be.”
She had been perfectly honest with Brian about how she knew next to nothing about the catering industry, but Zelma turned out to be a quick learner, not to mention a great saleswoman.
When a customer—usually a young woman—ordered a skinny cappuccino and nothing else, Zelma would step in. “Excuse me, miss,” she would pipe up from behind the counter. “If you don’t mind me saying so, you look like you could do with a little something inside you.” Only Zelma—because she was old and motherly and utterly charming—could get away with this.
The woman wasn’t allowed to take her coffee and sit down until Zelma had taken her on a tour of all the wonderful bready comestibles on offer. “Now, then, what about one of these cream cheese bagels, maybe? I tell you, these aren’t your usual supermarket bagels. Oh, no. These are the old-fashioned traditional bagels. We have them brought in every morning from Golders Green. I call them the real McOy-veh!” At this point she would pause for laughter, but none ever came because Café Mozart, being south of the river, wasn’t exactly overrun with Jewish customers. “You’ll have one? Good girl. With a slice of smoked salmon, maybe? You need your fish oils. It’s brain food … Yes? Excellent. Now, then, let me show you our coffee and walnut cake. I tell you, darling … this … this is to die for. Melts in the mouth. It’s like angels dancing on your taste buds. You’ll have a slice? Wonderful. A slip of a girl like you can afford to put on a few pounds. What are you, a size six?”
And she wasn’t even on commission.
BY NOW ZELMA was forty minutes late. Brian and Amy were starting to get worried. “Two years she’s worked here,” Brian said, “and she’s never been late. She’s such a stickler for punctuality.” He paused. “God, what if something’s happened to her? I mean, she’s not getting any younger.”
Just then there was a tap on the door. They could both see Zelma’s agitated outline through the frosted glass. Brian went to open the door.
“Darling, I am so sorry I’m late,” Zelma gasped, barely able to catch her breath. “I’ve run all the way from the corner.” She paused for a moment, hand clamped to her chest, before stepping inside. “I tried phoning your mobile, but you weren’t picking up. I can’t bear letting people down. Not when they’re relying on me.”
Brian said his phone was probably on silent. “Zelma, it’s okay. Take it easy. You haven’t let me down. You’re only a few minutes late.”
“No, I’m not. I should have been here forty-three minutes ago. You should have opened up by now, and I’ve made you late. You’re losing money because of me.”
Brian told her not to be so daft, and Amy took her arm and led her to a chair. “Now sit down and tell us what happened,” she said.
Zelma lowered herself onto the chair. “Bus strike.”
Amy and Brian both looked out the window at the stream of buses passing by.
“No, there isn’t,” Brian said. “There are plenty of buses.”
“I know. I know. You don’t understand. When I woke up this morning, I turned on the wireless, and the announcer said there’s a one-day bus strike, so I decided—since I don’t live near the Tube—that I couldn’t get to work. I thought about phoning for a cab, but I didn’t bother because I assumed they’d all be booked solid. Anyway, after breakfast I pottered about for half an hour or so. When I went back upstairs to get dressed, the radio was still on, and this time there was a different announcer talking about this bus strike. I started listening because I was waiting for Thought for the Day to come on—they’ve got Rabbi Goldman from my synagogue on all week—when the announcer says the strike is in … Warsaw. I was listening to the World Service instead of Radio 4. I don’t know how it could have happened. I’m so sorry. I wasted all that time messing around at home when I should have
She had been perfectly honest with Brian about how she knew next to nothing about the catering industry, but Zelma turned out to be a quick learner, not to mention a great saleswoman.
When a customer—usually a young woman—ordered a skinny cappuccino and nothing else, Zelma would step in. “Excuse me, miss,” she would pipe up from behind the counter. “If you don’t mind me saying so, you look like you could do with a little something inside you.” Only Zelma—because she was old and motherly and utterly charming—could get away with this.
The woman wasn’t allowed to take her coffee and sit down until Zelma had taken her on a tour of all the wonderful bready comestibles on offer. “Now, then, what about one of these cream cheese bagels, maybe? I tell you, these aren’t your usual supermarket bagels. Oh, no. These are the old-fashioned traditional bagels. We have them brought in every morning from Golders Green. I call them the real McOy-veh!” At this point she would pause for laughter, but none ever came because Café Mozart, being south of the river, wasn’t exactly overrun with Jewish customers. “You’ll have one? Good girl. With a slice of smoked salmon, maybe? You need your fish oils. It’s brain food … Yes? Excellent. Now, then, let me show you our coffee and walnut cake. I tell you, darling … this … this is to die for. Melts in the mouth. It’s like angels dancing on your taste buds. You’ll have a slice? Wonderful. A slip of a girl like you can afford to put on a few pounds. What are you, a size six?”
And she wasn’t even on commission.
BY NOW ZELMA was forty minutes late. Brian and Amy were starting to get worried. “Two years she’s worked here,” Brian said, “and she’s never been late. She’s such a stickler for punctuality.” He paused. “God, what if something’s happened to her? I mean, she’s not getting any younger.”
Just then there was a tap on the door. They could both see Zelma’s agitated outline through the frosted glass. Brian went to open the door.
“Darling, I am so sorry I’m late,” Zelma gasped, barely able to catch her breath. “I’ve run all the way from the corner.” She paused for a moment, hand clamped to her chest, before stepping inside. “I tried phoning your mobile, but you weren’t picking up. I can’t bear letting people down. Not when they’re relying on me.”
Brian said his phone was probably on silent. “Zelma, it’s okay. Take it easy. You haven’t let me down. You’re only a few minutes late.”
“No, I’m not. I should have been here forty-three minutes ago. You should have opened up by now, and I’ve made you late. You’re losing money because of me.”
Brian told her not to be so daft, and Amy took her arm and led her to a chair. “Now sit down and tell us what happened,” she said.
Zelma lowered herself onto the chair. “Bus strike.”
Amy and Brian both looked out the window at the stream of buses passing by.
“No, there isn’t,” Brian said. “There are plenty of buses.”
“I know. I know. You don’t understand. When I woke up this morning, I turned on the wireless, and the announcer said there’s a one-day bus strike, so I decided—since I don’t live near the Tube—that I couldn’t get to work. I thought about phoning for a cab, but I didn’t bother because I assumed they’d all be booked solid. Anyway, after breakfast I pottered about for half an hour or so. When I went back upstairs to get dressed, the radio was still on, and this time there was a different announcer talking about this bus strike. I started listening because I was waiting for Thought for the Day to come on—they’ve got Rabbi Goldman from my synagogue on all week—when the announcer says the strike is in … Warsaw. I was listening to the World Service instead of Radio 4. I don’t know how it could have happened. I’m so sorry. I wasted all that time messing around at home when I should have
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