I’m sitting at a café, surrounded by inane conversation:

    “When I look at this, I think: bitter, bitter, bitter, bitter. I look at you and say: ‘You don’t taste anything like you look!’”

    “I need that one.  Whatever that one is, I need that one.  Find out what that one is, ‘cause I need that one.”

    “I love it. It’s something different.”

    “He doesn’t like little, cherry tomatoes. Anything that squirts in his mouth, he doesn’t like…”

    Then there are those that spend the entire breakfast, stopping their little children from climbing off the railings and flinging themselves into traffic.  The constant clawing, readjusting of clothing, polite requests slowly transforming into annoyed bursts of exasperation and commands to “Sit down! Sit still!”

    I notice the ebb and flow of patrons entering the establishment. It’s like when the ocean squishes into a cave spraying water up through a chute and then trickling back down again over the rocks. In they go receiving a menu and a place in the cue. Following the path as if to reach a ride at an amusement park. The cashier takes your order and in trade for money they give you a number to set on your table. It’s like a summoning beacon for futuristic robots that beep and bloop all the way to your table with food in hand.

    But, amongst the hustle and bustle of brunch, there is still much to be enjoyed: the faint lilt of an Aria, coming from a neighboring building, the friendly banter of the staff, the flock of juncos picking at the fallen pieces of brioche… I may have been responsible for the pieces of brioche being made accessible to the throng of devilish little tew-tew-tews…  who in turn may or may not have been responsible for the large explosion that happened shortly after when they dive bombed the café’s oven, causing a spark and a ruptured gas line.

    I quickly removed myself from the seat to the tune of giant fire waves cascading behind me with plumes of smoke as the backdrop for my exit…




    However, if all this hadn’t taken place I would have enjoyed a brunch libation to ease the banality of the surrounding discourse.

    Perhaps some bubbles with a touch of cranberry or pomegranate. Maybe I would even get a Kir Royale!




    The History of Kir as told by Mary Gorman-McAdams:

    “Kir originated in Burgundy, France. It is named after the priest Canon Félix Kir, who was a hero in the French Resistance during the Second World War, and also the Mayor of the Burgundian town Dijon from 1945 to 1968. He was much revered, and history tells us that he was also a big fan of local products and hence created the drink by mixing the local white wine made from the Aligoté grape (bone dry, acidic, with fairly neutral aromas and flavors and un-oaked) with the local blackcurrant liqueur ‘Crème de Cassis’.

    Crème de Cassis is a deeply colored, viscous, sweet liqueur, which is made by macerating crushed blackcurrants in eau-de-vie. Once the maceration is complete, the liqueur is drawn off the blackcurrant skins and seeds and then sugar is added. The resulting Crème de Cassis liqueur is 20% abv and has about 400g/l residual sugar.

    Canon Felix’s recipe was delicious and a huge success, because the sweetness and flavor of the liqueur provided the perfect foil and balance for the austerity and acidity of the Aligoté wine. So successful was the combination it flourished and became famous not just in Burgundy but all over France, where it was often adapted to include other regional wines and liqueurs, as well as internationally all over the world.

    Kir Royale, differs from Kir in that it is made using Champagne, rather than the Aligoté white wine. Hence it is more expensive to make and typically reserved for celebrations and special occasions.”


    I like to imagine that Felix’s story is not unlike my own, today, when the café was destroyed. I like to think of him, at the end of the second World War, with the last of the explosions echoing behind him, as he sipped his first Kir Royale with a smile on his face.

    I suggest you enjoy one as well. But, maybe without the wanton destruction…


    and now an exit song ——->   Bubbles in the wine