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It's 2:00, time for my nap but the Cappuccino machine has been acting up and Mr. Cappuccino has come round to fix the valves.
I used to blog about my dreams, but I dream so seldom now that I've chosen instead to blog about the interruptions to my intended naps.
Mr. Cappuccino, he's surprisingly quick, figures the problem's a worn and leaky valve, replaces it, the Cappuccino machine is working perfect.
But he has to test it, and so makes me an espresso and has me taste it.
"The grind of the coffee is all wrong" he tells me, it's too coarse, it should be finer. The perfect espresso should take 18-23 seconds to pour.
And so he empties the coffee grinder, resets it, grinds another espresso, makes it and has me taste it. Thoughts of my nap are slowly evaporating like the steam from the espresso.
"Still too coarse..." he tells me "Should be finer. The grind of the coffee has to be set every day. You should adjust it depending on the weather outside. If it's wet or moist, grind it coarser. If it's dry grind it finer. Never grind more than you're going to use right away, the beans will oxidize once ground... think of it like a fine wine..."
He's passionate about his coffee. He empties the grinder again, resets it, grinds some more, makes me yet another espresso. "Perfect" he says, and has me taste it. He's proud of his coffee. "I make better coffee than the Italians".
He gives me some more tips regarding the maintenance of the machine, the service men always do, I make notes so I can share them with the staff; then he leaves.
3 espresso's and I'm ready for my nap.
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It's Valentines Day and we're sort of busy.
Sort of busy, because we stopped taking reservations several days ago, the more experienced waiters looked at the book and said "enough" and so we stopped taking reservations.
Sort of busy, because we're only half full. Someone dropped the ball. In every other restaurant in the city Valentines day is the busiest day of the year. Still, after all the hype and anticipation "sort of busy" is a bit of a relief.
There's an interesting mix of couples that made it. Couples that are in love. Older Women out with their mothers. Happily married couples, couples that aren't yet couples but the man is really trying, couples of three that are trying desperately to cheer up a jilted friend...
There's an attractive couple sitting together. Tall slender blond, handsome muscular man. She orders a Chai Tea.
"I'm sorry," I say to her "We stopped serving Chai when we stopped making Vindaloo Curries..."
"You stopped making Vindaloo Curries" she exclaims, astonished...
Her boyfriend, he doesn't say anything. I want to offer some conciliatory remarks, she is very pretty after all, but it's not my place. Instead I apologize.
"I was joking. We don't make Vindaloo Curries. We don't have Chai Tea or low-fat decaf lattes. But we do have...." and I give her a somewhat more reasonable, albeit limited menu to choose from.
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He's in a rage. The hostess, somehow she's cocked up and now he's telling the rest of the staff what an idiot she is.
They agree. They always agree.
"I told her not to think! If she needed to think to get one of you to think for her. Some women....they should be sent back to Saudi Arabia where they can learn their place! How many times I tell her not to think?"
Apparently she's not a very good listener.
"Some women, they can think OK, I know" ... he's relenting a bit in his general and ruthless assessment of womankind, "but her, how many times I tell her? 'Don't think for yourself'".
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Every time I see him he's got a new remedy for me. Another secret natural cure kept from the world by "Big Pharma". There's the 100% natural vitamin C, made with rosehips. He gives me a jar "Take them. You'll feel better in three days...".
Or the Colloidal silver and gold. He's been taking it himself, swears by it, although he's started to turn a little blue and is beginning to resemble "Papa Smurf".
Safflower and Sunflower oils, equal parts or thereabouts, to balance your Omega three's and sixes; how many people could cure their cancer if only they knew?
Every time I see him there's a new placebo, panacea, nostrum, tincture or homeopathic remedy for me to try. The funny thing is, I've never told him I was sick. In fact, he's never seen me unwell; I haven't been sick for ages, which he naturally attributes to my following his advice.
"Take these." he says, and hands me a bottle. "You'll feel better in three days..."
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It's the Dynamite-Dave rap. I sing it to him when we're slow:
"I'm Dynamite Dave,
And I'm here to save,
Your soul.
No Eternal Damnation,
let Dave be your Salvation..."
He smiles, he likes it. Then he thinks for a second and frowns:
"But you're not Dynamite Dave...I am!"