See what I mean

After hearing a friend say that just one week of eating out raised their cholesterol and blood sugar levels — and that those numbers went down again after stopping — my husband now avoids eating out.

Still, how can we always eat at home? Sometimes we need fresh air and to enjoy food outside too.

Every morning, I get a blog newsletter called New York Culture Beat – Catch of the Day, which recommends restaurants. I look through it, mouth watering, and write down the addresses and menus of places I’d like to try. Then I try to suggest going out — carefully watching my husband’s reaction. Usually, he says nothing. But if I mention “seafood,” he suddenly brightens up and agrees.

This time, we went to Great NY Noodle Town, a restaurant on Bowery Street near the Manhattan Bridge in Chinatown. We ordered roasted shrimp, clams in black bean sauce, and stir-fried watercress. It’s a BYOB place, so we brought a bottle of wine. The place wasn’t fancy or particularly clean, but the food was very tasty. The porridge and flounder dishes that others were eating looked great too, but we were full — we just smiled and said, “Let’s come again.”

My husband seemed to be in a good mood and held my hand, suggesting we go for a walk. What I love most is walking through Manhattan on a clear, early summer evening — not too hot, not too cold.

We stopped in front of 135 Grand Street, the building where we had lived on the second floor as newlyweds. The seventh floor, which used to be a sewing factory, now looks like it’s been turned into nice condos, and the first floor has become a boutique. Back then, when we lived with roommates and went downstairs to pay rent, the Chinese landlord would come out from the basement where he grew bean sprouts, wearing rain boots, and fill a plastic bag with fresh sprouts for us.

We kept walking past Grand Street, then up Broadway toward Washington Square. I wanted to rest at the park and remember the old days — where I used to nap on the campus lawn after lunch and wander the park after late-night printmaking classes.

When I came out of the restroom at the student center, my husband was already up, waiting. I thought we were changing seats, so I followed — but he started walking toward Union Square. My shoes and clothes, dressed up for dinner, were uncomfortable. I asked him to slow down, but as the alcohol wore off, his mood changed and he began walking faster. I couldn’t shout to stop him — and as my own buzz faded, my mood dropped too.

I waved, suggesting we go home by train. But he kept walking — not even to the start of Union Square, but all the way toward 17th Street. Exhausted, I finally collapsed onto a bench. He disappeared, and I didn’t see him again for a while. When he finally came back and sat next to me, I snapped:

“How could you walk so far ahead without caring that my legs hurt?”

And what did he say?

“Well, you didn’t say your legs hurt.”

Really? Do I always have to say it?

But then again — what’s the point of blaming someone who’s never been thoughtful? The sadder truth is that I’m more tired of myself for following a person like that all my life. I just said, “Let’s go home.”

He didn’t answer. He was asleep. So I quietly got up, took the subway, and went home alone. He’s probably still sitting on that bench, dozing.

Sigh… I give up. I really do.