A Respectable Lunch

WORDS BY MALAIKA ALILAW
ART BY ANDREW OLCOTT

A glass of straight whiskey with a square block of ice.
Pinot grigio in a tall stemmed glass.
Sprite and grenadine, a large cluster of maraschino cherries fill half the glass.

He’ll have the steak: bright pink and dripping in garlic. A side of green beans and mashed potatoes.
The lady’ll have the salmon, medium, with a side caesar salad. No dressing. No cheese.
The little one’ll have a cheeseburger with fries, but her mother will force her to share the dull caesar salad as well.

The gentleman’ll have a cup of espresso and a square of pungent coffee cake.
The lady’ll have a strong espresso martini and a few forkfuls of coffee cake.
And the little one’ll have a pink raspberry donut with a scoop of vanilla bean ice cream on the side. Her mom’ll have a few spoonfuls of that as well.

A quiet, respectable lunch. Father has enough fuel and protein for the rest of his day.
Mother, watching her weight, memorized the chart her personal trainer gave her for portion sizes.
Little one is just happy to be there.

Happy to have both her parents love each other in front of her and it not be an act. Happy that Father told her, “get whatever you want kiddo” because his wallet is heavy.

Happy there is no tension in the air. That there are no conversations not being had. That there isn’t an apology that needs to be said.

This would’ve been my dream when I was younger. The three of us sitting around a rich mahogany table, laughing, joyous in each other’s company.

I understand well enough why that can’t happen now. All the conversations that weren’t had.

Tension that will forever grow. Apologies that were never said.

Still, I dream of that lunch.
The ease with which he pulls his heavy black card from his wallet.
Hands it to the polished waitress without any fear. Tips 35% on the check so her day is made.
Mom isn’t exhausted, wondering when they will next fill the car with gas. Not taking yet another phone call for a job that will under pay her and exploit the last of any energy she has.
I’m that sweet little girl.
I call that man “Dad” without all his wrongdoings running through my mind.
I don’t even know what a credit card is.
I just think the restaurant gave us this food. What is a transaction?


Malaika Alilaw is a journalist and creative storyteller who blends curiosity, culture, and community in everything they do. With roots in grassroots media and a love for making big ideas digestible (and delightful), they use their voice—and visuals—to uplift, inform and connect.