The First Anniversary Dinner

We celebrated our first year together a couple of weeks ago. I’ve personally never found first anniversaries to be too significant, thinking that so many people reach this milestone and end up falling out with each other anyway. Despite that, though, I cannot undermine the fulfilment and the good that the past year together has brought me nor the simple pleasures of our celebratory dinner that night. I want to continue to remember the warmth of that meal and to jot down these moments of comfort, however much or little these may mean in the future.

Would it be possible for us to move to the tables outside?

When B booked the place, he had asked for indoor seating, preferably in a corner. That’s usually my preferred arrangement as well, on days I’m not dressed for the humidity outside. We took our seats in the corner close to the entrance, and almost at the exact moment we gained awareness of how loud the music was, a few diners from a couple of tables away started laughing away heartily. We looked at each other and immediately knew what that meant — this was way too much noise for our comfort. While we considered tolerating it — perhaps it was still a better idea than sitting outside, close to the road, with passersby walking right by our table — we soon decided to make the shift anyway.

I was pleased with that decision; I simply could not imagine having to strain to speak and listen for the next hour or so. While it was just a simple move, in that moment, I thought it was really precious that conversation is so important to us, that being able to enjoy our talks and give each other due attention without fighting the music and the increasing number of voices in the bar was a clear priority.

What’s a tartare?

It took us some time to decide on our order. Though particular items on the menu caught our eye right away, and there were clearly safe options — what I tell myself as I gravitate towards the familiar — it seemed slightly dull to already know what to expect. We took longer than the average diner to narrow our options to just two from each category — small plates, pizzas, pastas — and a bit more discussion thereafter to decide on the one.

We settled on a burrata parma ham pesto pizza over a familiar truffle mushroom one, and a squid ink pasta which I’d tried once before at another restaurant but had no recollection of. As we looked at the small plates, B asked, What’s a tartare?

I could picture it in my head, having seen it on Hell’s Kitchen several times, but I never knew what exactly went into it. We googled a picture of the tuna tartare from that bar and eventually decided, Why not?

Honestly, while his eagerness to try something new rubbed off on me, a part of me actually wished we went for something that we could be sure we would like. And yet, as I hyped myself up and hoped for the best — while also mentally preparing myself to not feel the heartache if we ended up paying for something we didn’t enjoy — I did start to feel excited. The worst that could happen was that we’d find it a disappointment and not finish the food. And even so, I was sure that we’d enjoy just having the shared experience. Knowing so well that he would not harp on the ‘wrong decision’, that he would likely say (with a smile) ‘at least we tried’, I realised then that if I were to be excited about something new and unfamiliar with anyone, it would be him.

With him, things are simple. There’s no need to mull over inconsequentially ‘bad’ decisions, especially when there’s a good chance we could laugh over it, or wince as we talk about it in future.

Water will do.

As it was a celebratory dinner, we considered getting some wine from their extensive drinks menu. The prices, however, changed our minds soon enough. B asked if it’d be a better idea to have a drink elsewhere instead, and the answer was clear to me. Given that we weren’t connoisseurs of any sort, I wasn’t keen on ordering nor paying that amount for a drink whose name I’d butcher.

In the weeks before, we had bought beers from convenience stores and enjoyed them on public swings and benches by the river, and sipped moscato out of a tumbler while watching Netflix at home. I think I like that much better.

Thank you.

That night, as we sat with our emptied plates and half-full glasses, I felt that there was so much to thank him for, and I went ahead to let him know all about it. What I didn’t mention, though, was that above all, I was also grateful for the way he’s spoken to me since the beginning — always kind and gentle despite the harsh truths and always unabashed in declaring his love and pride and appreciation for me. I knew well and clear that all the words I had for him came easy that night only because of how easy he’s made me feel throughout this time.

Simple as the celebration was, I liked the thought of us that was put into it and how much of us emerged from it. Considering all that had happened recently — and the fact that it was a Monday night of a long week ahead — I truly wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

So, thank you for the dinner, and as you always say, thank you for you.