Freedom Fries and Cafe Creme (12 page)

‘The idea is simply awesome! I love it!' Heidi said enthusiastically.

‘Well, that's pretty much the whole story,' Thomas finished with a big sigh of relief.

‘I think it's very interesting,' she replied. ‘You see, I really do understand what made you invent your imaginary trips. Under the circumstances, I might have done the same thing.'

Heidi's eyes were bright. She was proud to have Thomas as a friend. She honestly wasn't angry with him because his made-up stories hadn't really been lies after all. Thomas had simply been having a good time by visiting a foreign country in a different way, as well as sharing his
‘travelling' with a friend. There was nothing wrong with that, Heidi reasoned. She honestly thought it a great idea.

‘Well, I guess you'll have to tell me about your “trip” to Istanbul another time, since I have to go back to the office,' she said, checking her watch.

‘I told Dave that you probably wouldn't be back till later, since we have to discuss the McKenna file.'

Thomas looked at Heidi very seriously then. ‘Promise me you'll keep our secret?'

‘Of course I will! It's so much fun, and telling anyone else would spoil the whole thing! Besides, it will make our friendship even stronger, I believe, and maybe—'

Heidi bit her lip and reddened, realising that she'd said too much.

‘Maybe …?'

But Thomas didn't insist further. After this significant conversation they both knew that their relationship was likely to take a different path from then on. While they prepared to work on the McKenna file, they wondered which country would be the next to be explored in New York – and they very much hoped they would be there together.

The Turkish name for this cold aubergine and tomato salad literally means ‘swooning imam'.

Serves 6

These toasted ham, cheese and tomato sandwiches evoke a happy sense of nostalgia in Thomas.

Preheat the oven to 200°C/400°F/Gas 6. Lay one slice of bread on a baking sheet and top with the ham and sliced cheese. Cover with the other slice of bread. Spread the top of the sandwich with the Dijon mustard and sprinkle with the grated cheese. Arrange the tomato slices neatly over the cheese and sprinkle with the herbs. Season with salt and pepper. Bake for 15–20 mins, until golden and bubbling. Serve hot with a green salad.

Thomas now makes this lovable dessert in a heart-shaped tin for Heidi.

Makes about two 8 oz (250g) jars of this delicate treat.

‘What'd you like?' asked the girl behind the counter sharply.

She had purple hair, a pierced eyebrow, nose and lips.

‘Er, I'm not sure. You know, it's the first time I've ever been in here …'

‘You've got to decide because there's a line, as you can see.'

I shuffled to the end of the line without a word, my eyes still fixed on the extensive list of drinks. Many of the names – especially for the coffee and tea – were unknown to me. I had no idea what to choose.

Usually I drank my coffee either at home, at work – where there was a high-spec espresso machine – or at Due Amici, the café across the street from my apartment. When I went there I always asked for an espresso because I loved real full-flavoured Italian-style coffee.

I hadn't been to a place like this for years. Actually, not
since I'd moved back from Lyons, six years earlier. After experiencing French cafés I'd acquired a taste for drinking my coffee in a china or ceramic cup, either sitting at a table outside, or inside at the bar. In France I'd chatted with a friend, a neighbour, or another regular customer, or just looked at the people around me, who had sometimes been as attractive as the place itself.

Why should I stand in line for a cup of coffee? I asked myself. I'd rather sit down at a table and be served by a waiter. And I didn't need to drink a pint of tasteless brownish liquid just to get my daily fix of caffeine.

Just then I felt like having a small cup of real coffee, giving off a real coffee aroma that I could both smell and taste. I suspected I wasn't in the right place for that, though.

It would be my turn again soon. I heard the man in front of me saying, ‘Smooth light-blended crème vanilla bean Frappuccino!'

What in the world is that?

The purple-haired, fully pierced girl, who might have been pretty without all her strange accoutrements, was still behind the counter looking fed-up. She asked the man, ‘Big, bigger or massive?'

‘Give me a massive. I've got miles to drive tonight,' he said, beaming. He evidently couldn't wait to have his ‘fuel' in hand.

I looked back up at the drinks list; I still hadn't made my choice. I stared bewildered at the man, now holding a large white polystyrene cup containing his enormous Frappi-something drink, exiting the place with an even bigger smile on his face.

My turn once again.

‘Know what you want yet?' snapped the girl behind the counter in the same bitter tone she'd used earlier. I was beginning to find her rather scary now, especially with all her piercings. If she didn't like working here, it was hardly my fault, was it?

‘Do you have plain coffee, er, espresso?'

‘Of course!' Then she leaned towards me and muttered, ‘What do you think the machines behind me are here for?' She rolled her eyes as if I were a real moron.

I didn't want to start an argument over her remark, which I thought was uncalled for, so I just told her that I'd opted for an espresso.

She reeled off the list as a matter of course: ‘American, Colombian, Puerto Rican, Costa Rican, Italian, French, or decaffeinated, French vanilla-, raspberry-,
hazelnut-flavoured
, or …'

French vanilla-flavoured coffee? Yuck!

‘Just a double espresso made only with real Colombian coffee, please.'

‘Do you want it plain, with whole or fat-free milk, soy milk, real cream, half and half, non-dairy creamer, sugar, brown or white, or sweetener?'

All this for a simple cup of coffee? Since I wasn't sure how good the coffee would be, I asked for some milk in it. Safer that way.

‘Whole real milk that came from a real cow and nothing else, please,' I said, trying to be funny.

But the girl just rolled her eyes again. She really seemed to think I was from another planet.

Well, sorry, but, as I said earlier, this is my first time here – and certainly my last.

I could see that there were some bright yellow and blue ceramic mugs on the shelves near the coffee machines. I wondered if they were merely for decoration.

I asked the girl to pour my coffee into one of the colourful mugs, if possible. She did so, but with obvious reluctance, practically grimacing. She was probably thinking about the fact that she'd have to wash the mug afterwards.

I paid quickly, sensing that the customers behind me in the line, as well as the purple-haired girl, wanted me as far away from them as possible.

If you are too slow when queuing up at a fast-food or coffee place, it's so easy to throw the whole mechanised system out of whack: order, pay, get your food or drink and get out. NEXT! Order, pay, get your food or drink and get out. NEXT!

I no longer went for lunch at the food court near my office because I was never fast enough. I was constantly annoyed by the impatience of the customers, and by the disparaging glances of those who seemed completely satisfied with this dehumanised process. Instead, I simply took my own lunch to work. It was healthier, anyhow.

Taking my mug of coffee, I went to find a seat, my gaze sweeping over the eclectic mix of customers. I wondered who these people were and why they came to such a place. The decor had no charm; it was identical to all the other coffee shops in the chain. The music was a wishy-washy mix of jazzy electronic melodies, uninteresting and not meant to be listened to. Wherever you were – in Detroit,
San Francisco or Miami – identical drinks would be served in the same huge polystyrene cups, the same industrial sugary pastries would be eaten, all in the same dull, impersonal atmosphere. It plain depressed me.

I also noticed that almost all the customers were by themselves. I'd always thought that going to a coffee shop was a way to meet and talk to other people. At least in my neighbourhood that's what most people did. But we didn't call them coffee shops, we called them cafés. Possibly the name indicated the distinction.

Apart from a group of three women who seemed to be deep in conversation, having what looked to me like cappuccinos, most of the others sat at single tables with their laptops, or sometimes with cell phones in their hands. Were they students? Businessmen or -women? Writers? Was I surrounded by the latest generation of today's trendy communicators, unable physically to face other human beings but constantly broadcasting the mundane facts of their lives via machines? Workaholics who couldn't stop to relax for even a minute, and who took their computers and cell phones with them wherever they went?

I sat down near the huge bay window through which I could watch the passers-by out in the street. At least the real world outside would make my wait more entertaining.

Glancing at my watch, I saw that Jon was late, as usual. He was always late because he insisted on driving everywhere, even if he did live close to a subway stop, and even though the price of gas had gone up drastically. It was only when Jon was behind the wheel of his car that he felt strong and confident. That was why he tried to spend as
much time as he could in his black Mercury. He practically lived in the thing.

I knew that parking at the Square on a Friday night was a real hassle, and that he'd struggle to find a spot.

Jon had chosen the coffee shop where we were meeting that evening because they served a drink that he liked, and it was near an excellent liquor store that he could shop at afterwards, just as he did every Friday night.

I would have preferred the wine bar next door because they had a nice patio. It was a beautiful late-spring evening. I really felt that I'd like to be outside with a glass of Merlot.

Jon preferred indoor air-conditioned spaces, even if it was a perfect seventy-five degrees outside. As he'd sounded miserable on the phone that morning, I hadn't argued and had let him decide where we'd meet. Besides, I could walk to the city's best movie theatre from there. Earlier I'd noticed that they were showing
The Party
, in my opinion one of the best comedies of all time.

My cell phone rang.

‘Hey, Luc, I'm still looking for a place to park,' Jon drawled in his usual indolent tone.

‘No problem.'

What else could I say?

I sipped my coffee. Actually it was better than I'd thought it would be. It just needed to be served somewhere with more authentic rituals.

Jon had been seeing Magalie for a few months by then. I'd had the opportunity to meet her with him sometimes and I'd enjoyed her company. She was very attractive, and I had to admit that I felt envious of Jon. I wished I had met
someone like Magalie, but I hadn't been very lucky with women. It seemed that I wasn't ambitious enough for them.

I wondered what Jon wanted to tell me. He maintained that I was the only guy he knew that he could talk to and discuss anything with face to face rather than feeling obliged to sit at a bar counter staring at a football or baseball game on TV. Most of his friends said that at his age it was unusual to see two men chatting at the same table, unless they were related or gay. And the sharing of a bottle of wine – bad heterosexual etiquette according to a silly
New York Times
style article, if you didn't want people to think that you were gay. Since he'd turned thirty, Jon had been finding it increasingly difficult to cultivate friendships with men he could really talk to.

I'd known Jon since pre-school. Our parents still lived on the street where we'd both grown up. Jon was like family: I hadn't chosen him but he'd always been around when I'd gone through difficult times. The two of us were very different, but we accepted each other the way we were. We tried to meet about once a month. He usually came to my place and I'd cook him a hearty dinner, or we'd meet in a little Italian restaurant somewhere, or an Irish pub, either in his neighbourhood or where our parents lived.

But just then, sitting waiting in that coffee shop, I felt like an outsider because I had absolutely nothing to do. I had no one to talk to, I was not staring at my cell phone or tapping a text message; I had no book, no notebook, much less a laptop. So I just leaned back and looked out the window, sipping my coffee.

I loved to watch the goings-on in the street, which was exactly what I'd done when I'd lived in Lyons for a few months before jumping into the real world of work. I had to admit that in France I'd spent more time in cafés than I had in class, where I was supposed to be improving my French. Life in the streets had been more appealing and instructive to me than learning the rules of the subjunctive or memorising endless lists of vocabulary! I'd enjoyed having my
café crème
with croissants so much every morning that I'd ended up having to change my schedule because I was always late for my first class.

The traffic was still fairly intense at that hour. I could picture Jon trying to find a parking spot, patiently passing through the same streets again and again, listening, as usual, to Lionel Richie or Celine Dion.

I found it hard to believe Jon was going out with a woman like Magalie. For a start, he always looked so sloppy. He didn't care how he dressed at all. He was the type of guy who would wear white sneakers with a navy pinstripe suit! And it wasn't lack of money. He just had no taste in clothes. His hair was always dishevelled, and he didn't even shave regularly.

And secondly, Magalie was French! Jon, being
simple-minded
at times, believed that France should change its political stance regarding the war in Iraq. He basically never wanted to hear anything about that country: he no longer drank French wine – not that he was a wine drinker, anyhow – and he would inanely use the word ‘freedom' instead of ‘French' to describe fries. When I considered it, associating freedom with France was a great compliment
because ‘freedom' was a beautiful word, if used in its proper sense. I'd heard that somewhere in France, in answer to the Americans who wanted to banish French from their vocabulary, American cream cheese had been named ‘idiot cheese'. A bit less flattering to the States!

Jon's attraction to Magalie had quickly erased any resentment he felt towards the French once they'd begun dating.

I'd seen her three times since my ex-wife's
housewarming
party at various get-togethers to which she, Jon and I had been invited. I'd really enjoyed chatting with her while Jon was busy talking with someone else. We'd mostly talked about politics and film, subjects I had never even considered discussing with Jon, the two of us having completely opposite opinions.

Magalie had revealed to me how she'd fallen for his dazzling green eyes – it was true that Jon, being half African-American, half European-American, had striking good looks, especially his eyes – and also how happy Jon made her. She appreciated his carefree attitude, the fact that he never complained and never argued, even when they didn't agree. Needless to say, he had never dared say anything bad about the French in front of her.

Magalie was right. Jon's laid-back attitude and his lack of worry and concern could be refreshing. If he complained about something, it meant that he was really cheesed off, but that didn't happen very often.

Magalie had come to live in Boston for her job. She and Jon had met at a yoga class. Magalie had been in her Zen period, as she put it. She'd needed to find a way to be less
stressed out as she was often overworked, and yoga had seemed ideal.

I hadn't heard from either of them for more than a couple of weeks, as I'd been away on business.

I finally saw Jon stroll into the coffee shop at a leisurely pace, even though he was quite late. Why should he bother to hurry? He walked towards me, a big bag of French fries in his hand.