A 1985 Wine Lunch
1985 photo at my graduation party wearing the top I purchased after my wine lunch. Jay’s sisters, Barb and Lynne, are at my sides.
“Would you like another glass of wine?”
The waitress directed this question to me with a flash of her pearly whites. The pretty blonde, a ringer for the ’80s Uptown Girl, waited patiently for my answer.
Tipsy from my first glass of wine, I found myself momentarily speechless. My lunch date jumped in to answer for me.
“No, I think she’s good. Thanks.”
It was 1985. I was seventeen.
My silence evaporated along with the waitress. Swirling the last sip in my fancy wine glass, I poured out my teenage aspirations to my uncle. Smiling, he listened attentively to every wine-inspired musing.
Uncle Jay blended in with the stylish crowd, dressed in fitted jeans with flip-flops, his white button-down shirt was ironed but left untucked. Although my look replicated a teen store mannequin from the mall, I fell into the vibe. I was sure these trendy 30-something patrons were my people.
Nestled in Downtown Sioux City, Iowa, the hip restaurant checked many firsts for me. Not only was it my first wine lunch, but was also my first upscale dining experience, complete with fresh linen tablecloths and stemmed glassware.
I was accustomed to lunches with waitresses wearing large pocketed smocks, carrying plastic menus filled with hearty Midwestern fare. Drink options were limited to coffee, tea, or soda.
Sipping my glass of Chardonnay, I reveled in the taste. It was far better than the wine coolers I snuck into park parties. When Uncle Jay offered to treat me to lunch, I hadn’t considered a wine menu. Our waitress didn’t bat an eye at my order, serving it to me with a smile — no questions asked, and no request for ID.
With a driver’s license in hand, my day had begun driving my grandparents to the hospital in Sioux City, a forty-minute trip. Our small rural town did not have the rehabilitation services available that Grandpa needed. This drive had become our new norm as he went through the long recuperation process from his stroke.
Everything was typical that day — until Jay arrived. The youngest son of my grandparents’ seven children, he was a free spirit. While his siblings followed the small-town script of marrying young, having children, and fulfilling family expectations, Jay forged his own path.
Still a bachelor at age thirty, I often overheard Grandma asking about his nontraditional lifestyle. When would she see him back in our hometown church? Without argument, Jay would instead smile, giving Grandma vague reassurances that all was just fine.
My grandparents lived just up the street from my family; their house was an extension of my own — always buzzing with meals and family commotion. Uncle Jay visited often, but rarely in the conventional way.
He would arrive unexpectedly by motorcycle in cut-off jean shorts, his feathered hair flowing in the wind. Most times, he was coming from the favored Remsen bar, Beer City. Always happy to see him, Grandma would quietly make room for an extra plate at the already set table.
Jay’s arrival in Sioux City that day was classic: unannounced, perfectly timed as Grandpa began his rehab. Grandma beamed as he walked into the room.
“Jay! We didn’t know you were coming.”
Grandpa was working hard managing a guided walk alongside his therapist. Seeing a struggle, Grandma suggested that Jay and I grab lunch in the hospital cafeteria. This would allow more focus in the rehab room.
Agreeing but with a different venue in mind, Jay invited me to his favorite downtown eatery.
We walked through historic Downtown Sioux City to a restaurant with an outside old-style charm. Opening the large glass door, Jay smiled as I followed him into the trendy, renovated 80s space. I was mesmerized.
A menu was elegantly printed in cursive on premium cardstock and affixed to a small clipboard. I noticed that instead of the regular Iowa lunch fare of burgers and deli sandwiches, the offerings were all new to me, complete with detailed explanations of their composition.
I chose the turkey club, which was stacked with turkey, bacon, and avocado. My only experience with avocados to that point was in guacamole, not the sliced richness I would soon enjoy in a sandwich.
My head held a lingering warmth as Uncle Jay paid the bill. He shot a subtle wink to the waitress and we reemerged into daylight. As Jay walked back to the hospital, I wasn’t ready to relinquish my role as a plush patron.
With a breezy buzz, I hit the stylish shops on Main Street. Buying a pastel plaid shirt straight off a boutique mannequin, I went on to scour the downtown stores for my favorite treasures. My hard-earned money was exchanged for frivolous purchases.
I returned to the hospital just as Grandpa finished his therapy and was resting. Jay had taken off just as he had arrived — without fanfare.
I closed my eyes, sitting in the chair next to Grandpa. With packages spilling in the space around me, I fell into a deep sleep.
I awoke to the sound of Grandpa unwrapping a snack and the feel of Grandma’s curious eyes watching me. Rather than the little girl I had been in her eyes, she was seeing me for the soon-to-be high school graduate I had become.
Under Grandma’s watchful gaze, I felt my first sense of adult expectation. Soon, I would be making my own life choices. On that day, I chose the wine. Uncle Jay made the good choice of restricting me to one glass.
That day, Grandma didn’t know where life would carry us — what paths Jay would take, or what choices I would come to make.
The following year, Jay’s bachelor chapter quietly closed. He and his new wife welcomed a baby boy not long after.
For me, there would be some more wine lunches over the years, all with fancy menus and beautiful wine glasses. However, with the need for a long nap and post-wine purchases becoming a recurring theme, I learned to pass on midday wine.
My eventful day ended with me sober and back in my grandparents’ car. Grandma broke the silence of our long highway drive home by casually asking the question that had been on her mind.
“So, how was your lunch with Jay?”
I explained the culinary artistry of stacking bacon and avocado with turkey between slices of toast, as well as the crunchy wonder of homemade potato chips. Grandma listened enthusiastically, picturing potential creations beyond her taverns and simple ham sandwiches.
“And it was so fun talking with Jay!” I added to finish the conversation.
I chose not to share the details behind my new wine womanhood.
Grandma just smiled — that slow, knowing smile.
1988 photo of Uncle Jay and his newborn son, John
