Coal was off early, speed-kissing him
through a cloud of Issey Miyake Pleats Please, and murmuring something, on her way out the door,
about going to see the mayor.
For Lincoln Ford, it was hard—virtually
impossible—to bring together Coal and the avoirdupois Mayor of Toronto in the
same sentence, especially in a sentence that stood there shivering by itself in
time and space, beyond the reach of coffee and therefore vulnerable to
misinterpretation. Coal Blackstone
sitting and talking demurely to His Worship Cass Tamberlaine? He must have misheard her.
But anyhow, Coal, he knew, could take care
of herself. The only danger he
could envisage was her gradually expiring of boredom in conversation with the
Lardly Cass.
But
now his need for coffee was urgent, and while he usually made espresso for the
two of them, he decided that just for this morning, Coal being off to the lair
of the Mayor, he’d go visit his friend, dear old Peter of the Athens Astoria.
A diet’s a diet right enough, he thought
as he came blazing up out of the parking garage in his red, 1960 Austin-Healey
3000, but a Greek coffee with a Greek custard pastry is something else again.
Linc liked sweet stuff for breakfast and
he particularly liked cold, creamy, pudding-like things—such as this
devastatingly mild, milky, lemony custard Peter, the owner of the Astoria
Athens, made fresh every day.
Peter’s name was Peter something or other
and while Linc had known him for seven or eight years now, he still had no idea
what his last name was. Linc knew
a couple of things about him, though.
He knew, for example, that before he came to Toronto and opened his dark
little restaurant on Bloor Street West, Peter had worked as the cook on a Greek
freighter and made breakfast, lunch and dinner every day for twenty-five
shipmates.
Peter was a dab hand with Moussaka and
with heavily herbed baked chicken legs (just the legs, never the breasts; what
does he have, thought Linc, against chicken breasts?) and with olive-oil-soaked
peas and rich, sodden but delicious green beans. Sometimes he would make stuffed tomatoes and stuffed green
peppers, and occasionally—all too rarely—he’d prepare his really spectacular
stuffed zucchinis baked in a rich lemon sauce. Still, it was Peter the Baker that Linc cherished, Peter the
maker of morphologically inventive baklavas and innocent, angel-touched-custards
like the tray of them sitting milky cool and buttery on Peter’s counter.
Peter had never learned much English, and
a hearty “Yassou!” pretty much exhausts Linc’s Greek, so they simply nodded and
smiled a lot. Peter seemed
remarkably fond of Linc and was very paternal towards him, and so whenever Linc
would order a custard pastry and coffee—like this morning—Peter would bring him
the coffee and two slabs of the
custard. Which he then had to
consume (no problem!) with a sustained gusto (also no problem!) or Peter’s
feelings—which were immense—would be hurt.
Peter brought the two pastries to the
table. Two heavy, creamy portions
of the gelatinous custard on flaky, slightly sharp, slightly vinegar’d phyllo
pastry—each with a dusting of fine cinnamon on top. Linc tucked into them—and was as delighted as always.
“Delectable as usual, Peter!”
Peter smiled and went to fetch
coffee. When he got back to Linc’s
table with it, his hand was shaking.
There’s been a change in Peter, thought
Linc. Every time now when he
brings coffee to the table, his hand shakes. And it’s getting worse. Last week, Linc remembered, Peter had brought coffee and his
hand had trembled so much that most of the coffee ended up in the saucer. When that had happened, Linc had simply
taken the saucer carefully from underneath the dripping cup and poured everything
back inside again. No need to
mention anything.
Today Peter’s hand was shaking so
violently the full cup of coffee rattled in the saucer like castanets and the
liquid brimmed over everywhere—onto the floor, onto the counter, some of it
even dropped back into the cup.
Peter looked at Linc, wounded, humiliated. Linc smiled encouragingly.
“Thank you,” said Linc, adding cream to
the little bit of coffee that was left.
“You’re welcome,” Peter replied. Linc had never heard him say that before.
“You’re welcome,” Peter replied. Linc had never heard him say that before.
Linc was halfway through his second
custard when an odd thought occurred to him.
“Peter,” he asked, “does the mayor of
Toronto ever eat here?”
“The Mayor? No, never.
Why?”
“Oh I don’t know. I was just thinking about the Mayor.”
“Why would you think about the Mayor?”
Peter asked. “I bet he never
thinks about you! Why not think about
that beautiful lady you live with instead? Much more happy a thought!”
“Coal? Well, I was, as a matter of fact. She’s in his office right now.”
“Why?”
“Apparently he’s been receiving death
–threats. She’s fascinated
by things like that.”
“The beautiful detective.”
Linc smiled.
“Tell her to be careful,” said Peter,
attempting to refill Linc’s cup without slopping most of the coffee into his
saucer.
