Lunching with Bradley

Bradley was very busy. I’d phoned him the evening before: “My friend,” I began, “I’m for Cape Town tomorrow to meet my attorney. Shall we do lunch?”

“No. No. No, Dahling. We must first get rid of those ghastly tenants before even considering a cocktail party for the whole building.”

This was how he entered the room.

Bradley was very busy. I’d phoned him the evening before: “My friend,” I began, “I’m for Cape Town tomorrow to meet my attorney. Shall we do lunch?”

“Yes, of course,” he replied. “Terribly busy with new tenants at the moment, but you know what they say: ‘When the going get’s tough, the tough go luncheoning!’”

“Bradley, you know very well that you are the only one who ever says that!”

<Laughing hysterically> “Yes…I suppose you’re right!”

“But that’s excellent news. My meeting is downtown. Should we do Willoughby’s at the Waterfront?”

“Not good for me,” my friend replied. “I suggest the Wild Fig in Observatory. That way we can have a fire.”

It was winter in the Cape …and Bradley loves a good blaze.

“Cheerio! See you tomorrow.”

***

I have many fond memories of life as an expat in Africa, but among the most dear to me are the ones where I’m dining with friends. While the people there still work very hard, they somehow manage to make the time for many long, boozy lunches with each other.

Perhaps this is why so many of our greatest friendships in life were forged during those short years we lived in the Cape. We made time for each other…and that time wasn’t spent watching our favorite series on Netflix. It was looking at each other across a table, often through empty wine bottles illuminated by candle light.

Bradley was among my very favorite meal companions, and I feel I owe it to posterity to record one of our last lunches together before my family left South Africa in 2018.

***

Bradley entered the Wild Fig dining room wearing a brown woolen suit (bespoke, of course) with matching fedora and signature paisley bow tie. His head cocked to the side with his mobile phone to his ear buzzing away, he extended his other hand towards me with a smile.

The restaurant knew of our coming and made sure to place us at a round table right in front of the fireplace.

A waiter hurried over to our table and poured the champagne. It had been chilling prior to Bradley’s arrival. My friend, still chatting on his phone, tossed his fedora over the open champagne bottle in the ice bucket and earnestly tried to wrap up his business.

I had arrived early and was impatient to order. “Walter, I’d like the Norwegian Salmon fish cakes. I’m pretty sure my friend will want the fish as well.”

“No starters?” the waiter asked quietly. “Mr. Bradley always orders starters.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

“And sir, Mr. Bradley always orders the ratatouille for his main.”

“Ah. I see. You know best, my friend.”

Bradley finally ended his phone call.

“Hello, Walter, it’s lovely to see you again,” he addressed the waiter. “I see my friend has already ordered some excellent bubbly. I think I’ll have the soufflé to start and the ratatouille for my main.”

Walter smiled at me.

Sheepishly I murmured “I’ll have the roasted bone marrow and the fish cakes. Thank you, Walter.”

***

“My dear friend; how good it is to see you!” Bradley exclaimed.

“It’s good to be seen, Bradley. Thank you for making the time.”

“Notatall! Notatall! Don’t be ridiculous! What an absolute pleasure. It’s been weeks since our last meeting. How was your trip to America?”

“Well, I’m sure you’ve heard the bad news from Home Affairs in South Africa. They’re denying my visa renewal. We have to leave the country in a few weeks.”

“Yes. Yes. Terrible news. Horrible, ghastly people. How could they watch millions of illegal migrants flooding into the country at will and then be so hard on skilled laborers trying to live here legitimately and pay their taxes?”

“Be careful now, Bradley. You’re beginning to sound like a Republican.”

My friend laughed… as Walter hurried over to refill our flutes.

Bradley laughed because he is a progressive of the George Galloway/Jeremy Corbyn stripe. These two bastions of British working class liberalism claim to faithfully champion the interests of the 99 percent—which is ironic, considering Bradley would never in a million years be mistaken by anyone for being a member of that class. In fact, I reckon my friend is the one percent of the one percent— and not because he was born with a silver spoon in his mouth (he wasn’t). On the contrary, Bradley was an orphan.

Despite his humble origins, Bradley is also an unmistakable aristocrat. You may ask how does one define an “aristocrat” in our post-modern, egalitarian hellscape? Nobody knows. All I know is that aristocrats usually know one another.

Bradley wears tweed in the winter, and if South Africa had a Labor Day, he would be careful not to wear white linen afterwards. He tips his hat to people on the street no matter what their station. “Good morning. How d’you do?”

He smokes good cigars, drinks champagne for lunch, and saves his pipe and cognac for after dinner by his own fire.

He rises when a lady enters the room.

Bradley holds a doctorate in economics, and for pleasure teaches at a local university when he’s not earning his daily bread as a successful property manager. “If one must live in a cut-throat capitalist society,” he muses, “be the one percent, Dahling!” But Bradley is no “limousine liberal.” As he put it to me, “The moral posturing of the neo-liberal elite in America is insufferable! They deserved to have their arrogant, lily white arses handed to them by Trump in 2016!”

No, Bradley is a “vintage liberal.” You know, the kind who still have a sense of humor, thick skin, and generally avoid identity politics in favor of well-argued economic policies that are aimed at benefiting normal people. “Screw the culture wars!” Bradley belts. “Bring back a strong, domestic manufacturing base with liberal infrastructure spending and dignified employment for all!”

Walter arrived with the starters. My roasted bone marrow looked amazing. “Sir, I made the kitchen give you an extra bone…<whispering> because you’re American.”

“Thank you, Walter…I think.”

***

My friend Bradley is a clever man. A thinking man. His convictions are formed from diligent study and careful distillation, not blind adherence to tradition—although he adores tradition, too.

A former atheist, Bradley converted to Judaism long ago and faithfully attended schul every Saturday. On Sunday, he would go to mass with his wife and children (his wife is Christian). His favorite services are the orchestral masses by Schubert.

When all the Covid insanity hit, Bradley had more free time, and, through a mutual friend, was introduced to the Rosary. I wrote about this chapter of our friendship here. This particular prayer devotion showed Bradley a side of Catholicism he hadn’t experienced before. Coinciding with this spiritual awakening, Dr. Bordiss began an earnest review of papal encyclicals on Catholic economic thought.

This study, combined with a growing attraction to the “smells and bells” of ancient liturgies, led Bradley to reconsider one of his long-held beliefs that “a gentleman never changes his religion more than once.” “Don’t be too hard on yourself, friend,” I advised. “Many wouldn’t consider atheism to be a formal religion anyway, so you’re still good.”

Bradley was subsequently baptized and confirmed Catholic. He’s presently working on his first book on Catholic economics through the eyes of the popes.

***

The mains finally arrived, and I dove into my fishcakes. Bradley, however, found fault with his ratatouille. “Walter, would you take this back to the kitchen and ask the chef to put it in the oven a little longer?”

“I’m very sorry about that, Mr. Bradley,” replied the waiter…as he dropped another chilled bottle of champagne into the ice bucket.

Bradley is a gourmet, but you probably already guessed that. He does most of the cooking at home, and, while a pescatarian by choice, he’ll happily prepare his carnivorous guests a full English breakfast with rashers of bacon, pork sausages, and other wonderful treif. If the weather is fine, he’ll even serve you at a little table in his private teapot garden along the alleyway outside his home.

Like our lunches, expect the conversation to be lively, deep, and not short.

And note: there are a few subjects which will never come up in the company of my friend… except in the derogatory sense. They include one’s occupation, sports, and the weather.

“We don’t talk sports,” he says. “We are men of ideas. Thou shalt not be common!”

Indeed, that is one commandment my friend has most definitely never broken.

***

Finishing our mains, we order coffees in a vain attempt to stabilize the fine mid-day buzz we’re beginning to enjoy. “You’re going into a meeting where you are a customer being served by a provider,” joked Bradley. “Whilst I am going into a meeting as a provider negotiating service with a customer. You can do as you like, but it’s essential that I arrive sober!”

I recall that as we shook hands in the parking lot before going our separate ways, I began to be concerned about my imminent return to America. It had been nearly eight years since our move to Africa, but I still remembered the horrible things I used to do back home…like eating fast food in a car whilst driving or being afraid to sniff the cork at a restaurant before 5pm for fear of having my driver’s license suspended.

Moreover, I wondered if Americans even remembered how to have long, meaningful friendships with people who differ in matters of faith and politics? Our social media feeds would suggest otherwise.

Has the politics of polarization really made us not just disagree, but disagreeable?

Could this meal be one of my last “luncheons with Bradley” in a symbolic as well as literal sense?

All I knew is that if a degree of civilization remains in the bombed-out landscape of American discourse, I would probably find it in the South.

“Go back to the South,” said Bradley, during our last lunch together. “Go there and invest yourself in something real. The South is real…and it has good manners.”

Bradley is right. A place with an authentic culture and good manners can produce a sort of “demilitarized zone” where the phenomenon of a two-hour, champagne-infused lunch among friends as different as turkey and tofu can happen—and happen joyfully and often.

So if you’re ever passing through Alabama and have a little time and a hankering for long conversation lubricated with lots of tiny bubbles, lunch is on me…

…but I suggest you call a taxi afterwards.

Bradley