Three people, one platter

A platter of grilled kofta arrives at a table near the Jeddah corniche, and the three people sharing it have three different evenings.

The man who ordered it was here a month ago, when the platter came heaped and smoking. Tonight it is neat and modest. He is disappointed before he reaches for the bread.

His sister has never eaten here. She was told it was a plain place where locals go, so the platter looks generous to her. She is pleased.

Their cousin has just come back from a city where dinner by the water meant a long wait and a lukewarm plate. To him this is a small miracle.

Same kofta. Same onions. Same view of the sea going dark.

We talk about a meal as if it were a fixed thing, good or bad, worth it or not. It almost never is. Every verdict is a comparison, and most of the time we do not notice which one we picked. The plate we imagined in the car. The plate at the next table. The plate we had last month.

Move the line it is measured against and the meal moves too. Not only the way it is described afterwards. The meal itself, the one that sits in memory and gets retold to friends.

That is how the same restaurant can be loved and resented on the same night by people passing the same bread basket.

The comparison is usually invisible, which is why we mistake it for the food. It is still there, sitting at the table, deciding before the first bite.