Without Reservations_ The Travels of an Independent Woman - Alice Steinbach [40]
There, clustered together around a small square, were vegetable markets, delicatessens, gourmet food and wine shops, florists and dressmakers, restaurants and carry-out shops. At The Pie Man, which offered everything from homemade carrot-and-orange soup to Thai beef salad, I selected my dinner: roasted redleaf salad with pancetta and tarragon, and a chicken breast cooked in lemon and ginger sauce with broccoli florets. A few doors down I stopped at the greengrocer and bought fresh fruit and a bunch of flowers—clear yellow irises mixed with spikes of pale green foliage.
I didn’t mind eating alone in London, whether in a restaurant or in my cozy flat. In Paris it had bothered me, but by now I’d grown less sensitive to dining solo. In fact, I rather liked it. If I ate out, it gave me a chance to observe the scene around me; if I ate in, it gave me a chance to brush up on my cooking skills. Once I’d been an accomplished cook, but long working hours and living alone had eroded both the desire and the ability to turn out a proper meal.
Lately, though, I’d seen flashes in my small London kitchen of the woman who used to enjoy cooking so much that she’d taken classes in everything from bread-making to classic French cuisine. I remembered how much this woman had liked suprême de volaille farcies, duxelles—or, in plain English, chicken breasts stuffed with mushrooms minced and sautéed in butter. I recalled liking it, too. To my surprise, I knew the recipe by heart and one night decided to give it a try. After serving myself dinner on the balcony of my flat, I decided the chicken was even better than I remembered.
As I walked back from Chelsea Green with my groceries, I noticed a little girl wearing a flower-sprigged blue-and-white dress furiously pedaling her three-wheel bike along the sidewalk of a quiet neighborhood street. Pausing to watch her, I saw a pattern emerge: every few minutes, after a burst of high-energy pedaling, the girl would lift both hands from the handlebars, put her arms out to either side, and allow the bike to steer itself. As she did this, she made whooping noises of unleashed exhilaration.
Aha! I thought, a fearless woman in the making. But then the bike suddenly swerved into a large pot of red geraniums and the girl tumbled off. Immediately, however, she picked herself up, righted the bike, and somewhat more cautiously pedaled on.
Life’s like that, I thought, as I turned the corner to my building. Freedom has its dangers as well as its joys. And the sooner we learn to get up after a fall, the better off we’ll be.
That night I went to a play at the nearby Royal Court Theatre on Sloane Square. It was a long-winded, lecturing piece written by an American. I left at the intermission, a luxury I would never allow myself if I weren’t alone. On the way home I celebrated my newfound independence, theatrically speaking, by having a beer in a nearby pub. Here’s to you, old girl, I toasted myself, lifting the heavy glass to my lips, and to the Queen Mum. I wasn’t sure why I threw in that last bit until, on the walk home, I remembered how much my grandmother had adored her.
I had barely closed the door to my flat when the phone rang. It was Victoria, calling about our trip to Sissinghurst. We were on for the following Wednesday, she said. And Angela was joining us. They would pick me up at ten, in front of my building.
At precisely ten o’clock on the following Wednesday I spotted a large maroon sedan making its way through the Sloane Avenue traffic. Where Sloane and Cadogan intersected a waving arm appeared through the car’s back window. It was followed by Victoria’s face. The car pulled up in front of me; a door opened and Victoria said, “Been waiting long?” She laughed and moved over, making room for me in the back seat.
“Good morning,” Sarah said, turning around. “Quite the fresh day, isn’t it?” I noticed she and Victoria wore almost identical outfits: dark tailored slacks and sweater sets, one yellow, the other pink. “This is Angela Martinelli,” she said, introducing me