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, an Uptown Girl ringer straight from an '80s music video, 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 years old.
Swirling the last sip of wine in my fancy wine glass, my silence evaporated with the waitress. Jabbering poured from my mouth as I shared my teenage aspirations with my uncle. Smiling, he listened attentively to my wine-inspired musings.
Uncle Jay was dressed in his signature jeans with flip-flops. His white button-down shirt was ironed and untucked. Although my look replicated a teen store mannequin, I quickly fell into the vibe around me. I wanted to be part of this trendy 30-something lunch crowd.
The hip restaurant was nestled in Downtown Sioux City, Iowa, and checked many boxes of firsts for me. Not only was it my first wine lunch, but it was also my first upscale dining experience, complete with fresh linen tablecloths and stemmed glassware.
The lunches I was accustomed to included waitresses wearing large pocketed smocks. Plastic menus listed hearty Midwestern fare with drink options of coffee, tea, or soda.
Sipping my glass of wine, I reveled in the taste—far better than the wine coolers I snuck into park parties. When Uncle Jay offered to treat me to lunch, I hadn’t considered him ordering me a chardonnay. The Uptown waitress didn’t bat an eye at the order, serving it to me with a smile and no questions on age or ID.
My day had started with driving my grandparents to the hospital in Sioux City, a forty-minute excursion. 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. He is the youngest son of my grandparents’ seven children. Although the other siblings followed the small-town script of marrying young, having children, and fulfilling family expectations, Jay was forging his own trail.
Still a bachelor at age thirty, I often overheard Grandma asking him about his free-spirited lifestyle and when she would see him back in our hometown church. Jay wouldn’t argue, but instead chuckle and give Grandma vague reassurances that all was okay.
Living down the street from my grandparents, I frequented their home. From meals to projects or out-of-town family visits, I was there. Uncle Jay visited often, but rarely in the conventional way. He arrived randomly by motorcycle, wearing cut-off jean shorts, his feathered hair flowing in the wind.
Grandma loved to see him, quietly making room for an extra plate at the already set table. Just like Jay’s visits in Remsen, he showed up unexpectedly while Grandpa started his rehab that day. Grandma broke into a big smile as he walked into the room.
“Jay! We didn’t know you were coming.”
Grandpa was working hard on managing a guided walk along side his therapist. Grandma suggested that maybe an hour of focused work was needed in the rehab room. Maybe Jay and I could go grab lunch in the hospital cafeteria.
But Uncle Jay had something else in mind, inviting me to his favorite downtown eatery.
Following him, we walked through the historic downtown area of Sioux City. Opening the large glass door, Jay smiled as I followed him into a restaurant like none I had seen before. Although the outside of the building exuded historic charm, the inside had been renovated to an upscale 80s style. I was mesmerized.
From the wait staff to the bartenders, there were no smocks. Hair was worn big, clothes were tight or loose in just the right spots to accentuate the 30ish crowd.
A menu was handed to me. Rather than a coating of sticky plastic, I was given an elegant list of specials printed in cursive on premium cardstock and affixed to a small corkboard. Scanning the menu, instead of seeing the regular Iowa lunch fare of burgers or deli sandwiches, there were only a few lunch choices on the menu, all with detailed explanations of their composition.
I chose the turkey club, which was to be 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.
Uncle Jay ultimately didn't offer a second glass. Feeling the warmth fill my face as words spilled from my mouth, he paid the bill, and we went on our way. Jay gave a wink to the waitress as we left the restaurant and reemerged into daylight. I wasn’t quite ready to relinquish my role as the plush patron.
My breezy buzz was still going strong as I hit the trendy shops on Main Street. I was all in. Buying a pastel plaid shirt straight off of a boutique mannequin and then scouring the downtown shops for all my favorite shopping treasures, I exchanged my hard-working money for frivolous purchases.
By the time I returned to rehab at the hospital, Grandpa had finished his session for the day and was resting. After staying for a bit as Grandpa finished up, Jay took off as well. Just as he had arrived—without fanfare—he left the same way. My buzz had died down by this time, and I quickly fell asleep in the chair next to Grandpa with packages filling the space around me.
I woke to the sound of Grandpa unwrapping a snack as Grandma watching me with curious eyes, looking at me as a teenager ready to graduate and not as the little girl shadowing her grandma.
With Grandma’s watching gaze, I felt my first sense of adult expectation. Soon, I would be making my own life choices. Today I chose the wine, but it was Uncle Jay who saved me by keeping it to a one-glass lunch. Grandma did not know that day where Jay and my future choices would take us.
Jay ended his bachelorhood the next year, with a baby boy in his arms, not long after.
For me, there would be some more wine lunches over the years, all with fancy menus and beautiful wine glasses. However, the need for a long nap after post-wine purchases kept recurring. Knowing this likely result led me to pass on the lunch wine when it was offered more often than to accept it.
As we climbed into grandma’s car, she casually asked the question that had been on her mind that afternoon.
“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
