Chapter 45
Eleventh month. Eleventh day. Eleventh hour. Armistice.
The hour the First World War went silent.
It was also the date and time, twenty-nine years later, that Tony the bookseller was born.
Theo, having somehow learned that fact, handwrote and personally delivered an invitation to his gregarious friend. It read:
Next week, your birthday, six p.m., please join me at Ponder House, third floor, for celebration of a good man’s life.
Tony promptly accepted, though he questioned the goodness of the life being celebrated.
On the agreed-upon day, he closed the Verbivore early, changed clothes in the shop’s backroom, and made the short walk to Theo’s. It was dark out and cold.
Tony climbed the three flights of stairs, looked briefly at the river from the high perch of the landing, knocked on the door, and then stepped into the warm sanctuary of Theo’s home.
Like the few others who had ever been inside the apartment, Tony was eager to tour the interior of a space he had only seen from ground level.
At first glance, he was struck by its charm and by the stark contrast it offered to the clutter of the Verbivore.
“Theo, it looks like Sicily gives you a pretty good housing allowance. This is gorgeous, my friend. If you ever need an interior decorator to help you upgrade it a bit, I’m for hire. This is really nice.”
His banter did not belie his admiration of the place. Theo took Tony’s coat.
A young woman stepped out of the kitchen into the hallway.
Her hair, shoulder length and ink black, was pulled behind her ears, carefully but casually.
Several strands escaped her gold hairclip and fell prettily across her temples.
A crisp white blouse and black silk pants covered her lean, sculpted figure.
The unblemished, olive skin of her face and neck, the full lips and duchess nose, and the dark amber eyes that sparkled with lamplight were, to Tony, a feast before a feast. He was discreet in the way he looked at her, but he did not miss a detail of her beauty.
He tried not to act surprised and almost said something to Theo about the perks of belonging to the Mafia.
Instead, he gently shook the young woman’s hand, bowed slightly as Theo would have done, raised his eyebrows, and kept his silence.
That she was almost young enough to be his granddaughter did not mitigate one bit his pleasure in watching her return to the kitchen.
Theo and Tony walked down the hallway to the front room, where an elegantly set table awaited them. En route, Tony nudged Theo, smiled dopily, nodded back over his shoulder toward the kitchen, then winked and held a thumb up, the gestural equivalent of “you old devil, you.”
Theo could not help but chuckle.
“Tony, I was going to cook for us tonight but, instead, I had Chef Bouchard prepare a special meal for this special occasion. He has made Portuguese dishes and added his own magic touch. Do you know Chef Bouchard?”
“I don’t know him, but I’ve heard of him. He owns that fancy restaurant, doesn’t he? The Canto? On my poor, pitiful wages, I’m afraid I’ll never be able to eat there.”
Theo patted Tony’s shoulder. “Well, then, I’m even more happy to introduce you to his work. He is an artist, a maestro.”
In the months Theo had been in Golden, he typically ate small meals that he either prepared himself or purchased from eateries around Broadway. He was mindful of his slowing metabolism and watchful of what and how much he ate. With one exception.
The Canto.
As a reward for discovering such a singular culinary paradise, Theo permitted himself one meal each week at the Canto for as long as he was in Golden.
He would arrive at five o’clock and sit at a corner table with a book, a glass of wine, and a meal fit for royalty.
He and Chef Bouchard became acquainted, spoke frequently, often in French, and always with mutual admiration.
The chef appreciated Theo’s discriminating palate almost as much as Theo enjoyed the chef’s cuisine.
By early autumn, Theo had achieved the enviable goal of eating every item on the menu, a feat that prompted Chef Bouchard to begin creating one-of-a-kind meals exclusively for the distinguished old gentleman.
“No wonder I walk so much,” Theo said. “Your meals threaten to kill me first and then make me want to stay alive so I can return the next week for more!”
It was icing on the cake that a number of Asher’s large paintings were on display throughout the restaurant.
And so, when Theo asked Chef Bouchard to prepare a special meal for Tony’s birthday and send it to Ponder House, an agreement was quickly struck.
“Chef, I’m very pleased to come to the restaurant, but sometimes in crowded places, I find it difficult to hear well. For this one occasion, it would be very nice to dine at home.”
“It is my pleasure, Mr. Theo. And my honor.”
On Armistice Day, late afternoon, Chef Bouchard himself arrived at Theo’s apartment with dishes and pans full of delicacies. The aroma alone was worth the price of the meal.
With him was a young woman from Barcelona, Mia, who had recently begun working as a hostess and server at the Canto. Her face was vaguely familiar to Theo, but he could not recall where he might have met her. He had met so many people by then!
Once the dishes were brought up the three flights of stairs and laid out in Theo’s kitchen, Chef Bouchard instructed Mia and Theo about heating, preparing, and plating the food to assure that the meal would meet the demanding standards that governed all things Canto.
“Now, Theo, I must get back to the restaurant. Mia will stay here until the meal is served. If you have questions about anything, you can call me.”
Theo bowed to the chef.
For the next half hour, the old man and the young woman put finishing touches on the meal and the dining room. Mia remained in the kitchen while Theo tended to the table setting.
Minutes before Tony was to arrive, they worked together in the kitchen, removing dishes from the oven and garnishing the food as Chef Bouchard had instructed. As they did, they spoke a mixture of Spanish and Catalan in a conversation that was mostly Theo’s questions and Mia’s short answers.
Theo learned that Mia had been in Golden for a year on a worker’s visa, doing an internship with a marketing firm. She had recently begun working evenings at the Canto “to meet new people and get away from the house.”
Her voice had an alluring softness about it, a quality that, to Theo, was a welcome departure from the loudness that typified so much American talking.
Her tone was not attributable to timidity or bashfulness.
It was simply a choice of volume that complemented the sensuousness of her beauty.
Perhaps someone as pretty as her did not have to speak loudly to get the attention of others.
And yet, beneath her poise and pleasantness, Theo detected a nervousness in the young woman. He wondered what her story was. And how, he wondered, did he know her? Had he seen her at the Canto?
“Mia, have we met before?” he asked finally. “I have a feeling that I know you from somewhere, but I cannot recall where.”
She put down the dish she was holding and faced him, obviously intending to answer his question.
There were three loud knocks on the door. It was six o’clock.
Tony had arrived.
When Tony and Theo had taken their seats, Mia brought serving dishes, placed them at predetermined spots on the table, poured wine in the glasses, and explained the menu. It was an artful blend of dishes, American and Portuguese. Her accent was one more exotic touch to a meal full of exoticism.
When Mia finished her presentation, she made sure everything was in order, wished Theo and Tony “a bon appétit,” and quietly left the apartment.
“Now, Theo, she is what you call an appetizer. She could have spent ten more minutes telling us about the food, and I’d have been just fine with that. Well done, old boy… Heavenly.”
Theo and Tony began the feast.
Between grunts of praise, fragments of attempted conversation, and a hailstorm of compliments — from Tony to Theo for his hospitality, from Theo to Tony for his recognition of epicurean excellence, from both to the chef for his artistry — the meal received the highest tributes payable to good food…
unhurried enjoyment and utter disappearance.
Theo excused himself from the table and went to the kitchen. He returned with a small cheesecake, a single candle glowing from the center.
He sang “Happy Birthday” heartily in Portuguese.
They moved from the dining area to the plush armchairs beside Theo’s reading lamp. On a small table between the chairs sat a bottle and two small glasses.
“And now, Tony, your birthday gift. One more touch of Portugal. A very special piece.”
Theo reached for the bottle with both hands and held it as if it were delicate as a hummingbird.
“Tony, before we open the bottle, I must tell you a bit about port wine. Not to insult your sophistication, my good fellow, but just so you will know what you are tasting. Will you allow me?”
“Whiskey, I know. Beer, I know. Wine, a bit. But Theo, I’m totally ignorant when it comes to port. I do know it’s a favorite of the Godfather, but other than that, I know nothing. So talk. I am your student.”
“And a good student you are sure to be. Tony, this,” Theo lifted the dark bottle as if it were an infant at baptism, “this bottle comes from grapes on a hillside above my home, at Quinta das Carvalhas near Pinh?o.
“The vineyard is owned by the same family now that my father worked for when I was a boy. Did you know that all the port wine in the world comes from the hills of the Douro River Valley? One hundred miles, twenty-five thousand farmers, one hundred thousand acres of vines.
“Port wine was invented by the British, and the port companies are now owned mostly by the Spanish. But only the Douro River Valley of Portugal can make the grapes.