noted “we know what to ask for now”, and we recognised many of the locations of the photographs of the wall.
I caught up with another friend for lunch yesterday at “Chin Chin”, a fairly new restaurant on Commonwealth Street. My friend had been there previously, had raved about the place, and recommended we order the $65 each menu. The way it works is you tell the waiter the kind of things you like, and the kind of things you don’t like, and he makes selections “on your behalf”. The last time my friend had been there, she said the meals came out a little too quickly, so we asked if we could have them brought out reasonably slowly. They did. Maybe a little too slowly. Over three hours later, and having enjoyed a few glasses or wine, and terrific conversation, we asked for a “doggie bag”. The food was tasty, and the portions were good. I enjoyed left-overs for dinner tonight.
Once again, the portions were large at Belloccio Restaurant where I dined on Saturday night. Probably too large, actually, for my liking. But it was a fun place to dine, along with a large group of middle-aged mostly gay men. “I haven’t been on Oxford Street for probably fifteen years”, a few of them said. After dinner, we went for a dance at Palms, which I described to a couple of people as being like “attending your blue light disco in high school”, as the music had an 80s/90s vibe to it. Though previously I would have danced until dawn, I was home in bed by one o’clock in the morning, thereby affirming my middle-aged status, once again.
And then last night, it was dinner with friends at a regular restaurant we attend, “The Balkan”.
“How was your weekend?”, a colleague asked me today. “Exhausting, I told him. After all the wining and dining, I need some time off…”