Morton's Steak House

"Can't tell if it's a good omen, or a bad omen, but there's a storm a-brewing." That's how my sister Betsy greeted me the next morning, along with a fresh mug of coffee.

"Well, good morning to you, too."

"Tom Skilling predicts five to eight inches of snow between lunch and your date. More by midnight." She stood up, walked over to me, and gave me a hug. "My sister's got her first dinner date tonight. Are we excited?"

"'We' have not had our coffee yet. 'We' would appreciate taking it down a few notches. And yes, 'we' are a little excited. Mostly nervous. Very nervous. I can't believe this is my life."

All day, snow fell. At first, when it struck the ground, it was wet and melted. By noon, white dusted the lawns; by 3 p.m., salt trucks made their second passes over the roads. At 6:30 p.m., as I put the final brush strokes of blush on my cheeks, the sky thickened with flakes.

I paused for a moment, turning from the mirror to look out the window at the accumulating snow. Then I stood up and walked over to the dark pane. Raising the window a few inches, I felt the familiar rush of cold air sting my lungs. Automatically, I shut my eyes and remembered the first time my ex and I went cross-country skiing. We'd been married just over a year and took a spring trip to Glacier National Park. Even though it was late March, the snowpack was ten feet deep on Going-to-the-Sun Road. By the third day, we'd discovered we could cross-country ski across the continental divide. And the day we did, the snowflakes fell with the same quiet density. I shut the window and sat back down in front of the mirror. I didn't look tired, but I felt tired. The last time I asked my ex to cross-country ski, he'd declined, opting to sleep-in rather than join me on the snowy trails before breakfast. We'd been in Banff to celebrate my fiftieth birthday, yet somehow never managed to get on skis at the same time. I reached for a make-up brush and added more color to my cheeks. I wasn't sure when in our marriage we stopped making the extra effort to do things together. I just knew what started as a loving partnership slowly diminished into quiet, separate lives, and that wasn't enough for me. I hated the feeling of being lonely in my own marriage.

I slammed the powder compact shut. "Enough," I said to my reflection. "You're going out tonight. Forward. Move forward." With a last glance in the mirror, I turned and walked down the stairs.

"Perfect night to go out," Betsy teased. "The wedding toast writes itself. 'They met in an epic blizzard. They were the only souls brave enough to venture outside. No force of nature could keep them apart.'"

"I hate you."

"I love you, too. You look perfect in your date-night sweater and skirt. Go. Have fun. Be flirty. Make good choices."

"Still hate you," I muttered, zipping up my knee-high, weatherproof suede boots.

"And drive carefully. It's nasty out there."

 Off I went, into the white-out conditions, unable to see fifty feet ahead and utterly unable to imagine how my first dinner date in over twenty years would unfold.

There was nothing coy about my arriving at Morton's Steak House fifteen minutes late. The restaurant was only six miles away, yet even in my four-wheel-drive Subaru, there was no moving fast. I did my best to protect my freshly washed hair and newly applied lipstick from the wet flakes flying horizontally toward me during the five-yard walk from where I parked to the restaurant's front door. Without going full babushka, it wasn't easy. Striking some flirty balance between protection from the elements and glamorous arrival was beyond my pay grade.

When I finally got indoors, I checked my coat and brushed off the heaviest of the snowflakes before they either froze to or melted through my hairspray. I was relieved to see my date was already seated at a table near the bar. His back was to the entrance, but even from behind, I knew it was him. His unruly white hair served as the give-away. I took a deep breath and approached.

He turned before I reached the table. In one swift move he stood up and reached out to shake my hand. "Sally? I'm Henry," he said, taking my hand in both of his. "You look just like your photos, only prettier. You're really pretty." He held onto my hand.

"Thank you," I said, reflexively flashing a full smile while doing my best to reel my hand back to my side. "Flattery will get you everywhere." I winced as the cliché hung in the air between us. I looked at Henry, taking in his tufts of wiry, thinning hair; the thick, square-framed glassed; and his beige, no-iron shirt beneath his not-navy-enough blue blazer. "You look just like your photo, too. It's so nice to meet you." It was the best I could do.

He pulled my chair out, gesturing for me to sit. "I thought we'd start with a drink at the bar. I've also reserved a table in the dining room. That way you can decide where you'd prefer to eat."

Twenty-three years of marriage, and I couldn't recall my ex making a dinner reservation once. Even the night we got engaged, we'd done the planning together and he'd asked if I'd mind calling the restaurant to get a table. I remember convincing myself it was modern and egalitarian, this lack of chivalry. Fuck that. Henry Sternberg's simple gesture of thinking ahead and securing a table brought the reality smack dab in my face of how unromantic egalitarianism could be. "That's so nice of you," I said, hoping he hadn't noticed my temporary reverie. "Let's start here in the bar." I pointed to the screen behind the bartender. "I know it's bad form to care what's on TV, but how often do our Bears play on Monday Night Football? We gotta watch."

Henry smiled, revealing two rows of small but straight teeth. "You like football?"

I knew how to answer with just enough enthusiasm and just enough truth. "Well, I grew up watching the Bears, all the way back to Dick Butkus. Watching Walter Peyton run was a beautiful thing. Thirty-four will forever be a sacred number. Also, a couple of years ago, I accidentally stood next to Brian Urlacher at a restaurant. I was so awed by the size of his neck I couldn't speak. Does that make me a fan? A little bit."

My date's smile broadened. "What are you drinking?"

By the time Henry motioned the bartender to re-fill my Absolut on ice with an orange slice, I was enjoying myself. The relief of experiencing this first dinner date versus anticipating it was huge. The combination of watching the football game seated next to someone fluent in both English and manners and the success of the alcohol coursing through my veins combined to create an actual pleasant experience. "Let's eat here, at the bar," I suggested, taking a sip of vodka number two. Thus emboldened, I added, "Is it okay if I order a steak?"

"Anything you'd like! Please!" Henry waved, and our waiter appeared. "I believe the lady would like to order."

The lady drained her second vodka, trying to erase that last statement from her working memory. It was impossible. "The lady would like a New York Strip, please. Medium rare."

"Very good. And for the gentleman?"

"A filet please. Rare."

The waiter looked hopeful. "Any sides? Creamed spinach? Sautéed mushrooms? Truffle fries?"

I shook my head and practiced deferring to the gentleman. "None for me, thank you." 

Henry looked at me and said, "You weren't exaggerating." I gave him a blank stare. "On your profile," he continued. "You wrote that your favorite meal is steak and cake."

I'd forgotten, but now that he mentioned it, I did have a vague recollection of typing that little poetic gem. It had passed Betsy's sniff test because, she'd said, men like women who eat red meat. My defense of it had been simpler: It was true. 

Over the next two hours, we ate dinner, watched a little football, and tiptoed into the waters of finding ourselves dating in mid-life. After thirty years of marriage, Henry came home one evening to a half-emptied house and a note.

Not one more day. I'm done. You can reach me through my lawyer.

According to Henry, there had been absolutely no warning signs. He'd thought they were happy. That note greeted him two months ago. He hadn't seen or talked to his wife since. He didn't even know where she was living.

"Don't you see her charges on your credit card statement?" I asked.

"I haven't bothered to look." After reading the note, he'd gone to sleep in his half-empty home, awakened the next morning, and went to work, just as he always had. 

Part of me registered shock at Henry's methodical, plodding-through-life manner, and part of me registered how perfectly my steak was prepared. Vodka will blur the lines of focus that way. Yes, I felt sorry for Henry's abrupt discovery of his failed marriage, but then again, there was something about dry-aged beef smothered in seasoned butter that really did distract me.

"... and so, my buddies, all three of them, came into my office and said to me, 'Henry, you're a good-looking guy. Get out there!' So, I went online, and there you were, and here we are."

"I'm your first date?" I asked. He nodded. I felt like I should offer him some form of equivalent honor. "You're my first dinner date," I said, raising my glass. Before I took a sip, I added, "I don't know if I'm bragging, or being a blatant hussy, but I've already had a coffee date, and I've been stood up." I lifted my drink a little bit higher. "Thank you for not standing me up."

As I worked my way through the New York strip, I shared my own end-of-marriage story. Betsy coached me to keep it short. I explained that when I'd gotten married, we'd been deeply in love. But as the years passed, we found ourselves drifting more and more apart, living increasingly disconnected lives under the same roof. When we finally called it quits, I explained to my mother that she could sum up my divorce in five words: It was sad, but amicable.

Of course there was more to the story. Of course ending a marriage was more than sad. Of course the feelings that had coursed through my mind and soul skewed more toward incredulity and anger than towards amicable. But what's the right amount of truth to share with a stranger on a first date? Did this man, who I met online, need to know that my ex, looking for a way to continue funding his start-up business after spending the first two rounds of venture capital, cashed out our 401K without telling me? Did I need to confess that when I learned of it, the lost savings were only part of my pain? The fact that he'd done it without consulting me, that's what felt like the real betrayal? Did this fuzzy-haired date need to know that for the last five years of my marriage, the lack of meaningful communication left me feeling suffocated, like I was living two inches beneath the surface of the water, able to see the sunlight, but unable to come up for air? No. By the time I asked my ex for a divorce, I'd moved beyond disappointment and anger to a place of detached civility. All I wanted was for each of us to move forward separately, bound only by a common love for our two children. Falling in love again never drove my decision to get out of my unhappy marriage. All I wanted was the freedom to come to the surface and breathe again.

Betsy was dead right on this. All tonight's date needed to know was that the end of my marriage was sad, but amicable.  

When the waiter brought the check, I made a slight gesture toward my purse. Henry waved. "It's my pleasure." I let him pay, and enjoyed my first private, Helen Gurley Brown moment. What was it she preached? No single woman should ever have to pay for a meal? I couldn't remember what she considered payment: cash, credit, or flesh. 

This was only a first date, however, so I knew there were no expectations of flesh. Meet, greet, and eat, Betsy had assured me. I don't know who'd died and made her the authority, but I chose to accept her certainty of a least this aspect of the dating ritual.

As we bundled up in our coats and scarves and gloves, the doorman warned us to drive home with care. "It hasn't let up at all," he said. "It's still coming down wet and slick."

"Let me walk you to your car and help brush it off," Henry offered. It felt a little gallant. I accepted, and together we tromped through the snow.

"That's mine," I said.

"The Subaru? Really?"

I got a little defensive. "Yes. I love my Subaru. It fits my bike and gets through the snow. What's wrong with it?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all." He helped me brush six inches of snow off my car while I warmed up the engine and wondered why he didn't like my car. His determination to clear all the snow was endearing, and I took pity on him. "Can I drive you to your car?" He nodded. Henry pointed, and I followed around the parking lot until we pulled up to what looked like an igloo. "You helped me clear mine. I'll help you clear yours." With my car still running, defroster and wipers going, I hopped out into the snow.

Slowly, Henry's dark blue 7-series BMW emerged from beneath its snowy blanket. "Okay. You've got a nice car," I conceded, feeling slightly less proud of mine. "Thank you for a lovely evening," I said, looking a little wistfully at the gleaming sides of his sedan.

Before I knew what was happening, H. Sternberg stepped toward me, leaned in, and kissed me full on the mouth. I jumped back in horror.

"I'm so sorry," I said, over and over. "I'm so, so sorry. I didn't expect that. I'm, I'm...." I sputtered, embarrassed in equal measure by the unexpected kiss and my unexpected response. "I just, I haven't kissed anyone except my ex-husband for over twenty-five years." I tried to calm down and pretended to be sane. "This wasn't a reaction to you. I'm so sorry." A faint voice in my head kept asking me why I was apologizing. I ignored it. "I really just didn't anticipate this."

Henry was kind. "It's okay. Don't worry. But can I see you again?"

"Yes," I managed. "That would be nice." I got into my car and sat for a moment, wondering how had I not seen that kiss coming? Then I shifted my car into gear and drove home through the white-out conditions.

-Sally Schwartz

For over nine years, Sally Schwartz has worked as a syndicated columnist for The Chicago Tribune, where, until recently, she published under the name Sally Schwartz Higginson. Sally's editorial note: Don't ever change your name. Sally has written a humorous memoir titled My Sister Betsy's Guide to Life, and has an agent who believes she can sell it.