Page 80 of Theo of Golden

Tony promptly accepted, though he questioned the goodness of the life being celebrated.

On the agreed-upon day, he closed the Verbivore early, changed clothes in the shop’s backroom, and made the short walk to Theo’s. It was dark out and cold.

Tony climbed the three flights of stairs, looked briefly at the river from the high perch of the landing, knocked on the door, and then stepped into the warm sanctuary of Theo’s home. Like the few others who had ever been inside the apartment, Tony was eager to tour the interior of a space he had only seen from ground level. At first glance, he was struck by its charm and by the stark contrast it offered to the clutter of the Verbivore.

“Theo, it looks like Sicily gives you a pretty good housing allowance. This is gorgeous, my friend. If you ever need an interior decorator to help you upgrade it a bit, I’m for hire. This is really nice.”

His banter did not belie his admiration of the place. Theo took Tony’s coat.

A young woman stepped out of the kitchen into the hallway.

Her hair, shoulder length and ink black, was pulled behind her ears, carefully but casually. Several strands escaped her gold hairclip and fell prettily across her temples. A crisp white blouse and black silk pants covered her lean, sculpted figure. The unblemished, olive skin of her face and neck, the full lips and duchess nose, and the dark amber eyes that sparkled with lamplight were, to Tony, a feast before a feast. He was discreet in the way he looked at her, but he did not miss a detail of her beauty.

He tried not to act surprised and almost said something to Theo about the perks of belonging to the Mafia. Instead, he gently shook the young woman’s hand, bowed slightly as Theo would have done, raised his eyebrows, and kept his silence. That she was almost young enough to be his granddaughter did not mitigate one bit his pleasure in watching her return to the kitchen.

Theo and Tony walked down the hallway to the front room, where an elegantly set table awaited them. En route, Tony nudged Theo, smiled dopily, nodded back over his shoulder toward the kitchen, then winked and held a thumb up, the gestural equivalent of “you old devil, you.”

Theo could not help but chuckle.

“Tony, I was going to cook for us tonight but, instead, I had Chef Bouchard prepare a special meal for this special occasion. He has made Portuguese dishes and added his own magic touch. Do you know Chef Bouchard?”

“I don’t know him, but I’ve heard of him. He owns that fancy restaurant, doesn’t he? The Canto? On my poor, pitiful wages, I’m afraid I’ll never be able to eat there.”

Theo patted Tony’s shoulder. “Well, then, I’m even more happy to introduce you to his work. He is an artist, a maestro.”

In the months Theo had been in Golden, he typically ate small meals that he either prepared himself or purchased from eateries around Broadway. He was mindful of his slowing metabolism and watchful of what and how much he ate. With one exception.

The Canto.

As a reward for discovering such a singular culinary paradise, Theo permitted himself one meal each week at the Canto for as long as he was in Golden. He would arrive at five o’clock and sit at a corner table with a book, a glass of wine, and a meal fit for royalty. He and Chef Bouchard became acquainted, spoke frequently, often in French, and always with mutual admiration. The chef appreciated Theo’s discriminating palate almost as much as Theo enjoyed the chef’s cuisine.

By early autumn, Theo had achieved the enviable goal of eating every item on the menu, a feat that prompted Chef Bouchard to begin creating one-of-a-kind meals exclusively for the distinguished old gentleman.

“No wonder I walk so much,” Theo said. “Your meals threaten to kill me first and then make me want to stay alive so I can return the next week for more!”

It was icing on the cake that a number of Asher’s large paintings were on display throughout the restaurant.

And so, when Theo asked Chef Bouchard to prepare a special meal for Tony’s birthday and send it to Ponder House, an agreement was quickly struck.

“Chef, I’m very pleased to come to the restaurant, but sometimes in crowded places, I find it difficult to hear well. For this one occasion, it would be very nice to dine at home.”

“It is my pleasure, Mr. Theo. And my honor.”

On Armistice Day, late afternoon, Chef Bouchard himself arrived at Theo’s apartment with dishes and pans full of delicacies. The aroma alone was worth the price of the meal.

With him was a young woman from Barcelona, Mia, who had recently begun working as a hostess and server at the Canto. Her face was vaguely familiar to Theo, but he could not recall where he might have met her. He had met so many people by then!

Once the dishes were brought up the three flights of stairs and laid out in Theo’s kitchen, Chef Bouchard instructed Mia and Theo about heating, preparing, and plating the food to assure that the meal would meet the demanding standards that governed all things Canto.

“Now, Theo, I must get back to the restaurant. Mia will stay here until the meal is served. If you have questions about anything, you can call me.”

Theo bowed to the chef.

For the next half hour, the old man and the young woman put finishing touches on the meal and the dining room. Mia remained in the kitchen while Theo tended to the table setting.

Minutes before Tony was to arrive, they worked together in the kitchen, removing dishes from the oven and garnishing the food as Chef Bouchard had instructed. As they did, they spoke a mixture of Spanish and Catalan in a conversation that was mostly Theo’s questions and Mia’s short answers.

Theo learned that Mia had been in Golden for a year on a worker’s visa, doing an internship with a marketing firm. She had recently begun working evenings at the Canto “to meet new people and get away from the house.”