the spade seven cafe
The Spade Seven Cafe
After several days of neglect, the old stomach had decided to digest itself. So, with a gut like a bag of acid, I headed for the restau-dive around the corner. As I reached for the steel doorhandle, an invisible but palpable film coated my palm - the microbiotic scum from countless clammy hands, the gleeful germs of dirty money and even dirtier noses, and other public oils. I had entered into the Spade Seven dimension. Each step through the dim foyer stuck loudly to the floor, announcing my arrival. The floor's tiles clung greedily to the soles of my shoes, only reluctantly releasing them as I lifted a leg and eagerly reaffixing themselves as I stepped down again. Lone afternoon patron of the cafe, I slid into the nearest booth, and, in way of a welcome, a large jagged splinter burrowed itself deeply into my right buttock. My left elbow, shocked, slid across the table in a pool of egg-white-like substance.
I opened the menu. Within twenty minutes, a wide shadow stepped up to the table. Ah, the waiter. Rumpled pad of paper in his meaty hand, my host stared dully through me as I hemmed over my order. His eyes, red-rimmed, were like overripe cherries liquifying in a too-large head. His nose had healed into what one could only politely call a mass of bone and flesh. His chin was armed with thick black stubble; I couldn't help thinking the table could use a good scouring.
As he leaned over to take my order (and not, as I had hoped, to scrub the tables), a cruel blast of acrid breath overcame my senses, and my toes curled tightly in my shoes. Urging the memory of a thousand bad alleyways, this was sufficient odoriferous force to set dogs howling and rats scurring for cover. Which they did. I recoiled with relief as the waiter acknowledged my order with a grunt and a courtesy sneer and shuffled heavily off toward the kitchen.
Within twenty minutes, I heard a rumbling of voices coming from the kitchen and the lazy scraping of a metal spatula on an iron pan. A pot clattered loudly to the floor and was soundly scolded by the chef. A moment of silence, then a fantastic explosion of grease and more curses. After several more minutes, I heard a crashing of plates, a clatter of silver and the unceremoniously plop of food meeting plate. Finally, a surly warning that lunch was served. My waiter set down my order with a belch as I held a napkin tightly to my nose.
Alone with my long-awaited meal, I lifted a forkful of mash to my lips and, suddenly, my tastebuds stood up and sang Halleluiah. Lightly crispy and lovingly seasoned, the hash browns melted in my mouth. Exquisitely seasoned with fresh dill and rosemary, the poached eggs were a true ovo-tribute to the chickens who lay them. As I chewed contently on thick, warm slices of rye toast and raspberry jam, my right leg giggled with satisfaction. The coffee was hot and fresh and laced with hazelnut cream. I hummed through my meal to the very last drop of the divine refill.
Oh, right, I reminded myself. That's why I come here.
Posted on décembre 18, 2001 05:17 PM