BRUNCH AT THE CHARNEL CAFE
by DF Lewis and Margaret B Simon
As I was out maundering early today—I like that word, maundering—for it's what I do when I'm not up to writing obituaries—I chanced upon a new restaurant, the open air type down on 44th and Lincoln; a few blocks from the corner, you see, there it was! Welcoming gargoyles circled the flower pots blooming with lotus and some other sort of plant that I found quite profoundly beautiful.
So thus, I ventured through the iron gating, as all appeared to be in accord—a party of ladies dressed in suits, seated on tombstones laid flat, with one for the backing of each seat—a party of businessmen taking the day off—or politicians, it didn't matter to me. I see them all, one way or another in due fashion.
Behind me, I heard the gate snap shut. Before my astonished eyes, everyone was stark naked! EVERYONE! And I felt a gentle rush of breeze, and glancing down, I saw my own boney knees and—blushing—covered my crotch with my hands.
Still, this spot lured me closer to sit on one of the stones, which, to my amazement, felt supremely cushioned. Most comfortable. Immediately, a waiter appeared at my elbow to offer an "early brunch" menu which I noted was embossed in gold lettering. The prices were most reasonable, and since I was rather jagged after my walk, I ordered a cup of cafe au lait 'au supreme', according to the menu, that is. It didn't occur to me that my wallet was also incognito at the time. "No charge, Madame," smiled the waiter. "Today is our Grand Opening. Your meal is on the...ah, house, so to speak."
The coffee was brought to me within a few moments, much to my pleasure. While I was waiting for my order (which, as I say, was very quickly served), I cast my eyes about the premises. Staring beyond the leggo false-o-heart femmes, the silhouettes now devoid of their Neiman Markus suits—still conducting business as usual, I supposed ... and studied the images of stone within the garden view. These were new, totally new—must have also been imported from somewhere....so I thought, then.
Gargoyles and skulls, the Grand Reaper, the Widow of Widdersfield—all depicted in broad daylight there, in this sidewalk cafe. This NEW sidewalk cafe.
Wishing I'd remembered to bring my camera, for some insane reason; wishing I'd remembered to leave my taste buds at home for a reason so sane, I wondered if, after all, I wasn't mad. The coffee grounds were just that. Bitty, nuggety, chokelets of dust and ash. Somebody's ashes! With hot scalding water thrown on to make almost half palatable. It wasn't madness, but murders with which I needed to concern myself, then. Murders, ink grains and splinters coating my outer as well as inner throat.
Even my boney knees had spillage sticking out in stubby grits. Stumpy fingernails. Toenails hardened to turtle bone. It was as if my inner skeleton were turning to stone, leaving the flesh to become gristle. Gritty gristle. Grating as I tried to move from the seat. Grinding my teeth in a pain I didn't feel as pain but I knew was pain greater than I've ever been pained with before.
"Everything to your satisfaction, Madam?" The waiter had sidled up obsequiously, except he hadn't really said 'Madam', but "Muddiness", now I remembered...after the event. It's strange how normal things we —when they actually happen—remember. It's like describing an automobile accident—but even stranger than the strangeness of the fact of life I'm recounting about how strange things become after the event, an event which was originally so straightforward, simple and run-of-the-mill.
And now I can't even tell it straight! In the quiet of my own home, later, the events of the day gather strangerness, as well as dust. Perhaps nothing strange happened. And now that I've noted that I'm nude, I merely think I was nude all day. Nudity seems serial.
The cafe soon produced some nicer coffee after I sent the bad lot back to where it came from in the cocina. Olé. One of the older customers had joined me. He, too, I recall, was nude. His coffee was blacker than mine. He had ground a pepper mill over it as seasoning. He used a trivet of green mustard as a finger bowl.
"A new eating-place is always worth trying at least once," he said, trying to make small talk. But I would have none of his trivia.
"I feel like death warmed up," I responded with a forced grimace, because I was holding back the smile for later. I suspected him of being a businessman. I could tell this by his demeanor, despite the lack of clothes.
"Indeed?" My companion wiped his moustache with a checkered napkin. I do believe he was concealing a smirk. I opened my mouth to ask his name and before I could utter a word, he began, "Allow me to introduce myself. Folger Rim, at your service. And you, Madam?" I hestiated for an instant, then told him the first name that popped into my head. "Whatley. Alicia Fortunas-Whatley, Mr. Rim".
"Very good, Ms. Whatley. And may I suggest we try the house specialty, for our culinary delight of this fine spring morning!" He pointed to a dish listed on the menu with three red stars surrounding its title, which I couldn't decipher. It appeared to be in French, only I am quite sure I've never seen or heard of tortore du terre. The price wasn't listed. I asked Mr. Rim what it was, but he shook his head, putting a finger to his mottled lips. "Trust me, Alicia—if I may call you Alicia?—trust me, you'll find it quite unique."
I tried to protest, as I'd already placed my order. The waiter (again beside my elbow) bowed to us both, assuring me that my order would be cancelled immediately, should I agree to Mr. Rim's excellent suggestion.
And thus, in this stranger than strange dreamscape, I recall the waiter bringing us a dish, and I recall tasting it. Devouring it, asking for another serving!
I'm sure that all of this couldn't have possibly happened. It was, after all, only an omelette with apples and cheeses. Not what you'd think. You'd think it would be rotten meat, served up straight from the grave. You'd think that.
It was all so perfectly—normal. The dish, that is. What was so truly strange about being there (and unseasonably nude, serially NUDE) was that there was no accent on sex.
I shrugged my shoulders and tucked in. Folger Rim merely smiled before remarking, "You are a real picture, sitting here eating like that. Only Gauguin could have caught you so—ah,—alive! with shadow-play of color cast by our hyabiscus blooms. Marvelous!" (Or did he, on reflection, say "Gorgon?"—I can't quite recall.)
Suddenly the strangeness was explained. Stones and all. Coating both my throats. Even the word clattered to the cobbles like cryogenic (death not warmed up) curds. Would I never wake from the dreamscape?
"Will I?" Bone all through. Alicia's brunch.
