THE SHARED FEAST

Back in two thousand and seven is when I last spoke to him. He passed away shortly afterwards. He was in his late seventies, more or less. And yes, it was a lovely memorial service.
Everyone was there. Including his mistress.
Who was not even thirty at that time.
No, it isn't what you think at all.
She wasn't a gold digger.
And he was never a dirty old man yearning for fresh meat.

That is to say, he very well may have been a dirty old man lusting after juicy young things, but it was neither fiduciary interest that moved her, nor randy old hormones that drove him.
Any dirty-old-manhood on his part was purely intellectual.
As it usually is for men who achieve solid maturity.
The relationship was almost semi-platonic.
He knew Latin.
She wished to learn better Latin.
He was a language maven, had been all his life.
She was a medieavalist going into medical transcription.

Initially she paid him. He very gallantly turned that money into lovely dinners at cozy restaurants, which eventually became little trips out of town at nice bed and breakfast places in the wine country, as well as a few little cruises to Alaska or the Caribbean. He liked having a companion who shared similar interests, and she enjoyed being around him because he was a delightful old fellow, and keenly interested in food and strange foreign cultures. It seemed like a natural fit, despite the huge difference in age between them.
Yeah, they slept together.
Both of them were full of energy.
I know this, but really that's all I know.

I was in a large part responsible for the two of them hooking up.
Him I knew because we argued over passages of the Pentateuch - he knew the Latin, I construed the Hebrew, both of us went off of published analyses and commentaries. Her I knew because a friend had introduced us, thinking that a language nut might be able to get her Latin up to par (medical transcription uses bastardized Latin, Greek, and gibberish - very bastardized gibberish).
I realized early on that I was no help whatsoever.
So I introduced the two of them.
They took it from there.

Initially he had NO interest in food or funky foreign cultures. He despised everything that wasn't meat and potatoes, considered all native societies where people walk around semi-clothed rather primitive, and spent much of his time since retirement playing bridge and reading.
But she was fun to be with. She liked to eat. And she was hot.
Hot in the sense that any intelligent woman is hot.
Meaning that she was unremarkable.
But intellectually magnetic.
Quite the keeper.
Yes, hot.

I have no clue when they finally started relating on a physical level. It was probably after a dinner at a nice restaurant, and I'm guessing they quoted Latin at each other till both of them were silly. While the lights were low.
She admitted later that she rather enjoyed people assuming that he was her grandfather.

"Oh, I cannot go home with you, I'm with grampa, and I have to make sure he takes his pills tonight."

He wasn't on medication, and he was full of beans besides.
But it's a good excuse.

Because she liked Thai food, and Vietnamese noodle soups, and Jamaican jerk chicken, he quietly started finding out about stuff that wasn't standard issue white food. Without telling her. Then he would spring a little eatery on her, and order things that he knew pleased her.
I don't think she ever figured out his methodological approach, though.
She was just tickled pink that she had a man to eat with.
Who wasn't freaked out by foreign muck.
And liked eating with her.

Whatever this funky cross between old rope and compost heap is, it tastes just fine with the right person across the table orgasming over its delicate flavour and exquisite texture.
Say, what is this crap anyway?

I often had to explain strange dishes to him, as we all know that that is what I do best.
I know goofy food. You cannot study South East Asian languages without delving into the diet. And truth be told, I've always been fascinated by what people put in their mouths.
I knew what he was doing. Research, and familiarization.

They were together for over five years before he crashed the Ferrari.
Yes, they had a wonderful time together.
A perfect couple.

He never got to see her old and wrinkled. She didn't have to get used to him slowly losing his acuity, or his vibrantly spunky attitude.
It may have ended at the best possible time.

They had never married.
At the memorial service, many of his friends assumed that she was the beloved grand daughter.
She smiled politely, and helped them reminisce about the old man.
After it was over, I took her to a bar and got her drunk.
Cabbed her over to her aunt's house.

Picked her up again for breakfast, and took her around town.
She had always known this day would come.
Still, too sudden, too soon.
Dang.


The estate and insurance gave her enough to travel around the world. She cut the trip short less than a quarter of the way through, somewhere in the Andes, because it just wasn't fun eating foreign food without him. She finished her training and moved to east coast. She has two daughters now, whom I have not met.
I probably never will. Last time I talked to her, she admitted that she had told them about their "great grand father". Who was a splendid old fellow, keenly adventurous, a food maven.

He flew planes in Korea and Vietnam, you know.
Had a classics degree, taught Latin.
You should have met him.
A marvelous chap.

And he really liked trying new foods.


He actually preferred meat and potatoes.
But I need not mention that.



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