Bellamy's Redemption

“I thought ‘maybe a suit will win her over.’ Women like a guy in a suit, right?”

“Right.”

“We’re going somewhere I think you’ll really like,” he said, helping me into my coat.

“Are we walking?” I asked.

“No, I got us a cab. I know it’s not the limousine service you probably received all weekend, but it’s the best I can do on short notice,” he teased. “I think he’s here already.”

We made our way down to the snowy street and got in the cab. It was warm inside and a relief from the journey I’d expected we’d be making on foot. Pete took my hand in his. Butterflies fluttered in my stomach. His thumb circled the back of my hand as we chatted about his upcoming week and the new product he was about to endorse: a spray cleaner that could remove set-in blueberry and permanent ink stains with just one squirt.

“It sounds impossible,” I whispered.

“Until very recently, it was,” he replied.

The cab stopped in front of a warmly lit shop I didn’t know.

“What is this place?” I asked while Pete paid our cab driver.

“It’s one of my favorite places. I’ve been wanting to show it to you,” he said, taking my hand again as we got out. We crossed the street and went down five steps, into a space filled with delicious smells, Gypsy music, and cheery talk and laughter. In one corner of the room there were tables where people were eating and drinking. Along the other side was a long, beautiful bar. And in the back was a band, with people twirling each other around on the dance floor in front of us.

“You’ve been wanting to bring me here?” I asked.

“I have.”

“Where are we?”

“Would you believe,” asked Pete, “that this place doesn’t have a name?” He smirked, leading me to a cozy wooden booth that seemed to be carved into a nook in the wall.

Before I could answer, a beautiful, stick-skinny woman appeared, looking rather goth and serious. She deposited two menus on the table and drew in a deep breath, and then let out a long, bored-sounding sigh. “What do you want to drink?” she asked me.

“Umm. A glass of cabernet?” I said, inadvertently raising the last syllable into a nervous question.

“Sure,” she said. “And you?” she asked, turning to Pete.

“I’ll have a Pilsner Urquell,” he said.

She started laughing and then regained her composure, turning very serious. “Sure, of course,” she said.

“That was weird,” I whispered to Pete after she had walked away.

“This place is great, except that they have notoriously bad waitstaff. But it’s worth it.”

“So what’s the story?”

“The owners are a married couple. He’s from West Africa and she’s from Hungary or Prague or some place like that. Their food is a mix of Eastern European and West African,” he said, pointing to the menu. There was chicken with steamed cabbage, goulash, peanut stew… “And so is the music,” he said, just as the Gypsy music was seguing into drumbeats.

“Fascinating,” I said.

“I know! There’s no other place like this in the whole world!”

“And it has no name?”

“Nope.”

“What name shows up on your online checking account when you use your debit card here?”

“Good question. I like your inquisitive nature. However, they only take cash.”