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. Gleeful 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 mall store mannequin, I quickly fell into the vibe around me. I wanted to be part of this trendy lunch crowd.
This hip restaurant nestled in Downtown Sioux City, Iowa, checked many boxes of firsts for me. Not only was it my first wine lunch—it was my first time sipping wine from a stemmed glass. It was also my first upscale dining experience with linen tablecloths.
The lunches I was accustomed to included waitresses wearing heavily pocketed smocks. Menus listed hearty Midwestern fare. The only drinks offered were coffee, tea, or soda.
Sipping my glass of wine, I reveled in the taste—far better than the wine coolers I usually snuck. When Uncle Jay offered to treat me to lunch, I hadn’t considered his ordering me a chardonnay. The Uptown waitress didn’t bat an eye at the order, serving it to me with a smile and no question of age or ID.
I had started the day driving my grandparents to the hospital in Sioux City, a forty-minute excursion from our hometown. 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 showed up unexpectedly. My dad was the oldest son and Jay, the youngest, of my grandparents’ seven children. Although the other six siblings followed the small-town script of marrying young, having kids, 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 again. Jay would never argue, but would 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 typically arrived by motorcycle, wearing cut-off jean shorts with his feathered hair flowing with the wind. Always sporting a moustache and rarely giving notice, he would just show up.
Grandma loved to see him, making room for an extra plate at the already set table without a word. 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 hospital room.
“Jay! We didn’t know you were coming.”
Grandpa was working hard on managing a guided walk with a therapist by his side. 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 restaurant.
Following him, we walked through the historic downtown area of Sioux City. Opening the large glass door with a wide smile, I walked into a restaurant like none I had seen before. Although the outside of the building exuded Old Town charm, the inside had been completely renovated to an upscale 80s style. I was mesmerized from the moment I stepped inside.
From the wait staff to the bartenders, there were no smocks with large pockets that I was used to seeing in the lunch diners I had frequented through my childhood. Hair was worn big, clothes were tight or loose in just the right spots to accentuate the 30ish crowd surrounding.
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 didn't offer me a second glass. Feeling warmth in the face with words spilling from my mouth, he paid the bill, and we went on our way. I do remember him giving a wink to the waitress as we left the restaurant and reemerged into daylight, relinquishing 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 mannequin and then finding all my favorite shopping treasures I exchanged for my hard-working money.
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.
As for me, there would be more wine lunches over the years, all with fancy menus and beautiful wine glasses. However, the other constant was the need for a long nap after post-wine purchases. Expecting this result from my choice led me to pass on the wine when it was offered, rather than accepting it.
As we climbed into grandma’s car, she finally casually asked the question that had likely been on her mind that afternoon.
“So, how was your lunch with Jay?”
I explained the culinary artistry of stacking bacon with turkey between toast and the crunchy delectability of homemade potato chips. My Grandma listened enthusiastically, picturing creations past her taverns and simple ham sandwiches.
“And it was so fun talking with Jay!”
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
