Page 67 of Hello Darling
“Did I not mention she has crumpets and marmalade and your favorite brand of tea?”
“Right. Say no more.”
It’s a cute spot, this. Not like a noisy family-style New York deli or an Italian deli, it’s a clean modern space with wood-paneled and bright white tiled walls, marble countertops and stainless steel shelves neatly-stacked with upscale prepared meals and an astounding selection of breads, deli meats, fresh fruits and vegetables, cheeses and olives, oils and vinegars. Ella Fitzgerald sings breezily from some hidden speakers. This is the kind of place you’d find tucked away round the corner from my flat in Notting Hill, really. I should have known Stella’s favorite place would be this appealing to me.
There are only about ten tables in the dining area, a couple of families seated and eating, some singles at the window counter with their books and magazines. My Tom Ford slim-fit dress shirt may not have been the best choice for this venue, but I’m glad we’re here. More than anything, I’m glad to be here with my date, who is holding my hand and pulling me towards the counter where a very cute plump lady in her late fifties is staring at me with a salami in one hand, a baguette in the other, and a gaping mouth.
“Holy schnitzel,” I hear her say to herself.
“Mrs. Flauvich, we’re here for the crumpets and marmalade and English tea!”
Still clinging to the salami and baguette, Mrs. Flauvich stage whispers to Stella: “What’s happening?”
“Delilah Flauvich, this is Evan Hunter.”
“Very nice to meet you, I really like your café.” I reach out to shake her hand as she points back and forth between Stella and me with the salami.
“You’re here together?! Stella baby—what! Is! Happening?!” She puts down the salami and baguette, pulls off her plastic gloves and fusses with her hair as she jogs around the counter to join us. She pulls a phone out of the front pocket of her apron. “Take a picture of me quick, before I scare him off!”
Stella seems so happy to be introducing me to this woman, it’s very sweet.
“I promise to stay for the crumpets,” I say, as Stella takes the phone from her and Mrs. Flauvich wraps her arms around my waist.
“Let me give you a hug—I love you—you handsome beautiful man! What is this? So many movie people have been coming in, but never you and here you are! What’s happening right now, Stella?!”
“Stop moving your mouth so I can take a picture!”
Ten minutes later, after approximately twenty hugs and kisses, forty pictures, and one shameless ass grab (the lady grabbed mine, not the other way around), Mrs. Flauvich seems to comprehend that Stella and I are here together on a date and Stella and I are seated at a table in the center of the café, with my favorite Yorkshire Gold tea and a tray of biscuits while we wait for the crumpets and marmalade and about ten other dishes that our hostess insisted we try. I hold Stella’s hand on the tabletop, and can’t stop smiling and staring at her.
“You look especially beautiful tonight, why is that?”
“Maybe it’s the five pounds I gained overnight.”
“I think you’re radiant because you’re so happy to be with me.”
“Or that. Yes, that might be it.”
As one of the families is getting up to leave, the mother stops by our table and apologizes for bothering us but tells me she’s a fan and glad to have me here in town. The locals here really are wonderfully polite and low-key. It’s not like the restraint of my countrymen, but laid-back and a respect for everyone’s space. Once the family has passed by, Stella’s smile slowly fades as she looks past me.
“Crap.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, it’s Kwas.” I glance over my shoulder and see the fellow who was annoying Stella at the gym, my first day there.
He’s standing there staring. “Hey guys! Hey—Downton Abbey! I know who you are now!”
“Good evening,” I nod.
“Hi there,” Stella says, as she reaches out to hold both of my hands across the table.
Mrs. Flauvich brings out our crumpets and butter and marmalade. It’s a weird appetizer, but I’m happy to indulge. Mrs. Flauvich kisses both Stella and me on the tops of our heads before going back behind the counter and telling Kwas that he’ll have to wait a minute to order.
“So these are crumpets?” Stella picks one up, inspecting it.
“They’re griddle cakes,” I tell her. “A breakfast food. Delicious when warm and smothered with butter. Just the best. These are pre-made, but my mum and Nan make them fresh with batter on a pan.”
She takes a bite of buttered crumpet, chews, and makes a face. “Oh.” She swallows, grimacing. “It’s spongy.”
