“Pancakes. I need to start with something ordinary. You know…American” she asserts, tossing her dark hair back into the wind. The sharp clip of London english counters the idea of an American brunch dream.
“Cafe at Engelbecken?” the sunglasses speak, her face reflected in his shades against a blue February sky.
They step out into the wind and he turns the collar of his coat up. The terrace is packed but the table dead center opens. Incidentally it’s the best seats of the house; it faces the frozen water and thereby allows you to enjoy your meal without any visual hindrance of the plebs sitting beside you.
The waiter swings into view, a tall young bloke, obviously knackered, and he sluggishly asks for their order with slumped shoulders. The unprofessionallity of his demeanor disgusts the two, Why can’t these people take their jobs seriously, at this rate, is the CHEF knackered as well?? It seems “freelance” is an excuse in this city to never grow up. Say London, that’s reasons for immediate Termination, double tap to the back of the head. I mean you’re back to the streets mate. New York? Stipulated from an IS to a WAS before you can pack your complimentary exiting-box. Farewell to any …Oh fine, we’ll order.
“Yes, we’ll start with the coconut pancakes with pomegranate jewels, then I’LL follow with poached eggs in a orange zest balsamic vinaigrette, but HE’LL have the candied bacon, would you please use moscovado sugar instead of the maple syrup? He’s allergic to maple syrup. But please tell me you’ve got Moscovado sugar? Oh, and of course, scrambled eggs with a Hawaiian rock salt sprinkle, right darling?”
“But not too much on the salt mate, I can’t be dying of dehydration all day now can I?”
“Also two fresh pressed orange juices please, a cappuccino for me but no thanks on the cinnamon sprinkle. What would you like dear?”
“Triple espresso. Make sure you use the direct-trade beans…” Right, the coffee would be a nice start. “And a bottle of your 1928 Krug. Not ‘cold’ but…Glacial. Got it? GLACIAL, I want frost bitten fingers when I grab the bottle yeah? If not, the ’95 Dom Perignon works.”