“I’ll take the sirloin steak, I guess.”

“Hamburger?” Dennis asked with disdain. “You’re going to get a hamburger?”

His parents had invited us to an Italian restaurant in Manhattan to celebrate our engagement.

The restaurant was far more elegant than any I was accustomed to: white table cloths, candles and flowers on each table, waiters in crisp white shirts with bow ties.

Our waiter rolled his eyes.

“And how would you like that prepared, Miss?”

“Medium,” I said, uncertainly.

“Becky, do you really want a hamburger?”

Dennis was not going to give up. His parents looked at me with some suspicion.

I glanced over the menu again. I was not familiar with most of the items: prime rib, porterhouse, filet mignon, medallions… And, I didn’t even know that a “sirloin steak” was a hamburger. I had simply scanned the right side of the menu for the prices.

Some of the entrees didn’t even have a price!

I selected “sirloin steak,” because it was the least expensive—and even then it was far more than I would have paid.

“Maybe I should get the spaghetti and meatballs,” I ran my gaze over to items under the header “Primi Piatti.”

“We’re being treated, Becky. This is a celebration. You should order what you want.”

By now, Dennis knew that I was almost pathologically price conscious.

Cost was one thing, of course, but I was also woefully unfamiliar with cuts of meat and any food not served at a church picnic.

Occasionally, Mother would prepare a t-bone steak when I was growing up. It was always the cheapest selection she could find at the Winn Dixie. Invariably the steaks were tough, and after she broiled them, even tougher. The only way I could make it through the meal was with copious amounts of A-1 Sauce.

I noticed there were no bottles of sauce of any kind on the table. Not even ketchup. I guess that meant no French Fries.

Once in a blue moon Mother prepared a pot roast. I always found the meat stringy and so chewy my jaws would ache after the meal.

Not that Mother was a bad cook.

She could whip up a good pork chop, and the hams she prepared were always tender and juicy.

My brother and I had fun when she fried salmon patties because they came with bones that resembled tiny spools. I wanted to make jewelry with the ones I collected, but Mother always threw them away.

It was her fried chicken that I especially enjoyed. Whenever it was my birthday, that’s what I always requested along with rice, gravy, and green beans that had been stewed to a pulp in bacon grease. Add some homemade buttermilk biscuits and my favorite white cake with chocolate icing, and I was in culinary heaven.

There was nothing like that on this menu though.

I looked at Dennis in panic.

“Try the filet mignon,” he suggested.

“Will the lady have the filet, then?” the waiter asked. He had a slight accent.

“Yes. Make it medium rare,” Dennis instructed, handing the waiter my menu.

His parents looked visibly relieved.

“Medium rare?” I whispered to Dennis. “Will it be bloody?”

“If it’s cooked too long, it loses flavor and gets too tough,” he explained.

That must have been Mother’s mistake. But my older sisters were squeamish with meat that was pink. And so I was, too.

I can’t remember much about the meal now. We had drinks before dinner. Mine was a whisky sour. Wine with dinner—a heavy red. And sambuca after dinner, complements of Vito, the owner.

What I remember about the dinner, was the lesson it provided.
On the way home, Dennis returned to the question of the menu.

“You wanted the sirloin steak because it was the cheapest on the menu, right?”

“Right. Everything was so expensive.”

“But what did you WANT to eat?”

“Honestly, I didn’t know. I didn’t even know that a sirloin steak was a hamburger. I just didn’t want to spend so much money on a single meal. I mean, it seems wasteful.”

“The sirloin was $12.00, the filet was $15.00, and my parents were paying. Really, Becky, you need to allow yourself to splurge now and then.”

I was on such a tight shoestring of a budget, though, trying to pay my way through graduate school, and I’d spent my entire life watching my mother agonize about spending money.

At the Winn Dixie, she only bought the store’s “Thrifty Maid” brand. And often only when there was a sale.

We’d have to push the grocery cart past all the foods we saw advertised on TV—the Fruit Loops and Cocoa Puffs—to buy whatever was cheap and available in bulk. No real butter, no fancy brands, and definitely no filet mignon!

Once a week we were allowed “a coke,” only it was really Chek Cola or some other off brand. Sweet, but without the zesty fizz of a real Coke.

Mother had ingenious ways to economize. When she made us soup, for example, she added extra water to create a fuller pot. She’d cut the milk we used with a powdered product. And once a month she’d drive to the big Wonder Bread outlet to buy the leftover bread at a discount. She’d put what she got into the freezer and thaw it out as the weeks went by for toast and grilled cheese sandwiches.

She collected S&H Green stamps.

Mother was a superb economist.

But so was Dennis. And his economic practices were completely unlike Mother’s.

“It makes no sense to choose something just because it is cheap,” he’d tell me. “Cheap things leave you unsatisfied, or they break. You end up spending more because you need to keep replacing them. Every now and then, you need to buy yourself what you really like.”

Even so, Dennis was not a spendthrift.

He also came from modest means. Somehow, though, his parents still managed to enjoy nice things. They always treated us to fancy dinners in the city; once a year, they went on a week-long vacation, and for Christmas they were generous with all three of their children.

Dennis enjoyed haggling. He loved to look for a bargain. He bought nice things, but only after scouring all the stores for the best deals.

For me, it was easier just to stick with what was cheapest—it took far less energy. And, cheap things didn’t always break.

Today when I head to the store, both Mother and Dennis accompany me (virtually, of course); my mother from the grave, and Dennis from a long-ago memory.

“Look at the Laura Lynn store brand coffee,” Mother will offer. “It’s on sale.”

I’ll survey the shelves in the Ingles grocery store.

“Yeah, but the “Jamaica Blue Mountain” is just so much better,” the Dennis voice will rebut.

“I don’t know….” I’ll stall, pondering the options.

“That “Jamaica Blue Mountain” is so ex-PEN-se-ive,” Mother will caution, drawing out the syllables to emphasize the cost.

“Becky, look, for a few dollars more, you can enjoy a really good cup of coffee. Spread the cost difference out over the month, and you’re really not spending much at all!”

Mother won that round, but only because I’m not much of a coffee connoisseur. I buy bottom-shelf wine, too, for the same reason.

Perhaps thanks to my mother, my palate prefers a cheaper taste.

Now and then, though, on the big items, on getting the leather seats in the car or the granite countertop for the kitchen, I let Dennis coax me into the higher prices.