Lunch on Friday

Essay #1: Emily, Cafe Mogador

It’s one of those pre-summer days in mid-May that reminds you just how hot New York is about to get. I’m wearing my favorite white linen dress with my favorite black boots and my favorite saddle-colored Coach bag with the burnished leather. The hostess at Cafe Mogador, a Moroccan-inspired eatery on St. Mark’s Place, won’t seat me until the entire party is here. I should have lied and said it was just me. This happens a lot. My dad has trained me to arrive everywhere on “Lombardi time,” a reference to a famous Green Bay Packers coach and his leadership style, none of which concerns me. After I wait on the sidewalk for a quick but hungry 5 minutes, Emily arrives wearing a gold silk slip dress, cream ankle socks with roses, and red sneakers. She has accessorized this look with gold jewelry and a sequined bag that looks like it was borrowed from Hannah Montana’s walk-in closet. Her pink hair is pulled into a low ponytail, and her yellow gold-tinted sunglasses match her dress perfectly. Emily’s personal style is fabulous.

The hostess (finally, I’m starving) seats us at a table for two – outside enough to feel the beat of the East Village in the middle of a Friday but inside enough to be shaded from the hot sun, catching tidbits of personal conversations happening at the tables inside. Emily and I look at each other and almost simultaneously say, “This is so nice. I never go out for lunch.” ‘Never’ is a word I’ve tried to remove from my vocabulary ever since my mother recommended the book Verbal Judo in the summer of 2018. Words like ‘never’ and ‘always’ should be avoided, as they are considered generalizations. Nevertheless, I still use these words. Since I never go out for lunch, I’m very happy to be sitting here with Emily. I always enjoy our conversations about our latest trend obsessions, the books currently consuming us, the insignificant drama of the prior night’s festivities, and who’s on our sh*t list at work this week.

Emily and I assess the menu for about 8 seconds before I declare that “I think we should order a bunch of things and share.” She agrees. After we place our order of labne, baba ganoush, Arabic salad, and pita bread, our server picks up our menus and says, “I like your matching tattoos,” glancing at the fine line bow tattoo on my right arm and on Emily’s left. This is the first time we’re noticing that these tattoos we got separately are nearly in the same place. “Oh, thank you!” we reply excitedly. There’s something about matching with a friend that evokes reminiscence of girlhood, a topic that’s been on my mind lately.

After the comment from our server, we naturally start talking about tattoos. Emily has plans to get a cherub tattoo on her inner thigh – I’m all for it. “Do you think your parents will mind?” I ask her. I ask this question only because every time I alter something about my appearance, I worry about what my family will think. Even though I’m almost 26 years old, which is nearly the age my parents were when they got married, there’s something about having my family’s approval that I can’t seem to shake. I no longer care what friends and internet strangers think of me, but if my dad makes a comment saying I look tired, forget it.

Emily replies confidently that she’s not worried and that she actually sent her mom the inspiration image for this particular tattoo. Her mom texted back,

You do such a wonderful job picking tattoos that feel so personal to yourself, I have always loved how creative you are.

I can’t help but smile. I hope my mom thinks the same of me.

After more tattoo talk and lighthearted work gossip, Emily and I discuss the fiscal year-end that’s approaching at our company. We talk of goals for the future, encouraging far-fetched ideas that we’ll hopefully consider trivial years from now. Emily and I see bright futures for each other which is precisely the way a friendship should be. During our conversation, we also reflect on the last year and express gratitude for all that we’ve accomplished. We both agree that we wake up every morning excited to go to work. “It’s so cool. We literally get to hang out with our friends every day and make great product.” I liked Emily from the moment I met her because of her positive attitude. And she’s from Pennsylvania, like me.

Our food arrives promptly (now I’m really hungry), and we immediately dig in. This was the perfect order, which I say aloud at least 5 times throughout the meal. As we’re eating, we discuss Mother’s Day coming up and how we plan to celebrate our moms. Emily is going to her family’s home in PA for the weekend, and my mom and I are going to the opera at Lincoln Center. We both need to get them cards, so we make a plan to stop at Greenwich Letterpress after this. I notice I’m eating more slowly than usual which means I’m relaxed. “We should get lunch on Friday more often,” I say. Emily agrees.

After our perfect order which costs only $34 total, we walk over to the stationery store and pick out cards that we know each of our mothers will love. We decide to go our separate ways because Emily has to meet a friend for coffee, and I have to go babysit on the Upper East Side. We are two people who complain about being so busy all the time yet we say yes to everything. Sigh.

A few weeks after our lunch, Emily gets the cherub tattoo (it looks “very cute” according to her mom, and I agree), and my mom learns some sad news about a close friend who has been sick. As my mom and I are hugging and realizing how short life is, she notices a sunspot on my left arm that hasn’t tanned like the rest of my skin. “What is that? A tattoo?” she asks. “No,” I reply, “I don’t know what’s going on. It’s just a part of my skin that’s not tanning. This is a tattoo, though,” I say, pointing to the skeleton on my inner arm next to the sunspot. My mom asks what it is – her eyesight isn’t the greatest, and the tattoo is small and very fine. “I got it in London,” I say smiling, “it’s just a skeleton dancing. It makes me happy.” My mom chuckles lightly and replies, “Oh, how cute! I like it.” 

Me too.