production line, sliced into steaming hunks and slathered with butter for my elementary school class to savor.
My mouth literally watering, I looked around, trying to find the source of the incredible aroma. A tiny walkway led between two buildings. A neatly printed sign was nailed to the wall: Garden Variety Café. An arrow pointed down the narrow alley.
Like a woman possessed, I followed it. Ivy-covered walls led me to a surprising little courtyard. Four iron tables melted into the shadows, barely reflecting the cheerful gas flame that flickered beside a green-painted wooden door. The alcove was a perfect retreat from the hustle and bustle of the city; it was like I’d stepped into a fairy tale. Any minute now, hobbits were going to stroll over the flagstones, laughing about a fine evening meal of mushrooms.
Hey, in a world with roving, wish-granting, policeman genies, anything is possible, right?
“Still a little cold for eating outside, isn’t it?”
I jumped in reflex, biting off a shriek. I hadn’t seen the man who stood in the shadows beside the door. As he stepped forward, I saw why I’d missed him. He wore black from head to foot, a long-sleeved work shirt tucked into worn denim jeans. A dark apron was snug around his waist, the long ties wrapped behind him, then brought around to hang in a comfortably loose bow. The guy’s hair was as dark as the shadows that had hidden him, unruly waves that clearly defied any barber’s control. He looked like he’d forgotten to shave for a day or four.
His left hand was curled around a large stoneware mug. Steam curled above the pottery, and I caught a whiff of bergamot. Earl Grey tea.
He shrugged disarmingly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“No, you didn’t,” I said automatically, then felt like kicking myself for the transparent lie. “I was just…”
He waited politely, but when I couldn’t come up with a story, he nodded toward the green door. “You’re here for dinner?” he asked. The smell of baking bread made me nod. He turned the wrought-iron doorknob and gestured for me to precede him inside.
The restaurant was tiny. A kind critic would call it “intimate”—there were half a dozen four-tops scattered across the scrubbed wooden floor. A square of brown butcher paper covered each table. Mismatched dishes sat in front of each chair, flanked by a chaotic tumble of silverware. The entire room could have looked like the back of a Goodwill store, but the effect somehow managed to be one of simple, easy good cheer.
That impression was helped along by the presence of four different groups of diners, all chatting comfortably. One man sat alone at the table nearest the kitchen, though, a traveler’s backpack his only companion.
My host waited patiently until I turned my attention back to him. “One?” he asked.
I nodded, and he glided toward the only open table, the one in front of the large stone fireplace. Glancing around the room, I saw that the only decor consisted of simple, framed architectural prints—line drawings of buildings that may never have actually existed. The stark artwork anchored the walls somehow, made them seem more real.
Real. I shivered, consciously forbidding myself from thinking about the flames tattooed on my fingertips, about the markings that my policeman genie had displayed on his wrist.
I wasn’t going to ponder my impossible wishes. I was going to eat dinner. Have a normal meal. In a normal restaurant. Like a normal person.
“This is your first time at Garden Variety?” The guy looked attentive, attuned to my response as I pulled my gaze back from the cozy room. I nodded, and he smiled. “We don’t have a written menu. I cook what I feel like, based on what’s in season. Tonight, we have a cream of asparagus soup or a golden beet salad, to start. I’ve got a good meat loaf, and roast chicken. Some baked macaroni and cheese.”
Everything sounded wonderful, like the comfort food I’d craved
My mouth literally watering, I looked around, trying to find the source of the incredible aroma. A tiny walkway led between two buildings. A neatly printed sign was nailed to the wall: Garden Variety Café. An arrow pointed down the narrow alley.
Like a woman possessed, I followed it. Ivy-covered walls led me to a surprising little courtyard. Four iron tables melted into the shadows, barely reflecting the cheerful gas flame that flickered beside a green-painted wooden door. The alcove was a perfect retreat from the hustle and bustle of the city; it was like I’d stepped into a fairy tale. Any minute now, hobbits were going to stroll over the flagstones, laughing about a fine evening meal of mushrooms.
Hey, in a world with roving, wish-granting, policeman genies, anything is possible, right?
“Still a little cold for eating outside, isn’t it?”
I jumped in reflex, biting off a shriek. I hadn’t seen the man who stood in the shadows beside the door. As he stepped forward, I saw why I’d missed him. He wore black from head to foot, a long-sleeved work shirt tucked into worn denim jeans. A dark apron was snug around his waist, the long ties wrapped behind him, then brought around to hang in a comfortably loose bow. The guy’s hair was as dark as the shadows that had hidden him, unruly waves that clearly defied any barber’s control. He looked like he’d forgotten to shave for a day or four.
His left hand was curled around a large stoneware mug. Steam curled above the pottery, and I caught a whiff of bergamot. Earl Grey tea.
He shrugged disarmingly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“No, you didn’t,” I said automatically, then felt like kicking myself for the transparent lie. “I was just…”
He waited politely, but when I couldn’t come up with a story, he nodded toward the green door. “You’re here for dinner?” he asked. The smell of baking bread made me nod. He turned the wrought-iron doorknob and gestured for me to precede him inside.
The restaurant was tiny. A kind critic would call it “intimate”—there were half a dozen four-tops scattered across the scrubbed wooden floor. A square of brown butcher paper covered each table. Mismatched dishes sat in front of each chair, flanked by a chaotic tumble of silverware. The entire room could have looked like the back of a Goodwill store, but the effect somehow managed to be one of simple, easy good cheer.
That impression was helped along by the presence of four different groups of diners, all chatting comfortably. One man sat alone at the table nearest the kitchen, though, a traveler’s backpack his only companion.
My host waited patiently until I turned my attention back to him. “One?” he asked.
I nodded, and he glided toward the only open table, the one in front of the large stone fireplace. Glancing around the room, I saw that the only decor consisted of simple, framed architectural prints—line drawings of buildings that may never have actually existed. The stark artwork anchored the walls somehow, made them seem more real.
Real. I shivered, consciously forbidding myself from thinking about the flames tattooed on my fingertips, about the markings that my policeman genie had displayed on his wrist.
I wasn’t going to ponder my impossible wishes. I was going to eat dinner. Have a normal meal. In a normal restaurant. Like a normal person.
“This is your first time at Garden Variety?” The guy looked attentive, attuned to my response as I pulled my gaze back from the cozy room. I nodded, and he smiled. “We don’t have a written menu. I cook what I feel like, based on what’s in season. Tonight, we have a cream of asparagus soup or a golden beet salad, to start. I’ve got a good meat loaf, and roast chicken. Some baked macaroni and cheese.”
Everything sounded wonderful, like the comfort food I’d craved
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