Page 37 of Fred and Breakfast

‘It’s not much more expensive, I promise you. I’m going to suggest you try an Americano, which is the closest match to your normal coffee. It’s literally thirty pence more per cup, so you’ll still get your breakfast for a fiver, you just won’t get any change.’

‘Okay, I’ll try it. But I’m not making any promises, understand?’

‘Thank you, Ron. Bronwyn, charge Ron for his bacon roll and give him an Americano on the house, please.’

Bronwyn smiles, takes the £5 note, and hands Ron his change before setting about the coffee machine. Even though it’s her first day using it, she looks very confident as she dispenses coffee into the holder, tamps it down, and attaches it to the machine. She slides a cup underneath, presses a button, and watches as the machine delivers a steady stream of strong coffee into it. She tops it up with boiling water from another nozzle, adds milk, and carries it over to Ron’s table. Together, we stand and watch, waiting for him to take his first sip.

Annoyingly, he seems absorbed in a story in the newspaper this morning. Just as I’m starting to worry that I’ll have to go back into the kitchen to deal with the cake, he lifts the cup to his lips and drinks. I see him swilling it round his mouth, as if he’s tasting a fine wine, before he swallows. He raises his eyes and looks at us.

‘Worth 30p extra, Ron?’ Bronwyn asks.

‘It might be,’ he replies, smiling.

We repeat the process with Agnes and Harold when they arrive. Agnes is also sold, but Harold pronounces that he can’t tell the difference and he’ll stick to the old stuff, thank you very much.

‘You can’t win them all,’ Bronwyn reassures me.

‘He was the one I was least sure about,’ I agree. ‘Anyone who puts brown sauce on egg has to have questionable taste.’

‘I told you, didn’t I? You could feed him sawdust and I doubt he’d notice.’

‘Rita’s perfect customer, isn’t he?’ I reply, and we both snigger.

‘I thought I might write all the new coffees up on the specials board, what do you think?’ she asks.

‘I think that’s an excellent idea. It looks so sad empty, and it’s a good way to advertise them until I get a chance to update the main menu.’

Once the cake has cooled, I make the icing using a shot of espresso from the new machine and decorate it with walnut halves. I’m just about to start cutting it up when Matt stops me.

‘You’re not going to cut it up like that, are you?’ he asks.

‘Why? It’s not a meat knife, it’s quite safe.’

‘It’s not the knife. If you cut it up without marking the slices first, your portion sizes will be all over the place. Hang on.’

He disappears into the cupboard and reappears with an object that looks like those gadgets you see in kitchen shops for coring and slicing apples, only much bigger.

‘How many slices do you want, twelve or sixteen?’

‘It’s not that big, let’s go with twelve.’

Matt removes the walnut halves and carefully lowers the gadget over the cake, leaving a series of radiating lines in the icing. ‘There you go. Twelve equal slices. You just have to make sure you get the centre of the divider in the centre of the cake. Now you can cut and decorate.’

The rest of the day passes well. Katie appears at lunchtime, and Bronwyn takes advantage of a quiet period after lunch to teach us both how to use the machine. I’m a bit confused about the different things you have to do with the milk for the different types of coffee, so Bronwyn writes out an aide-memoir that we can refer to. The cake is a sell-out success, and I’m pleased to see some new faces. There are even a couple of young mothers, who we treat with kid gloves. Ron may not approve of them but, if we impress them, I’m hopeful they will tell their friends and our customer base will grow.

* * *

By the time we close up, I can barely keep my eyes open, but it’s been our most successful day since I took it on.

‘You look dead on your feet,’ Matt observes.

‘Thanks! You really know how to make a girl feel good about herself,’ I reply.

‘I’m serious. Look, why don’t you come up to my flat and have an hour’s kip before you drive home? The spare bedroom is clean, and I’m worried you’ll fall asleep at the wheel if you leave now.’

I open my mouth to protest, but I realise he’s got a point.

‘Are you sure you don’t mind? I don’t want to put you out.’

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