Dinner at the Star

 

In one week, we went from feeling sophisticated to funky western. Tonight, the Burtons, Jean, and I had dinner at the Star Café in Fort Worth’s National Historic Stockyards District. For forty-two years, my good friends Betty and Don Boles have owned the Star. As I wrote a couple of weeks ago, Betty and Don have sold the classic steakhouse. Saturday night will be their last hoorah. So the last couple of weeks they’ve been busy with folks who have come for a last supper. Tonight was out turn.

Betty was waiting for us, with a reserved sign on the front table that I’ve always loved. It sits right in the front window so you can watch the comings and goings on West Exchange Avenue. Of course, you have to mind the sign that says, “Please don’t mess with the neon lights!”

Wine was served, and we fell to nostalgic stories and memories, with lots of laughter. The late-night dinners when the café had emptied, the night one of Jordan and Christian’s friends fell asleep in a booth, the times Jordan wanted to take home a pint of the house-made ranch dressing, the luncheon after Jacob’s christening. I asked about the people I remembered—Bino, the cook who is still there; Emilio, the clean-up guy who left after long years; the prep guy who’d been there since I remember; the postman who used to come for supper before he went dancing and always wanted to talk about western history. Other faces and memories swam before me, but I couldn’t be specific about them.

For me, nothing would do for dinner except chicken-fried steak. You can get steak, nicely done, in a lot of restaurants in this city, but good chicken-fried is a special thing onto itself. Betty and I split an order, with mashed potatoes and lots of gravy. Saying she knew they’d never serve it at Trinity Terrace, Jean also ordered chicken-fried, declaring she would take half home with her. She didn’t. She ate it all. Jordan and Christian ordered filets, and Jacob had chicken fingers which I remember were so large I could barely eat one. It was all delicious.

Best of all was seeing Betty. For years, she and I went to dinner every Wednesday night, sometimes to our regular places, other times adventuring out to try new places. In recent years, we added Jean to the tradition. But then pandemic hit. I knew Betty was still working weekends at the Star, which made me leery, and then I got to the point that getting me out in my walker was just too much trouble. I stayed home a lot. Tonight I realized that it took at least two people to help me at the two steps in and out of the Star—Betty couldn’t do it herself. So our habit fell by the wayside, much lamented by both of us. We have gotten together occasionally—a couple of times to go out with others, a couple of times on my patio. But we have missed each other, and it was good to reconnect tonight.

A thoroughly happy evening!

In other nonconsequential news, I got my hair cut really short. I notice in the picture how fat my face looks. But my doctor said, sanctimoniously, “We do not encourage the elderly to lose weight.” That’s because if a health catastrophe hits, you might need that reserve in the hospital. Also losing weight stresses organs in your body like the heart. So here I am, eating modestly—honest, most of the time, just not this week—and still gaining weight. I have decided to be happy and not worry about it.

One thing I did worry about: my extreme fear of weight, as it showed itself in Jean’s seventeenth-floor apartment the other night. By serendipity, 23andMe, which I subscribed to several years ago, sent me the next day a report on my fear of height. My first thought was “How did they know?” Well, of course, they knew by profiling, and they said most people have a 29% chance of fearing heights; I have a 38% chance. Furthermore, people who fear height get their sense of balance from visual points of reference—if you are at the edge of a high balcony, you have no such visual points. I instantly remembered being in a wide, empty lobby where the walls and floor were of neutral marble (faux, I presume)—no pictures, no furniture, no plants, nothing. Just that faux marble. I told Jordan it was the kind of space that made me feel spacy. When she asked what would happen, I said, “I don’t know. I’ll lose my balance and fall on the floor.” Now that makes sense to me. There were no visual points of reference. I am deeply relieved to know the reason for my fear and that it’s not just a silly idea in my mind.

So, a great evening, a good week, and I am ready to sleep. ‘Night all. Sweet dreams.

Working the room

Last night there was a wedding reception for some of Jordan’s closest friends. They married some months ago in a small, family ceremony and just had the reception last night at La Puertita (the chapel) at Joe T. Garcia’s. I was pleased to be invited, though Jordan had some words of caution. Basically, she said she and Christian would “park” me at a table while they mingled and socialized. In my day, we called that “working the room,” basically moving around the room, chatting briefly with this one and that, never getting caught in a long conversation, meeting new people. A networking skill that takes a bit of practice, but before the walker I was pretty good at it. (Maybe I should divide my life into before and after the walker—naw, I have better divisions.)

True to her promise, they parked me at the first table inside the door, and I was a captive because Jordan folded my walker and stuck it against a wall out of my reach. I need not have worried about solitude though—since I couldn’t work the room, much of the room came to me. I am so blessed to be friends with many of my children’s friends. A steady stream of people came to give me a hug, sit for a minute in the chair next to me, share people-watching with me. The bride’s mother, whom I’ve met, came over to make sure someone would fetch me a cheese nacho, and the bride’s father, whom I’d not met, came and sat for a chat. So did both her sisters, and the groom wandered over twice to be sure I was taken care of.

A couple of wives I’d not met—both from our neighborhood—came to chat, saying they knew all about me and my books (nice bit of flattery) and one husband I’m fond of settled in for a political discussion (we agree heartily!). Jordan’s BFF, David, was solo because his wife was in Dallas, so he sat next to me for longer periods of time. He’d wander away—to work the room, I suppose—and then come back, and we shared some good laughs.

When the buffet opened, Jordan brought me a plate (how could she forget I love those beans?). David and Christian settled on one side of me, Jordan and Amye on the other,  with Marj and Colman across the table, and I met some folks, also around the table who were new to me. The food was predictable and familiar—it’s good to have “the dinner” every once in a while.

The young people dropped me off at home about 9:30 and went on to party, although the bride had suggested I could party with them and be the designated driver. David pointed to my glass of wine and said, “Too late for that.” I was glad to be home but oh so glad I went to the party.

It was a social weekend. Friday night, some new neighbors came for supper. Jordan, Christian, and I collaborated on the cooking—she made mashed potatoes, he roasted a tenderloin and made sauces, and I made a big, green salad that, believe it or not, sits in the fridge overnight, plus a goat cheese/wasabi appetizer. We had fun getting to know these people—seems when you first meet people you always have so much to talk about. She is a stay-at-home mom of four (I could relate to that) and he, a surgeon at the county hospital, so we had a bit of talk about the new medical school. All in all, lots of fun—and, again, lots of laughter.

Now to settle down to work.

Chandry and Jordan showing off their high heels.

How do they walk in those things?

Shirt-tail relatives

As a child I had many shirt-tail relatives--people who were connected not by blood but by love and shared experiences and mutual affection. Today, as an adult, I am still blessed with several such relationships. People have told me they don't understand or have never heard the term, but to me it makes perfect sense.
Jacob is also blessed with several such relationships--many of his parents friends adore him but a few stand out as special. One is Elizabeth, who has been my friend for well over twenty years and who lived in my garage apartment for a year. Jacob's first question every day coming home from school that year was, "Can I go see Elizabeth?"
A year and a half ago she moved to Pennsylvania to be with the man she loves, and we all grieved. But last night Elizabeth was back for a visit, and we had a party. I fixed dinner for neighbors she'd been close to, and Jordan and Christian came by on their way to a fancy party. We had a joyful dinner, but for Jacob the best part was when everyone else went home, and he and Elizabeth had a lively conversation--I was strictly an outsider. But they chattered and giggled and had a wonderful time. At one time they tried to Facetime Brian, Elizabeth's love, but I don't think they were successful. When Jacob left the room briefly, she said, "I wish I could just put him in my pocket and take him home with me." And as he drifted off to sleep last night Jacob said, "Tonight was really fun."
Elizabeth came into my life twenty-some years ago when as a non-traditional student she applied for

a work-study job in my office at TCU Press. It wasn't instantaneous bonding but almost that quick. Over the years I've watched her transform herself from an overweight, maybe a but insecure person into a svelte yoga instructor, highly skilled and certified, and a confident person who enjoys life. If beyond my own children, I have a success story, she's it, and I couldn't be more proud of who and what she has become.
Oh, dinner! Elizabeth is gluten- and dairy-free--not a diet I fully understand or am sure I agree with but it works for her, and I am glad to follow her rules. Except it makes menu planning difficult. I was more into it when she lived here. But last night I served corned beef and cabbage (my belated tribute to St. Patrick's Day) only with a twist--it was a cold salad--cubed corned beef, blanched haricort vert, cubed potatoes (I cheated and put a bit of salad dressing on them), and sliced raw cabbage, all with a mustard vinaigrette. To our amazement, Jacob loved it and asked for seconds. I wish I'd learn to take pictures of food before I serve it, because it really made a pretty platter.
This morning the sermon was on joy, and I'm not sure I agree that happiness is transitory and joy is permanent, because for me--and I think for Jacob and Elizabeth--last night was one of those moments of joy, a memory to treasure, in the midst of lives of happiness.
Photos by Jay Mitiguy.