Shared Food, Shared Lives

When I first shook hands with my future husband, Mark, he was fresh off the plane from London, flushed with the heat of walking from his hotel to the office in Tampa, Florida, in a wool suit in September. I think I was less shocked at the winter suit than I was at his decision to walk, rather than cab it on the company dime.

It was a busy time at our office, which is why Mark had been sent from the London branch to help. The receptionist sent around a take-out menu for dinner, and I wondered if Mark knew anything about Mexican food. Had he come across many chile rellenos in London? It sounded like a valid reason to cover for a true intention of flirting, so I offered my help. “The burritos are good. They’re the size of a fire log! But they are really spicy, so … ”

“The spicier the better! Pick one and we’ll split it,” he said. I was immediately impressed — not only was he willing to brave Taqueria Quetzalcoatl’s fire sauce, but he was the kind of guy that was comfortable sharing food with someone he had just met.

As we sat in the break room, wrestling with our Pollo Picante burrito, we immediately discovered things we had in common. We were born within eight hours of each other, we had the same dry sense of humor, and we each had an encyclopedic knowledge of ’80s pop music. I began to wonder if maybe Mark was meant to be on this side of the pond for reasons other than work.

Days passed after the magic Burrito Day of September 24, and still Mark did not ask me out. I will admit that I was shameless with my constant attention to him. (In my defense, albeit a weak one, I was a mere 24 years old at the time.) He cautiously flirted with me, and we talked for great lengths of time, but there was no indication that the object of my affection was ever going to make his move.

Never one to waste time or risk playing the fool, I asked him if he’d like to join me for a couple of beers and to check out some places in Tampa (wasn’t I a helpful co-worker?). We ended up chatting for hours, getting to know as much as we could about one another (“20 Questions” is how Mark sums up the night — referring to the barrage of questions we lobbed back and forth).

That night, I learned that if I hadn’t offered my help with the menu on Burrito Day, and if I hadn’t asked him out for a couple of beers, we probably would have never been anything other than office friends. With his determination to vie for a job at our office, Mark had walked through those front doors with no intention of dating the proofreader (my job at the time).

We kept our romance secret for the next few weeks so as not to interfere with Mark’s chances of working in Tampa (though I am sure a few of our co-workers had a hunch). However, just as Mark and I began talking about how great it would be if he lived and worked in the United States, a company-wide hiring freeze was put into effect and suddenly we were faced with the reality that soon he would be an ocean away.

Before Mark left the States and headed to Germany (his next office assignment), he surprised me with a trip to Eleuthera in the Bahamas. We half-heartedly joked that we should get married while we were there, so we wouldn’t have to live apart. Better judgment kept us from matrimony though, and we outwardly avoided the subject of the looming departure. As we parted at the airport, bound for different countries, I told myself that I would be okay if I never heard from him again. After all, I had just spent weeks living a romance novel.

Mark called shortly after he arrived in Germany. We immediately began making plans to see each other again. “Do you think your mom would mind setting an extra place at the Thanksgiving table?” he asked. “I’ve always wanted to know what that holiday is all about.” I was beyond floored — not only would I be seeing him again, but he was offering to meet my family.

Trans-Atlantic dating was filled with equal parts fantasy and hardship. We saw each other on average every four to six weeks. In some ways, it was a fantasy courtship: my spontaneous visit to meet him in Paris on Valentine’s weekend, meeting his family in England, driving his Fiat Punto on the German Autobahn, and having packages arrive from overseas with presents from Mark, like Fauchon chocolates and coffee from Hédiard.

Naturally, there were difficulties as well: phone bills that were higher than our rent payments, an eight-hour time difference (Mark would call me at 8 a.m. my time to discuss the amazing curry he'd just had for dinner), and the torturous weeks between visits.

After a year of crossing the Atlantic to see each other, we decided to get married and live on the same continent. Our wedding took place on December 28, 1999. It was a small, intimate ceremony on a cliff in Santa Barbara, California. We had chosen the date the previous week, deciding against the Year 2000 New Year’s Eve wedding that had tempted us.

While many couples celebrate their wedding anniversaries with lavish gifts, spectacular getaways, or fine dining, we have found that the week between Christmas and New Year’s Day is a tricky time to plan such anniversary extravagances, given post-holiday exhaustion, depleted bank accounts, fully booked flights and crazy work schedules. More often than not, our wedding anniversary gets caught in the whirlwind of “life stuff” and making big plans becomes more stressful than enjoyable.

Instead of diamond earrings on December 28, we opt for something far more romantic and meaningful to us — a shared burrito on September 24. Sometimes we travel back to Tampa and eat the Pollo Picante at Taqueria Quetzalcoatl, sometimes we track down a different version in New York City. No matter where we are in the world on that day, we always share a colossal burrito, have a couple of beers, and laugh about a wool suit, a flirtatious proofreader, and the early days of flying across the Atlantic ocean to be together.

Heather Spencer and husband, Mark, are now Nashvillians enjoying the spicier side of life!