Excerpt from Table for Two by Amor Towles, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

And over there at the table by the door sits Madeline Davis. Seventy, if a day, Madeline has been a widow for at least four presidential elections, and it shows. The dress she's wearing has gone in and out of style twice since she bought it in 1962 and she applies her makeup with all the misplaced generosity of a Rockette. She also happens to be a particularly divine example of the Park Avenue pauper.

Though Madeline hasn't given a dime to charity, purchased a work of art, or read a book in over twenty years, when her husband was still alive the Davis name was indelibly etched onto the mailing lists of the city's museums, galleries, and publishers. This proved fortuitous since, as her income shrank, she could dine at least twice a week on cold canapes and warm white wine at the latest benefit or opening. In fact, at some point in the late 1990s as these quasi-affairs were getting more extravagant, she began carrying Ziploc bags in her purse so that when no one was looking she could pilfer enough food from the buffet to last her the week.

This delightful practice went on for some time. Then one night at the Museum of Natural History—at a reception for something or other—she came face to face with a pyramid of Swedish meatballs. The dish must have been her weak spot, for bypassing the crudité and cheese platters, Madeline opted to fill all three of her baggies with the delectable little spheres, spooning in some extra gravy for good measure.

At the end of the party, Madeline exited the museum with the rest of us, gripping her purse tightly to her chest. But at the very moment she was descending the steps, an enterprising Buckley boy who walked his neighbors' dogs for a fee was passing by with a motley crew of canines on intertwined leashes. Well, perhaps Madeline had been gripping her purse a little too tightly and one of the baggies had burst because suddenly all eight dogs were tugging on their restraints. Four of them began to bark. The urgency of the pack proved too much for the lad and, breaking free, they bounded up the steps in her direction. Faced with certain death, Madeline did what any sensible woman would do: she reached into her purse and began flinging the meatballs at the oncoming dogs as her fellow Manhattanites looked on in horror. Which just goes to show that while thrift may be a virtue, every virtue has its limits.

"Here you are, Mr. Skinner."

"Thank you, Luis."

After reviewing the bill, I paid in cash leaving Luis the requisite fifteen percent, donned my coat, saluted Lawrence, waved to Bobbie, and was almost out the door.

"Percival!"

"Ah. Madeline. I didn't see you there."

A wiser man would have approached with his hands in his pockets. Before I realized my error, she had grabbed my left with an arthritic claw.

"It's been ages," she said.

"I was just thinking something along those lines myself."

"We should have dinner some time."

"That would be lovely," I replied and headed for the door. Though needless to say, I'd sooner hang.



An Inquiry

One reason I still dine at La Maison is that it is located just a few blocks from my apartment building, a twenty-story prewar on Park Avenue. At one time, I commanded six rooms on the eighteenth floor with a sizable balcony. In preparation for retirement, I sold the place to a hedge fund manager half my age and purchased a two bedroom on the fourth floor. I might have ended up with a little more space and a little more light had I been willing to move, but I'm too old to learn the names of a new slate of doormen.

"Hello, Max."

"Welcome back, Mr. Skinner. How was lunch?"

"Same as usual."

"And how is that?"

"At my age, a cause for celebration."

Max smiled. But when I made a move to enter, he gave a tilt of the head and lowered his voice.

"There's a gentleman waiting for you."

"For me?"

Excerpted from Table for Two by Amor Towles. Copyright © 2024 by Amor Towles. Excerpted by permission of Viking. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.