Trick or Treat (5 page)

‘Can I help?’ asked Daniel.

‘By all means, separate those eggs for me,’ I shouted back. Daniel came in, gorgeous in a pair of jeans and a white t-shirt emblazoned with a slogan in an unknown script. He began on the eggs. I watched him long enough to be confident that he wasn’t going to spill yolk into my egg white, in which event it would never whip. He could break the eggs with one hand, I noticed, green with envy. So was Jason.

‘Cool! Can I learn to do that?’ he asked.

‘Just practice,’ said Daniel modestly. ‘I squashed a lot of eggshell learning to do it. But I can show you how.’

‘Don’t practise on this mixture,’ I instructed. ‘Wait until we make challah again and it doesn’t matter if some yolk gets spilled. Isn’t it time for your breakfast?’ Jason’s appetite is usually as good as an alarm clock. In which event either the clock was fast or Jason was ten minutes slow.

‘Just waiting until I get the choccie muffins out of the oven,’ he answered, watching Daniel as he gripped an egg in his hand, squeezed, and spilled the white out of the half-shell, dropping the unbroken yolk into the second basin. Poetry in motion.

Jason dragged himself away from the spectacle to slide his muffins out of their tins and lay them in reverent rows to cool, then shucked his cap and overalls and went off to renew the inner boy. Which took a fair bit of renewing. Due to a frightful childhood and a period of drug abuse, Jason had interrupted his adolescent growth spurt. Now that he was clean and employed and amused and had a nice bed to sleep in every night, he was growing at an alarming rate. His overalls were already snug and by next week would be too tight.

I compounded the princess cakes carefully, giving Daniel the job of beating the egg whites into peaks. When they were safely in the oven and we could hear again, I greeted him with a kiss.

‘Good morning,’ I said. ‘What does your t-shirt say?’

‘
Shalom
,’ he replied.

‘Oh, so that’s Hebrew writing. Or was that just a greeting?’

‘That, too,’ he said, kissing me on the cheek. ‘Sheer luxury,’ he added. ‘To kiss you whenever I like. And you like, of course.
Shalom
,
süsselah!
There’s a mixed language for a fine morning.’

‘What does that mean?’ I snuggled against the pacific t-shirt.

‘Peace be unto the sweetie,’ he grinned.

‘And also with you,’ I answered. ‘What do you have to do today? We can drink Russian tea with Mrs Dawson at ten.’

‘Begone, tempter. It’s a hardworking world.’ He kissed me again to comfort me for the hard work of it all. ‘I might be able to drop back at about three, if the lady would honour me with the company of her so-distinguished cat and self?’

‘Three it is,’ I agreed, and he washed egg off his hands and sauntered away.

The bakery always seemed emptier without him. But soon it was augmented with a Jason, as replete as he ever is, which was not as replete as all that. He was carrying a large basket and laughing to himself.

‘What’s that? A midmorning snack? And what’s funny?’ I asked.

‘From Mama Pandamus. For someone called Old Spiro. And they were having this Greek argument about this Old Spiro, Yai Yai yelling from the kitchen that he was a prostitute— well, that’s what she said—and Del yelling back that such things were a long time ago and far away and he was an old man on his own and Grandma coming right back at him that if Old Spiro was alone it served him right. I just grabbed the basket and went before they started throwing things. I might have missed a bit of the argument,’ said Jason, lifting a corner of the white cloth which covered the basket. ‘Mmm! Baklava.’

‘No, you don’t.’ I removed the basket from my young omnivore’s questing nose. ‘It’s for Old Spiro.’

‘Yeah, I s’pose,’ Jason unwillingly admitted.

‘Leaving us with only one puzzle.’

‘What?’ asked Jason, clanging the main oven door open to remove the last of the rye and put in the pane di casa rolls.

‘Who’s Old Spiro?’

We looked at each other blankly.

‘Fucked if I know,’ he said.

‘Me neither.’

I put the basket up on top of the clothes dryer, out of the way of any greedy cats or apprentices. ‘We’ll ask about it later,’ I decided. ‘Don’t swear in the bakery, it’s bad luck. I told you that.’

‘Ouch,’ said Jason, burning the back of his hand on the oven door. ‘Okay, okay. I believe.’

Time to open the shop. I unlocked the outer door to reveal an awful lot of someone who said she was Goss. Today’s hair was blonde and eyes blue, which I believe were the original colours. She was wearing about half a t-shirt in bright pink and approximately ten centimetres of pink skirt below a broad leather belt suitable for a brickie, bikie, or one of Mistress Dread’s clients. I will never understand fashion. I refrained from comment.

‘Nice day!’ said Goss, greeting Horatio with a polite caress of the regal whiskers. We opened the till, put in the change, put up the shutters and started the day peacefully. Customers came. Goss reported that there was a queue at Best Fresh, who were advertising two muffins for two dollars. But the discerning came to buy Jason’s chocolate orgasms, which were five dollars each and worth every delectable crumb. And really, did I want the custom of people who bought their muffins for size not taste?

Of course I did. There is no room for hypocrisy in baking, which is a magical process. It is surrounded with superstitions, every one of which I obey, even to the extent of telling Jason about the unluckiness of blaspheming or swearing, which must be centuries old. As Meroe told me once, ‘I don’t know if the spoken charms add to the effectiveness of this dill water I am making for that child with colic, but dare I risk leaving them out?’ And, covering my ears against infant roars of agony, I had had to agree. Never point a naked blade towards rising dough. Never leave a flame burning in the bakery—not difficult with mine, because apart from the old style bread ovens, the machines were all electric. Never burn snails in the oven—again, not a common request, but I would refuse it if someone asked for some charred shells. Never allow bees in the kitchen. Not a lot of them in the city. Never allow a cat to leap over rising dough. I had forbidden the Mouse Police such antics and they couldn’t, anyway, the warm air riser was set in the wall.

I mused thus as I counted out the loaves for the courier, the zappy Megan, who would be running transport in Australia by the time she was forty. The rye bread had come out glossy and fragrant and I regretted not making a few more for the shop. And, of course, for me. Megan went off on her motorbike rickshaw with a cheerful toot and I found Professor Monk in the bakery, talking to Goss about luck. I know a cue when I hear one.

‘What about the baker’s beliefs?’ I asked, enumerating some of them. His eyebrows lifted and he smiled his beautiful scholar’s smile.

‘Snails? How interesting. Virgil in one of the Eclogues says that one should not burn shells near a beehive. Leaving aside the reasons why anyone should want to burn shells, that’s a very old belief. Ah, here comes our expert on the occult. Good morning, Meroe.’

‘Blessed be,’ replied Meroe. ‘To Corinna, Dion, Goss and of course Horatio. Do you think you could make this recipe, Corinna?’

She gave me a handwritten piece of what looked like parchment. Meroe was in a hurry. I wondered if dancing in the gardens at dawn had delayed something important. I studied the paper, holding it at arm’s length. It was English, at least: ‘Tak yr pure wheaten manchet dough and strew thereon saffron and raisins of the sun, cloves cinnamyn sugar if they be hadde, a handful, pounded wel. Knead soft and make yr cakes as many as ther be singers.’

‘It looks like it’s white bread dough mixed with some fruit and spices and sugar and made into buns,’ I said. ‘Does that sound right? There’s no instructions about how long to cook it or anything like that.’

‘When this was written down, cooks knew their own business and would not have appreciated amateurs learning too much of their craft,’ said Meroe, unsmiling. ‘Can you make me some?’

‘Yes, but I’ll need to experiment a bit. How many do you want, and when?’

‘Thirty-seven, and not until the end of the month. Perhaps you could try the recipe out for a few days until it’s right? I’m happy to pay extra for your trouble.’

‘No trouble, I’ll give it to Jason. He loves experimenting. And that’s about his standard of spelling, too.’

‘Wonderful,’ said Meroe, and relaxed, unloosing her hold on today’s wrap, which was a silk-screened length of Monet waterlilies. Clearly these buns were important ones, though I could not imagine how buns could be important. She happily joined in Professor Dion’s discussion on superstitions, informing me that it was thought very unlucky to let a cat leap over a corpse, in case the cat was a necromancing, shape-changing witch who had something nasty in mind for the deceased’s soul.

‘But over bread dough?’

‘It might not rise,’ said Goss. ‘I remember when I got sent to stay on a dairy farm. One of those colonial ones where they do things like the old days, so dirty and horrible and no toilets, I never want to live in those times, it was my mum’s idea, rotten bitch, she was just getting me out of the house so she could screw her new boyfriend, that’s when I got Dad to give me my own flat, where was I? Oh yes, well, the lady showed us how to churn butter and there was this little rhyme you had to say while you were turning the handle...’ Her forehead wrinkled. ‘Now I can’t remember it.’

‘Come, butter, come,’ said Professor Dion unexpectedly. ‘Come, butter, come! Peter stands at the gate, waiting for a buttered cake, come, butter, come!’

‘That’s it,’ said Goss.

‘Where did that come from?’ asked Meroe.

‘From a very long way away. From Wales, in my childhood,’ said the Professor. ‘Well, must go, dear ladies. I have an appointment in the city and I must be back by ten.’ He put on his tweed hat and left.

I knew why he had to be back before ten. Mrs Dawson was not going to be consuming her Russian tea alone, which made me feel better about not going.

The morning continued. Trade was down, but not out. All my regulars came. Sarah Jane and her charming husband Michael-the-Musician wandered in about ten, craving chocolate muffins and a cup of my filter coffee, because the Pandamuses’
cafe hellenico
kept everyone but the hardened addict awake for twenty-four hours. I, personally, loved it, but even I only drank Greek coffee before noon.

While I was discussing her honeymoon (with elephants) with SJ, who seemed happier than I had ever seen her, little Anna came in from that same cafe, carrying a plate covered in cling wrap and a cup of that same caffeine-rich brew from her grandmother. We watched, charmed, as the child moved with the religious certainty of the young, the very tip of her little pink tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth, until she reached the counter and laid down her burdens safely. She drew a deep breath of sheer relief and said, ‘Yai Yai sends the coffee to Corinna and these to Mrs Pappas.’

‘She does?’ I asked, bewildered. Anna nodded emphatically, which made her brown fringe fall over her eyes. She shook it back impatiently.

‘To Mrs Pappas and tell her to call Yai Yai,’ said Anna, repeating her lesson. Then she grinned. She had a delightful grin. She noticed Goss’s pink costume and held out the rosy skirts of her own. ‘I’ve got more dress than you,’ she told my assistant. She had, at that. Goss giggled and pulled down her inadequate hem.

We gave Anna a princess cake for her very own and she went out, cupping it between her hands as though it was a flower. I drank the coffee. Wow.

‘Who is Mrs Pappas?’ asked SJ.

‘There you have me,’ I answered. ‘This sort of thing is probably going to go on happening,’ I added. ‘It’s been a very strange day.’

They left with an invitation for me and Daniel to go to a concert and Goss said, ‘I would like to have a little girl like that. Isn’t she just so cute?’

I agreed and we went on selling bread. The rye sold well, the pasta douro fled out the door, the ham and cheese rolls were popular and the cakes vanished. I wondered if I should concentrate more on cakes. Jason was a natural cake-baker. He had invented a fruit icing made of mashed berries and icing sugar which exploded in the mouth. There was no cake-maker anywhere near us in this part of the city and I was cheered by our next encounter. A young man dressed in an Italian suit demanded, ‘Can you make good muffins?’

‘We make the best you have ever tried,’ I said immodestly.

‘Have a taste of that,’ he snarled, flinging a paper bag from Best Fresh at me. I fielded it. Inside was a very large chocolate muffin with one bite taken out of it. I tore off a piece and tasted.

Oh, dear. Sawdust with cocoa flavouring. I couldn’t choke down more than one mouthful. I passed it to Goss, who nibbled and grimaced. Only her extensive training in ladylike behaviour constrained her from spitting it out.

‘Euw,’ she commented and dropped the bag in the bin. ‘Tell you what,’ she said, taking the incandescent young man by the double pleated French cuff and handmade silver cufflink, ‘you have one of our muffins for free. Here you are. It can come out of my wages. And I’ll give you a cup of coffee, too.’

I nodded and poured the coffee. Clearly this was one of those highly strung characters, stock exchange or merchant banker, if I was any judge, who only allowed himself a few treats. But they had to be premium. One haircut, but it had to be from Le Paris. One serve of soup, but it had to be Porelli’s. One car, but it had to be a Porsche. One steak, but it had to be Vlado’s. One tie, but it had to be Gucci. One definitive Vienna schnitzel, but it had to be Le Gourmet’s. And one muffin—and the poor boy had chosen Best Fresh.

Already much comforted by Goss’s attentions, he sipped some coffee and then bit into a Jason chocolate orgasm muffin. This is not only a chocolate muffin but has chocolate ganache inside, which fills the mouth with the essence of pure chocolate. I cannot imagine eating more than one, but they are superb. If he gets into the pastry-makers’ guild, they will be Jason’s masterpiece. They would earn him a hat in any sensible food guide.