Read Online The Truth About Luck: What I Learned on My Road Trip with Grandma by Iain Reid - Free Book Online Page A

wearing a fresh coat of maroon lipstick.
    7:53 p.m.
    IT’S BEEN A day of extremes. Either it’s been just the two of us — in the car, at my place — or it’s been busy: the Tim Hortons, the grocery store, and now the restaurant. The hostess shows us to a table set for three, next to a window with a view of Ontario Street. Grandma hangs her purse on the back of her chair as the hostess clears the third setting.
    â€œThis is nice,” says Grandma. “It smells so good in here. I’m hungrier than I thought. I shouldn’t have been talking so much before dinner; it made us late.”
    â€œWe’re not late. I always eat around this time.” With the music and background chatter, it’s loud. I’m concerned it’s too loud for Grandma. “Are you sure this is okay?”
    â€œIt’s lovely,” she says. “Great atmosphere in here. Nice to see all the young people.”
    The hostess has been supplanted by an older waitress who introduces herself, drops two glasses of water on the table, along with two menus, and asks if we want anything to drink.
    â€œMaybe just give us a second or two,” I say.
    â€œAren’t you going to get some wine?” wonders Grandma.
    The waitress, a step away, freezes and then looks back over her shoulder.
    â€œOh, well, yes, I could probably have a glass. Are you going to have any?”
    â€œNo, dear, I’m fine.” She turns to the waitress. “One glass of . . .” and then back to me.
    â€œRed, I think. House red is fine.”
    The waitress nods and retreats. We can see the exposed kitchen from our table, a wood-burning oven and the tall chef tossing his pizza dough into the air. With a quick pan, I discern that the uniform for this place is tight and black. The majority of servers are stereotypically attractive females: lots of exposed tanned flesh and tight blond ponytails.
    I hand one menu to Grandma. We’ve reversed our roles from lunch. Since I’ve been to this restaurant and Grandma hasn’t, I’m helping her make a decision. I don’t often eat at restaurants, but this is one of the busiest in Kingston. They specialize in gourmet pizza but have an inclusive menu of chicken, fish, salads, even wild boar.
    â€œWe could always just split a couple of things, that could be good.”
    â€œYes, of course,” she says.
    â€œThey have good pizza here. Could you eat some pizza?”
    â€œOf course.” She puts down her menu. “Whatever you think.”
    â€œOkay, and what about sharing an appetizer to go with it?”
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œThese sound good.” I reach over and retrieve her menu, planting my index finger next to the blackened chicken spring rolls with feta. Grandma squints at the selection. It’s not just noisy in here but dark, too. The candles on the tables are the main source of light. I read the description to her.
    â€œYup, sounds good,” she says. “I absolutely love feta.”
    After we place our order, I sip my wine. Grandma does the same with her ice water. I’m aware that people are intrigued by us, almost goggling. Grandma is also au courant with their looks. “It’s my white hair.” She winks. “They’re all surprised to see me out so late.”
    Grandma and I have been together for about eight or nine hours. We’ve shared two meals. We’ve drunk some coffee, some sherry, and some wine. Nothing disastrous has happened. We still have four more days of this trip to endure. I have no idea what else we can do. What else can we do?
    Seriously. Showing a ninety-two-year-old a good time, or a mediocre time, or just a time, is going to be harder than I thought. I fear an imminent lack of interest, of fun. Just a few days ago I called a friend to see if he had any ideas for me, tips on how to inject some carefree mirth into the trip. He reminded me that I wasn’t really the fun or