Spice of Life
Spice of Life can do more than revitalize everyday menus, it can widen perspectives, inform hearts, and make an old town young again.
Tara Bhatt slid into the back booth of the Let’s Eat Café and dropped her laptop and notebook on the smooth surface mildly annoyed that a few grains of salt were highlighted in the slanting rays of the evening sun under the napkin dispenser. She scowled and leaned forward, squinting. Or is that sugar? She tried to shake off the irritation climbing onto her shoulders like a vengeful Sumu wrestler.
A fierce November wind howled at the front picture window while supper guests comforted themselves with grilled sandwiches, piping hot fries, savory stews, and warm biscuits.
Tomorrow was Friday, and Tara planned on a Fish and Chips special with a side of coleslaw. Her head ached with the thought. When did I stop caring about coleslaw? Vegetables used to be the joy of my life!
Her afternoon server, Caden, strolled by, an empty tray tucked under one arm. He glanced aside and jerked to a stop. The Tin Man caught by rusty joints. “What’s got you?”
Tara treated her staff like her adult kids—respectfully but fully aware that she paid all the bills around the place. She tapped the computer top meaningfully. “I’ve got to place the orders for next month.” One finger grazed the notebook. “I’ve kept my old lists going back through the years, thought I might remember some oldie but goodies.”
A snort suggested that oldies but goodies should have been dispatched to cyberspace long ago. Then his eyes widened, a hint of fear in their depths. “You’re not going to revive that fruitcake thing, the one you tried a few years ago! Gawsh, I thought my stomach would never forgive me.” Leaning closer, his broad frame filling Tara’s vision, Caden lowered his voice to tremulous depths. “There’s been a lot of upset around here, cause, well, you know why.” A slight shake of the head warned of doomsday soon approaching. “Hollywood types, sports stars, even big influencers are up in arms!”
Without actually collapsing, Tara propped her hand against her head to keep it from smacking the tabletop. A second-generation Indian-American, she never paid attention to celebrity news cycles. Her grandparents spent their lives trying to start a business. Her parents worked frantically to build the business. She did everything she could not to lose the business entrusted to her care. With three meals to prepare for a hungry crowd six days a week, she didn’t have time for social media, clickbait news, or the latest AI outburst. If aliens arrived, she’d take their order, same as everyone else, and pray that their debit cards were good.
She blinked. Caden was still there and, apparently, he had continued speaking in his hushed tone, warning her of disastrous portents should she push Oldtown’s citizenry too far and retrieve the failed fruitcake experiment. Exhausted by his concern, she waved him off.
Only after he had stopped to chat with customers at table number six, did she remember the salt—or sugar—under the dispenser. The sun had set and the overhead lights brightened accordingly. The dispenser’s shadows hid her shame.
She flipped open her notebook and tapped on her laptop, wondering if it would actually kill anyone if she tried a few of her grandmother’s old family recipes. She leaned back in the booth, her favorite place in the whole restaurant, enjoying the wide view of the dining room. Over half the booths and tables were filled and the after-work crowd hadn’t even made it in yet. She imagined setting trays of savory rice dishes, naan flatbread, vegetable biryani, saag paneer, and samosas before her friends and long-time patrons.
She surveyed the room. Rhona and Derm snug in booth three with Syn chatting happily opposite them would probably be willing to taste and see. Her gaze roved over to Lucia and Maisie, owners of the Quilt & Sew Shop down the street. She bit her lip. They may like to travel and explore new places, but whenever they took a night off cooking, they always shared their favorite meal—a deep-dish lasagna. They’d probably be gracious in the face of new offerings, but they’d be disappointed. Most others would be much the same. The reason they came to the café was the comfort of familiarity. The menu might rotate but it was as regular as the seasons.
The doorbell chimes rang merrily as a medium-sized man with wavy black hair and dark eyes strode in, one hand clutching the high collar of his leather jacket, which clearly wasn’t protecting him from the biting wind.
Caden hitched his way over and pointed out the closest table.
The stranger glanced at the back booth, the one across from Tara.
Despite his absurd obsession with celebrity media, Caden knew how to serve the average customer with perfect civility. A neat bow and he led the way, his head high, a snatched menu tucked under his arm.
A quick confab about drinks, the man ordered a decaf coffee, and Caden was off on his next mission.
Tara flipped open her notebook and sighed. Nothing enchanted her. Rousing her determination the way a general might threaten reluctant troops with charges of mutiny, Tara tapped to the order page with links arranged in a neat row on the right side and menu selections on the left.
Hamburgers, fries, coleslaw, spaghetti, lasagna, French bread, Texas Toast, potpies, stews, soups, salads… Her eyes glazed.
“Excuse me?”
Startled, Tara gathered her wandering thoughts and sat straighter. In an instant, she appraised the strange man who had startled her. Dark brown skin, not Indian, Middle Eastern possibly. But something else, the eyes spoke of European roots, a haunting shade of green, that suggested so many possibilities she could not narrow it down.
“Sorry to interrupt. I’m new to town, and I just wondered if you could recommend a hotel or something. Any rooms for rent around here?”
Tara hardly had a chance to blink her eyes, an answer popped into her mind so suddenly. Odd that. Mr. Thompson and his new wife, Elspeth Gillis, who owned and managed the Literary Enlightenment Bookstore had just mentioned this morning during the breakfast rush that they had refurbished two rooms with a central living area on their third floor and were looking for renters.
She narrowed her eyes at the man young enough to be her son. He seemed interested, sure, but was he trustworthy? Nancy Drew had been a childhood heroine, so playing detective captured Tara’s imagination the way a kitten seized a ball of yarn.
Tapping the tabletop, she motioned for the stranger to sit opposite her in her booth.
Disconcerted hesitation, a glance around, and a quick exhale, and the guy threw caution to the wind. He slid into the seat, clasped his hands on the tabletop, and met her gaze head-on—a student with an open mind willing to be instructed.
Tara offered her hand with a grin. “I’m Tara Bhatt, the owner of this café, so I know almost everyone in town. Anyone who gets hungry and wants a night off cooking comes in here eventually. Most return regularly.”
The man’s eyes widened and appreciation rose to the surface. After the handshake, he nodded through another glance around the thriving business. “You’ve got a great place here. I’m Kia Curran, originally from up north, Chicago area, but then moved to St. Louis.” He shrugged through a sigh. “Not a great fan of city life these days.”
Tara tilted her head and pushed her computer to the side so there was nothing between them. “You’re just looking around?”
A quick head dip and Kia channeled charm through his humility. “I know, right? Sounds like I’m checking out all the prospects like some dating site.” A quirked smile and he shook his head. “I came through here a few months ago, back in the summer, just as an excursion; I hadn’t decided to move for sure at that point. Stopped in here, as a matter of fact. Didn’t see you, but I sure heard a lot of interesting conversations.” Momentary alarm filled his eyes. “Not that I was trying to eavesdrop or anything. Just couldn’t help hearing some things. There was so much going on—some kind of art exhibition on Main Street, an online poetry contest, movie nights, a fall festival, and the park was being refurbished with new playground equipment. I even noticed a big sign offering free vegetables at the community garden on the way in.
Tara laughed. The innocent shock in his eyes suggested that Oldtown’s revitalization efforts seemed as strange as an interstellar dance contest. “You don’t get all that in the big city?”
“Oh, sure. There are all sorts of activities and events going on. I’m not knocking city advantages. But…” His eyes dimmed into a memory. “Two months ago, while driving to work, I unknowingly got between two irate drivers, and I was nearly killed. Another person, a young woman, wasn’t so lucky. She was driven off the road and…well, she didn’t survive. There wasn’t anything I could do to stop it. Happened so fast. But it happens too much.” He shrugged. “Plus, some other stuff.” He sucked in a deep breath. “I liked what I saw here, the enthusiasm in people’s voices. And after all the places I’ve visited, this is the one I’ve wanted to return to.”
Tara nodded. On an odd hunch, she turned her computer around and exposed the menu selections. “Just curious, what do you think of these options?”
Without missing a beat, Kia leaned forward and zeroed in on the screen. He didn’t exactly smush his face but there was a definite hint of dissatisfaction. He tapped the screen and toured the entire selection, then leaned back. “Well, it’s probably what people want, right? You’ve been doing this awhile, I take it. So, you know better than anyone.”
A soft sigh and Tara’s brief hope deflated. “Yeah. It’s what they want.”
Kia propped his head on one hand, his elbow poised on the edge of the table. “But you’re missing something?”
A shrug and Tara could hardly explain.
“Bet you know some recipes that would spice things up around here.”
A snort and Tara exhaled a long breath as she turned her computer back in her direction. “I do. But this community knows what it likes, and they hardly want my grandmother’s cuisine to oust their baked lasagna.”
Kia grinned. “How about one new recipe a month? Some kind of special deal? By the end of the year, you’ll have a few winners and enriched Oldtown’s culinary experience.”
Tara’s revived hope didn’t float, it dug roots. She considered the man in front of her and then pulled out her phone. “I’ve got a number you can call. The owners of the Literary Enlightenment Bookstore, Mr. John Thompson and his wife Elspeth, live over on Maple Street and are looking for renters for their top floor. Good people who will treat you right. And being a bookstore, the customers are pretty lowkey.” The image of the car crash that killed the young woman filled Tara’s mind, and sadness crept into her voice. “No place is perfect, but you won’t have to deal with road rage around here. Just tractors and combines during the seasonal rush.”
Caden stepped over with a steaming cup of coffee and a place setting. His glance took in the scene, and his eyebrows rose into question marks. “You want to sit here and eat? Or—” He jerked his thumb to the abandoned booth.
Kia started to rise.
Tara lifted her hand in command. “He’ll eat here, free on the house.” Her brows knit in mock severity as she frowned at her server. “As soon as you get the mess under the napkin dispenser cleaned up. We can’t be giving our newest Oldtown citizen a bad impression on his first day.”
A soldier reporting for duty could not have snapped to attention with greater alacrity. Caden arranged the coffee mug and place setting with dutiful care and then practically saluted as he took his marching orders.
A grin dancing in his eyes, Kia thanked Tara and then ordered a hamburger and fries.
Caden tucked the useless menu under his arm and nodded at his boss. “I’ll be right back to clean that up. The morning crew was obsessed with the latest news! Can hardly get anyone to pay attention to details these days.”
As Tara watched Caden stride away, her fingers rested on the computer keyboard. She looked over at Kia. A new spice to add zest to our lives? That might be just the recipe this Oldtown needs.
A. K. Frailey is the author of 21 books, a teacher for 35 years, and a homeschooling mother.
Make the most of life’s journey.
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