Camels at The Brambles

(Cambria, California)

Someone called this rambling restaurant home,
once, but now it’s a five-star steakhouse
where dozens of diners cluster on Saturday nights.
Promised a spot by the fire, we are taken instead
to a far corner booth, surely unchanged in forty-five years—
worn red upholstery, torn wallpaper, a faint glow
from a battery-operated lamp—and over our heads,
two faded etchings: a gypsy dancing in the marketplace,
toes barely touching the ground, as amorous Arabs look on;
and camels bending to drink at a palm-fringed oasis.
One camel’s bundle resembles a peacock’s fan.
We’re becoming unmoored when our waiter, Lawrence,
swoops up. This is my favorite booth, he announces.
I just want to put curtains on it. We agree—
not only curtains, but pillows and a hookah
would make it fit for a desert prince and his princess.
We celebrate our birthdays with Cabernet, surf and turf.
For dessert, Lawrence brings English trifle, two candles
mounting a peak of whipped cream. Back at the hotel,
we watch Peter O’Toole cross the dunes and declare,
Nothing is written. Choose your own destiny
and ride it like a camel, loose-lipped and free.

Dinner Plates