Page 65 of Tough Call

At the end of the street, Madars led me to the bakery, which was tucked in between a doner kebab place and what I thought was a laundromat. There were a few other restaurants and shops along the street, some open, some with their rolldown doors tightly closed. One of the cafés was open, with people sitting at tables out on the patio.

I nodded toward it. “I thought the restaurants didn’t open until eight.”

“Some do. I learned very fast the first time I came here that you have to check the hours for everything, because they’re not universal.”

“Good to know. What’s the whole siesta thing, anyway? Like how does it work?”

“They close for a couple of hours during the day. Two to four, usually.” He pulled open the bakery door and gestured for me to go in ahead of him. “Sometimes they don’t come back afterward, either, especially on Fridays or the weekends. Just depends on the business.”

I nodded. Good thing he had a handle on things like that. My internal clock was still blinking 12:00, and I’d have been hard-pressed to keep up with business hours I was used to. Variable hours? Siesta? I was tired just thinking about it.

The bakery we’d walked into smelled amazing. Coffee. Bread. All kinds of smells I couldn’t quite identify. The glass case was filled with pastries I’d never seen before, and as hungry as I was, they all looked good.

“What do you recommend?” I asked.

He gestured at a tray marked Napolitana de chocolate. On it were what I could only describe as flat, rectangular croissants stuffed with chocolate and drizzled with more. “Those are amazing,” he said. “In fact, I’m probably having two.”

I turned to him. “Two?”

“Mmhmm. They’re pretty light.” He touched my back and grinned, and he lowered his voice so only I heard him add, “And I burned a lot of calories earlier.”

I laughed. Oh, we’d both burned quite a few calories. Two of those pastries sounded pretty damn good to me, too, but… maybe not quite yet. I’d start with one and go from there.

The staff didn’t speak any English at all, so Madars handled our orders. He got us coffees and three of the Napolitana de chocolate pastries. Then we took a table outside in the shade of what Madars said was an orange tree.

“They’re the bitter oranges,” he explained as we sat down. “The ones they use for marmalade, I guess.”

“Ah, so you can’t just pick them and eat them?”

“I mean, you can.” He shrugged, picking up one of his pastries. “But you might not like it.”

“Too bad they’re not growing right now. I could find out if you’re full of shit.”

He laughed. “And I could film your reaction to biting into one.”

“Are they that bad?”

“Don’t know. Never tried one.”

“You? The adventurous eater?” I put a hand to my chest. “I’m shocked.”

“Yeah, well…” He shook his head. “I heard ‘bitter orange’ and said ‘no, thanks.’”

“Hmm, I guess that’s smart.” I picked up my pastry and took a bite. I instantly understood why Madars had recommended these. I’d kind of expected it to be dense and rich, but it was surprisingly light and airy. The chocolate must’ve been some variety of dark chocolate—not what I’d call bitter, but not overpoweringly sweet, either.

Madars grinned. “What do you think?”

“It’s really good.” I dusted some crumbs off my shirt. “I might have to get a second one, too.”

He chuckled as he went for a bite of his own. “Or try some of the others.” He tipped his head toward the bakery. “Some of them are a little sweet for me, but I’ve never tasted one I didn’t like.”

“Well, damn. Now I just want to graze my way through the whole place.”

“We can come here as often as you want.”

That brought me up short. And then I remembered—this wasn’t a one-time thing. We’d have day after day to come here and drink their coffee and try their various pastries.

Because this wouldn’t be over after today. Or after this week. Or even after the end of the month.