The Friday Night Dates
During the first ten years or so of our married life, Peter and I had ‘date nights’ each Friday. Peter would return from the office with a bouquet of roses in hand. I would be dressed, coiffed, and ready for wherever he had planned for us to go. The first thing he called out in his cheerful and always happy voice, as he entered the house, “Hello! I’m home!” I would come down the stairs with a huge smile on my face. He would present me with the bunch of roses, make a slight bow, kiss my hand, and say, “Milady, are you ready for our date?”
Of course I was. He had a way of making the most ordinary occurrences feel oh so special. One of our most mundane outings was to an old local German restaurant that had live music on Friday nights. We would dine and dance the night away. We loved it. Another was a place called The Crab House tucked on a little cobbled street in Long Island City in the middle of nowhere. That is not to say it was unknown. It was not. There was always a long queue for a table. Their food was delicious. They had an old bathtub at the entrance filled with peanuts. I guess that was to assuage one’s impatience and hunger as one waited for a table, for they took no reservations. The music would drift from within, making one hum and sway to the music.
For our birthdays and anniversaries, we decided not to exchange gifts. Instead, we would just splurge for the two of us. We would go to Manhattan and treat ourselves to plays, concerts, openings of galleries, and other events that interested us. Afterwards, we would make it an extra special occasion by choosing a really nice place to eat. Once it happened very inadvertently.
Peter was an avid photographer. A friend had gifted him a membership to ICP, The International Center for Photography. We would be invited to the openings of various shows of well-known photographers. We found it quite interesting and liked it so much that we decided to remain members for many years. I think we stopped when it became difficult for me to be in crowds and stand for long periods of time. We both enjoyed it tremendously. We got to meet some very famous international photographers. Most of them were very humble and gracious. The Turnley twin brothers, who were one of the nicest and warmest people we met, took war and human interest photographs. They received many awards for their work. However, I took a dislike to Annie Leibovitz. There was a huge photograph on one wall of a kind-faced and warm mature lady. The expression on her face instantly drew me to it. It was gentle and kind. I glanced down and realized the older couple sitting there were her parents. That was the portrait of her mother. Peter and I started chatting with them. They were very warm and unassuming. We chatted for quite a while. By this time, the crowd was getting quite impatient; still, Annie Leibovitz had not made an appearance. It was over an hour since everyone had arrived. She should have been there by now. She finally walked in. She did not apologize for her long delay. She appeared to be very supercilious and haughty. That bothered me. If people make the effort to come to see your body of work, I think it is one’s duty to acknowledge the effort they made to be there. It is considerate and courteous to be prompt. She was not. But I digress.
One evening, after one of these openings, Peter and I were strolling about the city when he commented that he felt hungry. He glanced at one restaurant’s framed menu by the door, took me by the elbow, and led me into the restaurant. We were so glad that we did. We nibbled at the pâté foie gras and the dollops of caviar on thin little rounds of black bread. We sipped at our wine. We listened to the soothing music that they played and gazed into the burning logs in their fireplace. We lingered over the rest of our meal, even though the foie gras and the beluga caviar were more than sufficient for me. We walked out of there with such a sense of well-being. The air was crisp and exhilarating. Arm in arm we strolled through the Manhattan sidewalks and rode the subway to Long Island City where we had parked our car. A perfect evening out.
Another time, again in winter, and a very bitterly cold day it was, Peter suggested we go for a drive. I wore my fox coat and the fox and mink hat he had brought for me from one of his business trips to Moscow. He also was dressed warmly. He wore a Russian style fur hat and a heavy warm coat with a fur collar. We looked like we had stepped out of a scene from the film Dr. Zhivago walking in some Russian steppes. I never knew where we would drive to. I do not think he knew himself. He stopped wherever his fancy took us. That day was no exception. It was a Saturday.
The night before he had come home with a bouquet of delightful pink miniature roses. Because it was so cold, we chose to stay home for our Friday night date. I had made chicken breast with mushroom and wine sauce, mashed potatoes, and green beans. Afterwards, he lit a fire in the fireplace in the living room. We put on some soft music, left the curtains undrawn. We danced to the light of the burning logs and watched the snow coming down. That would have been a perfect date, a most romantic date. To that he added the Saturday outing.
That Saturday we stopped at a quaint little town. I cannot recall the name of the town. It had a lot of charming little shops. We wandered from shop to shop. The skies began to darken. Twilight set in, and we were beginning to get hungry. We asked one of the shopkeepers if he knew of a nice place to eat. He suggested a German restaurant. He reassured us that we would like it. The first thing that drew our attention was the number of fireplaces in that large dining room. Every one of them was merrily crackling with burning logs. As if that was not welcoming enough, the servers were all dressed in traditional German costumes. We seemed to have entered another movie set, this time from Sound of Music! Peter smiled a very pleased smile, and so did I. The restaurant began to fill up. Not one person was dressed in the casual way that people dress nowadays. They were all well dressed and soft spoken. Again, Peter and I felt as if we had stepped back in time. We dined on venison and foie gras. It was a delightful evening. When we finally got up to leave, we realized how late it was. Driving back home would take us about two hours. It was wiser to get a room in town, which we did. It was a bed and breakfast with antique furniture, thick eiderdowns, soft downy pillows, and a mattress that invited one to fall into a deep slumber. Well rested, the next morning we found a bright and airy eatery that was filled with sunshine. The owners were cheerful and friendly; the breakfast was tasty and wholesome. After such a pleasant yet unplanned weekend, we reluctantly headed back home.
That was our longest Friday night date ever. We got home feeling so relaxed and so content. As we entered the house, I looked about me to make sure all was well. There on the kitchen table stood the vase with the miniature pink roses. I smiled to myself. What a perfect date! What a perfect husband! Was I lucky or what?
There were so many outings like that. He was always so thoughtful and so very caring. He has left me with so many beautiful memories to wrap myself in. Yes, I was definitely a very lucky woman.