Altogether too much
attention is paid to the romantic lure of dinner for two, candlelights, gypsy violins and a staggering bill. Far too little attention is given to the potential delights of the work-a-day "hour for lunch".
In every big city one sees the same midday scene. From twelve to one there is a steady stream of people pouring out of office buildings and into cafés, restaurants, the hamburger joints, bars, the dime-store counters.
The gates open up, the torrent of hungry humanity flows out and floods every eating place in town. By two o'clock the tide has almost completely receded.
The only diners left are the lovers, the executives who treat themselves to many martinis and a three-hour lunch, the buyer entertaining the seller by laughing at his stories from twelve to three.
Before going any further, let's take another look at the first category of the late lunchers, the lovers who have not returned to their offices thought the hour is nigh onto three.
A careful waiter's-eye scrutiny of this pair will reveal that they aren't young lovers at all. At least, not yet, they aren't.
He is a bachelor in his early 30's, who manages to look well-dressed, though not elegant in his second-best suit. He has been working with the firm for five years, is earning almost eight thousand a year -- not bad for a single man -- and a substantial raise is in sight.
He is assistant to the head of his department and since his boss has implicit faith in him and since the boss happens to be out of town for a week, he's feeling no qualms about getting back to his desk.
He's reasonably good-looking, though no Clark Gable, and he's had to let his pants out only once since he got out of the Army. To sum up, he might very well be -- you.
The girl next to him is slim, blonde and better looking than a good secretary ought to be. And, in fact, she isn't a secretary, she's the assistant buyer of handbags for a big, midtown store. She's twenty-five, came from a small town and has learned her way around the big city fast.
With legs like hers and those warm grey eyes, she's had her share of male attention, some of which she has found delightful, some of it, a bore
The night before she got taken to the theatre and to dinner and then to a series of nightclubs by a wealthy manufacturer who was hoping she'd place a large order with him. Unfortunately for him, he over-did his act of friendly persuasion and put himself out of the act with a ferocious hangover.
His secretary phoned her to let her know that he might, just might, be in his office at about four o'clock.
This leaves her with an afternoon office and a wonderful opportunity for a long, leisurely lunch with -- you.
As the rush dies out and the last of the helter-skelter luncheon trade dives for the revolving doors, a kind of gentle peace and softness descends on the restaurant around you.
The waiters go around clearing the tables and turning out most of the overhead lights. There is a pot of coffee on your table and two half-emptied brandy glasses. A sleepy bartender reads the racing form while keeping an eye on you if you should order another drink.
The lunch has been a good one and neither of you are feeling any urge to bring it to a close. Now that most of the lights have been turned off, you are suddenly aware of the mid-afternoon sun streaming through the windows and this rushed, rather ordinary restaurant, suddenly becomes a place of infinite comfort and charm.
Her conversation is light and full of laughter, not the bitter, nervous kind, but the easy, generous laughter of a young creature filled with good food, soothed by pleasant surroundings and intrigued by the promise of greater pleasure still.
You look at your watch and shake your head and she gives you a questioning look.
"It's an hour of decision," you say, "either race back to the office with some ridiculous excuse for staying out so late, and throw yourself into a two-hour frenzy of work, or... "
"Or?" she asks.
"Or, forget about it and declare the afternoon a holiday."
"You decide." she says with a smile.
"Hmmm," you say, "well, I think a decision like this calls for a bit of reinforcment. I can't settle problems of this magnitude without a bottle of champagne."
"Champagne? At three o'clock in the afternoon? That's immoral."
"It is, isn't it?" you reply. "Waiter, will you please bring us a bottle -- a good cold one -- of Bollinger, 1952?"
"Is that considered a 'great' year?" she asks with a touch of irony.
"Spectacular," you reply, "not merely a 'great' year, the greatest."
"Pretty good year for root beer too," she says, "I used to make it in my cellar."