The Cafe

        Every Saturday, for two years in a row, the old woman had come into the restaurant for lunch. She always had the same thing, freshly baked fillet of Sole, very well cooked vegetables, hot rolls with no butter and hot tea with extra lemon. And every Saturday, Martin waited on her. She was always the last person in before closing time and always the last order to go into the chef. As the other waiters closed out their checks and prepared to go home, Martin chatted pleasantly with the old woman and served her lunch. He always asked after her health and she inquired about his studies at the nearby college. He could always bring a smile to her wrinkled face when he compared his mother’s cooking to the chef’s nouvelle cuisine. She could do the same to him when she told him of her granddaughter’s antics in the private school she attended in New York. Martin eventually learned that the old woman’s name was Mrs. Denardo and that she, according to the café’s maitre’d, had most of the money in the universe. Mrs. Denardo never tipped more than the standard twenty-five to thirty percent and by her conversation never alluded to being overly impressed with her wealth. Martin, for his part, never treated her like anything other than a sweet elderly guest whose habits and tastes were catered to by her favorite restaurant.

        After every lunch, Martin always walked Mrs. Denardo to the door, her fragile arm linked through his youthful muscles. Her aging skin was white, nearly translucent with the veins on her hands showing up like roadways on an aged, yellowing roadmap someone had left in the trunk of their car, forgotten over the years. The ebony sheen of Martin’s skin next to her paleness always reminded him of the restaurant’s color scheme, black tile, white tile, black shoes and pants, white aprons and jackets, black logos on white napkins, even the black lettering on the white pages of the menus and wine lists. Somehow their physical makeup seemed to be in perfect harmony with their surroundings. Their friendship seemed to tie everything together and by some unknown, subconscious reasoning they became a comfort to each other.

         One Saturday, Mrs. Denardo did not show up at her usual time for lunch. The kitchen closed down and the other waiters did their checkouts and prepared to leave. Martin walked to the hostess stand and asked if Mrs. Denardo had called to cancel her luncheon. The hostess replied that, no, she had not and noted with Martin that this was unusual. As they were discussing the oddity of this, the phone rang. The hostess answered and after a brief word handed the phone to Martin, smiling.

        “Martin?” It was Mrs. Denardo.

        “Good afternoon, Mrs. Denardo. We missed you for lunch today.” Martin was surprised at the sense of relief in his voice.

        “Thank you, Martin. I wanted to call for two reasons. I wanted to let you know that I apologize for not calling sooner to cancel my reservation and to ask a favor of you.”

        “Of course, Mrs. Denardo. Anything we can do for you will be our pleasure.”

        “Not the restaurant, Martin. You personally.” For some reason Martin had a sense of Mrs. Denardo smiling, with that neat twinkle her watery eyes got whenever they joked together.

        “How may I help you, Mrs. Denardo?” answered Martin, truly unsure of what he could possibly help this little old lady with, a person hardly helpless by virtue of her obvious wealth.

        “You know that Christmas is two days from now. Normally I have my mischievous granddaughter spend part of the holidays with me, but this year she will spend her vacation in New York with my daughter’s family. I am too old to enjoy traveling during the holiday bustle, but not too old to enjoy guests for a big Christmas dinner. I know that you are not going home for the holidays and I hope you will join me and a few guests for dinner on Christmas Eve. If you have someone you would like to bring, you are certainly welcome to invite them as well.”

        Martin was stunned. He absolutely could not speak.

        “Martin?”

        “Yes!” Martin exclaimed. “I am…just…” he didn’t finish.

        “Oh Martin, don’t be silly. We have been friends for quite a while, haven’t we?”

        “Of course.” They were…friends? The thought turned slowly in his head. Well, he certainly considered himself a friend to her. It was the thought that this elderly, white, wealthy resident of the poshest part of the city considered herself his friend, that threw him.

        “Well, Martin, if you are not too snooty to have dinner with an old rich lady, I will look forward to seeing you about seven, Christmas Eve.”

        Martin laughed into the phone. “Mrs. Denardo, you are very kind to invite me and I look forward to joining you. May I bring anything for the table?”

        Martin laughed aloud again as Mrs. Denardo bargained his favorite dessert for his mother’s jalapeno cornbread stuffing recipe.

        Two days later, the weather had turned cold, almost bitter, with a wet, blustery wind blowing a front of rain and snow across the city. Most people felt that it only added festivity to the late Christmas shopping rush and a general cheery feeling pervaded most of the stores and restaurants. Even the harried clerks and service personnel could not be daunted by the mad rush of celebrating people dashing about the city, looking for last minute gifts and completing shopping lists. Martin, also joined into the holiday whirlwind, and spent some time picking out just the right gift for Mrs. Denardo. His budget was necessarily a bit thinner than Mrs. Denardo’s was, but he laughed to himself as he paid for his parcel. He knew she would see it for what it was.

        That night, Martin took a cab to the address Mrs. Denardo had given him earlier by phone. The cab ride had some strange quality to it, as if he were a visiting dignitary at some foreign ambassador’s residence. Snow and ice covered most of the streets and a cold, frozen halo surrounded the street lights. The houses were bright, though and through the windows, light shone onto the snow and into the streets. Martin felt as if not just light shone through the windows, but feelings too, becoming some surreal blend of festivity and religion. He blinked his eyes, knowing that he was a little awed by the neighborhood and the wealth it represented. The governor’s mansion back home was smaller than even one of these houses. He blinked his eyes again.

         When the cab arrived at the correct address, Martin got out and paid the driver, wishing her a hearty Merry Christmas and tipping generously. As the cab pulled away, Martin stood a moment and just enjoyed the scene. The walk had been carefully chipped and shoveled free from ice and snow and was lit by lampposts decorated with holiday wreaths. There was a long, white columned verandah, decorated with ribbons and greenery and colored lighting, all pointing towards the great double doors. The brass on the doors gleamed brightly in the flickering holiday lights. Music could be heard faintly from behind the great doors and lighted windows. Martin smiled as he walked to the front doors and rang the bell. He smiled again as he heard Christmas chimes announcing his arrival.

         Mrs. Denardo welcomed him warmly, smiling her watery smile and taking his arm as she did at the café. She introduced him to a few guests who were standing in a room with a blazing fireplace roaring and crackling its warmth into their midst. A scent of pines and cranberries wafted about the decorated room making the scene beautiful and picturesque, with a magnificent Christmas tree gracing a whole wall. She placed his gaily wrapped gift for her on a small side table where other parcels were stacked, and whispered that she had a special gift for him that would not fit on a table. She shushed him, still smiling when he tried to protest that being simply invited to her beautiful home for Christmas dinner was certainly one of the best gifts he had ever been given.

         Waiters suddenly appeared and the small party moved into the dining room to be seated at a lovely table lit with tapered holiday candles and festive place settings. They chatted amiably as the dishes were served, wine was poured and compliments ensued concerning the delicious courses prepared for the hostess and her guests. Martin was included in the conversations as if he had known these people for years. He was a little surprised at their congeniality but he was sure that Mrs. Denardo would not put up with any rudeness or ill-mannered behavior in her house or at her table. He remembered a story that the chef at Martin’s restaurant had told him concerning just that fact. It seems that Mrs. Denardo had been out to dinner at a popular restaurant in New York city while visiting her daughter, and having been served her meal asked that it be cooked just a bit more. An arrogant chef had delivered her plate and suggested that she might want to order something else because her first meal had been prepared perfectly. Two weeks later that same chef was shucking oysters at a chain restaurant in Jersey and two months after that was on a bus for California to look for another position. No, rudeness was not an option with Mrs. Denardo.

         After dinner, they retired again to the fireplace room where the guests were offered sherries, ports and cordials as gifts were exchanged with much laughter and delight. Soft Christmas music, the glow from the fireplace and decorations created a wonderful atmosphere for the holiday gathering. When Mrs. Denardo opened the gift from Martin she grinned from ear to ear with mirth. It was a plushly made seat cushion with her name beautifully embroidered across the top, but on the bottom was a stitched likeness of the arrogant chef from New York. 

        “Martin, you rascal! I do admit that I find your chairs at the café a little hard and uncomfortable but I think I will take the most pleasure in showing my, er,…best side… to our arrogant friend’s face,” she grinned. “Thank you, dear,” she said as she took his arm again and walked him into a side room where she handed him an envelope. Martin paused as the old lady watched him, not sure what he was supposed to do. “Open it, silly,” said Mrs. Denardo, kindly. Martin opened the envelope and after unfolding the papers he looked confusedly at his friend.

        “That is a formal letter of introduction and recommendation to the firm of Hagel and Kearns. In it I firmly and confidently state that I would be pleased to see you not only join their firm but also that I would consider you to be a favorable addition to the team that handles my entire account. And I have an extremely substantial portfolio, I might add,” she said conspiratorially. “You may recall that you were seated next to Mr. Hagel and Mr. Kearns at dinner. They were impressed with you as I knew they would be. Upon your graduation you may simply present yourself to their offices and if you are interested, at that time work out the details of your possible employment with them.” 

         Martin was stunned. Hagel and Kearns was the absolute top firm in not only the city but the entire state. He had not even hoped to get an interview with them. Could this really be happening? He suddenly became aware that his mouth was hanging open and snapped his jaws shut so quickly that his teeth snapped closed louder than he would have wished. Mrs. Denardo laughed as she wheeled him about to rejoin the group. “I think it’s time for egg nog Martin. You will have a glass with me won’t you?” 

        “Yes ma’am, I certainly will. And thank you Mrs. Denardo, thank you for everything.”

        “Merry Christmas, Martin.”

        “And to you, Mrs. Denardo, a very, Merry Christmas!”

        Martin toasted with everyone else, sipping the frothy rum laced nog slowly, appreciatively. Friends, he thought,…they show themselves in the oddest places. They show up when they are needed. They give of themselves without asking and with no thought of thanks needed. Sometimes, they take the place of angels. He promised himself right then that he too would live his life that way. He would honor Mrs. Denardo’s friendship by passing it forward, by helping where and when he could. He would take every opportunity that presented itself to be what Mrs. Denardo had been to him…a friend.

         Friendship is a gift that can be given at any time of the year, but it is a special gift at Christmas. A rare gift, and a precious gift because it can last a lifetime. Give it freely, give it often, sprinkle it liberally over your life. And when we are called home, as we all will be, may your friendships trail along beside you, lighting your way to the heavens as they did for your life on earth.

                                                                     Merry Christmas

                                                                            The End