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Authors: André Aciman
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later.
“ I ’ M HUNGRY. HAVE you eaten?” Kalaj asked at Café Algiers, that day we first met.
“No.”
“Well, let’s get a bite for free.”
He looked so grubby and unkempt when he stood up, that I imagined he must have meant something by way of a soup kitchen. There was clearly a first time for everything, and, given my cash flow, I’d been sacrificing food for too many cigarettes. I was ready to admit defeat and head out for a free bowl of chicken broth or whatever was the pauper’s fare on the menu that Sunday.
“They’re serving ’appy hower at Césarion’s . ” He pronounced happy hour as the French do: ’appy hower, by eliding h ’s where they belong and inserting them where they don’t.
I had no idea what happy hour was. He looked totally baffled. “It’s when you buy a cheap glass of pale red wine for a dollar twenty-two and have as many petits sandwiches as you can eat,” he explained. Why hadn’t I known about this?
We walked out of Café Algiers, then made our way through the narrow corridor leading to the tiny makeshift parking lot that stood in front of the Harvest. This was where he liked to park his cab.
He entered Césarion’s with all the poise and self-assurance of someone who’s been a longtime friend of the owner, the manager, the headwaiter. “Frankly, I’m sick and tired of Buffalo wings,” he said as soon as he spotted a large ceramic bowl filled with the greasiest fried wings that had ever been mired in bogs of sauce. We ordered two glasses of red wine. You took a little plate comme ça , like that, he explained, and you filled it with petits sandwiches or brochettes or wings , comme ceci , like this.
Soon, some of the same faces I’d observed at Café Algiers began to straggle downstairs into Césarion’s. I had always thought it was an expensive establishment. Yet, here, half of Cambridge’s riffraff was busy stuffing itself on larded wings and petits sandwiches . I’d been living in this town for four years, and yet someone who had landed at Logan Airport six months ago already knew all the ins and outs of every Sunday freebie around town. How and where did one pick up such a skill?
“See this guy?” Kalaj pointed to a bearded man wearing a large leather-brimmed hat. “He was here yesterday too. And the day before. He comes in here like me: to eat for free.” Kalaj wedged himself to where the cheeses were. I followed. He pointed to a woman holding a glass of wine. “She was at Café Algiers too this afternoon.” I gave him a blank stare. “You don’t remember? She was sitting right next to you for two hours.”
“She was?”
“ Franchement , frankly . . .” Exasperation speaking. “Now watch this guy.”
I watched this guy . Unlike Young Hemingway, he had a studiously stubbly unshaven beard. There is nothing to watch, I finally said. Of course there was, snapped Kalaj. “Learn to see, can’t you!” He took a breath. “He’s just spotted the woman at the corner and is going to try to pick her up. He never succeeds.”
Sure enough, the studiously unshaven young man sidled up to a woman in a paisley summer dress, and without looking at her, muttered something. She smiled but didn’t say anything. He muttered something else. Her smile was more guarded, almost forced. Anyone could tell she was not interested just by the way she leaned against a pillar. “He never learns.” But I admired the man’s courage, his persistence, I said. “Courage he has lots of; persistence also, and certainly no shame. Desire too he’s got. But it’s all in his head—not here . Which is why he’s never convincing, because he isn’t very convinced himself. He’ll wake up one day at the age of fifty and find he’s never liked women.”
“How do you know all this?”
“How do I know! Easy. He’s going through the motions, but you can tell he’s hoping she’ll ask him to stop. Either this, or he’s decided it’s a loss but keeps at it to prove
“ I ’ M HUNGRY. HAVE you eaten?” Kalaj asked at Café Algiers, that day we first met.
“No.”
“Well, let’s get a bite for free.”
He looked so grubby and unkempt when he stood up, that I imagined he must have meant something by way of a soup kitchen. There was clearly a first time for everything, and, given my cash flow, I’d been sacrificing food for too many cigarettes. I was ready to admit defeat and head out for a free bowl of chicken broth or whatever was the pauper’s fare on the menu that Sunday.
“They’re serving ’appy hower at Césarion’s . ” He pronounced happy hour as the French do: ’appy hower, by eliding h ’s where they belong and inserting them where they don’t.
I had no idea what happy hour was. He looked totally baffled. “It’s when you buy a cheap glass of pale red wine for a dollar twenty-two and have as many petits sandwiches as you can eat,” he explained. Why hadn’t I known about this?
We walked out of Café Algiers, then made our way through the narrow corridor leading to the tiny makeshift parking lot that stood in front of the Harvest. This was where he liked to park his cab.
He entered Césarion’s with all the poise and self-assurance of someone who’s been a longtime friend of the owner, the manager, the headwaiter. “Frankly, I’m sick and tired of Buffalo wings,” he said as soon as he spotted a large ceramic bowl filled with the greasiest fried wings that had ever been mired in bogs of sauce. We ordered two glasses of red wine. You took a little plate comme ça , like that, he explained, and you filled it with petits sandwiches or brochettes or wings , comme ceci , like this.
Soon, some of the same faces I’d observed at Café Algiers began to straggle downstairs into Césarion’s. I had always thought it was an expensive establishment. Yet, here, half of Cambridge’s riffraff was busy stuffing itself on larded wings and petits sandwiches . I’d been living in this town for four years, and yet someone who had landed at Logan Airport six months ago already knew all the ins and outs of every Sunday freebie around town. How and where did one pick up such a skill?
“See this guy?” Kalaj pointed to a bearded man wearing a large leather-brimmed hat. “He was here yesterday too. And the day before. He comes in here like me: to eat for free.” Kalaj wedged himself to where the cheeses were. I followed. He pointed to a woman holding a glass of wine. “She was at Café Algiers too this afternoon.” I gave him a blank stare. “You don’t remember? She was sitting right next to you for two hours.”
“She was?”
“ Franchement , frankly . . .” Exasperation speaking. “Now watch this guy.”
I watched this guy . Unlike Young Hemingway, he had a studiously stubbly unshaven beard. There is nothing to watch, I finally said. Of course there was, snapped Kalaj. “Learn to see, can’t you!” He took a breath. “He’s just spotted the woman at the corner and is going to try to pick her up. He never succeeds.”
Sure enough, the studiously unshaven young man sidled up to a woman in a paisley summer dress, and without looking at her, muttered something. She smiled but didn’t say anything. He muttered something else. Her smile was more guarded, almost forced. Anyone could tell she was not interested just by the way she leaned against a pillar. “He never learns.” But I admired the man’s courage, his persistence, I said. “Courage he has lots of; persistence also, and certainly no shame. Desire too he’s got. But it’s all in his head—not here . Which is why he’s never convincing, because he isn’t very convinced himself. He’ll wake up one day at the age of fifty and find he’s never liked women.”
“How do you know all this?”
“How do I know! Easy. He’s going through the motions, but you can tell he’s hoping she’ll ask him to stop. Either this, or he’s decided it’s a loss but keeps at it to prove
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