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The Great Mohican
By
Michele daSilva, Oct 13, 2009
We were at the Great Mohican restaurant in Poughkeepsie. I had begun a ritual of taking him there every Friday
night. He liked the big booths and checkerboard floors. We sat next to a row of windows that looked out onto the
cold river. The waitress took our drink orders and lit a votive candle in the middle of the table. The flame made
him nervous. I kept my paper menu far away from it to ease his tension.
I skimmed the menu even though I knew it by heart. I had tried almost everything once. He didn’t look at his
menu; he just turned it over and moved it to the edge of the table, away from the flickering votive. The waitress
came back with our drinks. She set them down on small white napkins and walked away. He gazed out the window at
the twinkling lights strung across the Mid-Hudson Bridge like an expensive necklace.
“What are you having?” I asked.
“Steak and fries,” he said.
“No,” I said. “Have something else.”
“I like steak and fries.”
“I know you do, but life is short. Have something else.”
“I know life is short, that’s why I always get steak and fries.”
“Don’t you ever want to try something new?”
“Always,” he said.
“Why don’t you?”
“What if I don’t like it? Tomorrow I’ll have wished I had just stuck to steak and fries.”
“Forget about tomorrow.”
The waitress came back to take our order. I looked at him and nodded and said, “You first.” He picked up the menu
and really looked at it for the first time. He moved his lips a little as he read the descriptions. Then he
scratched his graying beard and said, “Pistachio-crusted salmon and warm arugula salad.” I liked the way he said
it, slow and lingering on each word. She scribbled it down in a little notepad and then looked at me.
“Steak and fries,” I said.
She took the menus and walked down the aisle and through the swinging door into the steaming kitchen.
Michele daSilva lives in upstate New York. Her stories have appeared in Six Little Things, Six
Sentences, and 50 to 1.
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