Dinner in the Dark

A few days ago, I logged into my Facebook account and saw a post from an old friend on my timeline. It was about a “Dinner in the Dark” experience he had just that evening.

Reading his post instantly threw me back to a memory from when I was about fifteen years old (or so!), when my dad took me to a restaurant by the sea called Kilimangiaro. The restaurant has long since closed, but back then, it was considered one of the best fish restaurants in town. At the time, my dad was very busy with work, so I remember how happy I was when he told me he would take me out for a special dinner – just the two of us.

I remember wearing a pair of jeans and a white top. My mum had already told me to change it before we left, but I refused – I didn’t want to ruin my outfit for a special night. As it turned out, that was a very bad choice, and I will explain why in a moment.

When we arrived at the restaurant, my dad told me that we would be eating in the dark. The experience started the moment we walked in. The entrance hall was already dim, and I remember a dark burgundy velvet curtain opening as a couple of people gently took our hands and led us into another room. This one was completely pitch-black.

I remember squeezing my dad’s hand and the hand of the stranger who was guiding me to the table. There was no light at all, not even a distant point to hold on to. My body stiffened. I was not really walking anymore – I was dragging my feet slowly across the floor, listening to the faint sound of my shoes sliding on the tiles as if that small noise could guide me forward.

Once we were seated at the table, I had no sense of space. The voices around me sounded louder than usual. Every gesture and every movement required attention. I knocked over my water glass a couple of times while trying to pick it up, and I dropped food on my top while trying to find my mouth with the spoon.

My dad, however, seemed to embrace the challenge. At some point, he even insisted on ordering a glass of wine as if eating in complete darkness was not challenging enough already! I remember laughing and thinking how stubborn he was. Very hard-headed, my dad… probably where I get it from.

Eventually, my brain seemed to reprogram itself. It did not shut down, it reorganised. It redistributed attention, amplified other signals, and recalibrated space.

I remember the flavours of the food feeling much more intense than usual. “There is too much garlic in this pasta, Dad!” I complained. I could smell the basil in the sauce as if someone had just brought a fresh bunch right under my nose. The pasta was probably cooked one minute longer than it should have been.

By the time dessert arrived, a tiramisu of course, I had become a bit of a pro. Well, almost. At one point, I suddenly turned my head to the right because I felt someone coming closer to me. In doing so, I accidentally knocked the tiramisu the waiter was just about to place in front of me. So much for my newly acquired skills.

I was inside that almost meditative suspension when a calm voice announced that the lights would return soon. In that moment, I felt my heart tighten. For us, it meant immediately regaining our sense of orientation and safety. For them, nothing would change.

And by them, I mean the blind people who had guided us throughout the dinner, taking care of our temporary difficulty.

When the lights came back on, I felt something strange in my chest. For two hours, we had been vulnerable together. Then, in just a few seconds, the differences became visible again. We returned to our world full of reference points.

They did not.

The space around me was a mess. Breadcrumbs were everywhere. My clothes were dirty and wet – my white top spotted with cocoa powder – and the tablecloth was still covered in tomato sauce stains, especially on my dad’s side.

I felt wonder. An almost uncomfortable kind of wonder. In my childish innocence, and probably without thinking it through, I even asked the blind girl who had served us if she would like to go to the cinema with me one day.

To this day, I still think this is one of the best memories I have with my dad. It was not just a dinner. It was an experience that, in many ways, helped shape who I am today.

And somehow, even now, when I think about that night, I realise my dad was not just taking me out for dinner. He was quietly teaching me how to see the world differently.