On this anniversary, I wish I could dine with my mother one more time

It’s the early 1970’s. I'm home from college. My mother asks if I’d like to go to lunch with her. I said sure and we were off to the Magic Pan—a restaurant known for its crepes.

We’re sitting at our table checking out the menu when we notice a dish at the table next to us. My mom keeps staring at it so I tell her to ask the woman eating it what it is.

She does and gets this response, “It's delicious. Would you like a bite?”

My mom says she’d love one, eats it and agrees how good it is—then she orders something else.

I'm shaking my head and wishing I was old enough to order alcohol with my meal.

It’s a few years later. My parents have gone to Las Vegas to see Steve Lawrence and Eydie Gorme in concert. When they returned home, I asked her about the gig. She said, “It was the greatest show I’ve ever seen.” I responded, “I guess you never saw Led Zeppelin on Acid.” She smirked and walked away.

The next day she called me to tell me about Steve and Eydie. She spent the next fifteen minutes telling me about all the food they ate in Vegas and how spectacular it was. “You should have been there. You wouldn't believe this spread. You would have loved it.

Not a word about Steve & Eydie. By the way, I never saw Led Zeppelin in concert on acid or not.

I've written about my mother multiple times over the last eleven years. If you've read even one of those columns, you know she was more than a little quirky. Her reactions to food and dining were part of that quirkiness. And there's more—much more. Where's that alcohol when you need it?

After my father died in 1982, my mother eventually moved to Palm Desert, California. I was already living in Tustin, about ninety minutes away. It made for an easy drive to see her.

One weekend, I went to visit her and showed up early—around 3:00. She said, “I’m glad you’re here now. We have dinner reservations at 4:00. This place is always busy. I sighed and told her, “If we can eat at a normal hour, I’ll buy dinner and give you $100.” She said “Shut up and get ready to go.”—and there may have been an F-bomb along with the shutting up.

An hour later, I was eating tacos in a half-empty Mexican restaurant. It was even too early for the residents of the California desert. And yes, there were much-needed Margaritas.

The reason for these stories is today is the anniversary of the day my mother died. June 3, 2003. Twenty-one years have now passed but the memories still are fresh in my mind.

A few years after the early bird dinner, some of our Highland Park neighbors are visiting California. We’re meeting them for lunch at Las Brisas, a Mexican restaurant in Laguna Beach. It’s one of my favorites because it’s located on the beach, with a spectacular view of the Pacific Ocean.

We have a reservation but the place is packed and we have to wait. This doesn't sit well with my mom and she lets the hostess know. Yeah, she might be right about this, but this was just the beginning.

We’re finally seated but our waitress doesn't show up. When she does, my mom lets her know how disappointed she is with the experience. Instead of apologizing, the waitress gets snarky with her.

All this before we had water brought to the table.

We order our food and it takes a long time to arrive. The excuse is they were busy and short-staffed. But, then my mom looks at it and says “This isn't what I ordered.” So we call the waitress back over. My mom tells her she has the wrong food. The response is to show her the check which has what she ordered written on it. It’s the food in front of her. “But, ma'am, we can change your meal but it will take another twenty minutes to make it.”

My mom said fine she’ll eat what she has but isn't happy about it. As our waitress walked away, my mother had some lovely words for her including dropping the c-word on her.

This time there really was not enough alcohol at Las Brisas to deal with that experience.

I've thought a lot about these stories and so many more over the last two decades. But it’s on days like this one that they hit home even more—and harder.

So much has happened and changed since June of 2003. She has missed so much—as have we. I wish she was still around so I could have another meal with her. I'd even take her back to Las Brisas for the early bird dinner. I'm sure they still have Margaritas.