“It’s gross, isn’t it?” I snorted, looking down at the offending item. “Jean-Paul is obsessed with Christmas sweaters. We had a bet going on, and I lost. My penalty was to wear this to the conference,” I confessed.
Deciding to forego the Christmas fashion statement, I put on the sweater Isaac borrowed from me last night over my shirt.
He chuckled. “I’m afraid to ask what the bet was about.”
“You don’t want to know, trust me. Come on, let’s go to the center to retrieve your coat so I can show you my city.” I was dying to get out on the street again, and the second stop would be for breakfast in my favorite coffee shop.
Our visit to the center was brief since both Dorian and Jean-Paul were busy dealing with the aftermath of the fire. I promised to come back on my next day off to lend a hand, and Isaac thanked them for their support and promised to visit again in the future.
Once we were out on the street, and with Isaac suitably prepared for the December weather now that he had his coat back, I directed us toward my favorite coffee shop, Café-Café.
Isaac looked puzzled but amused as we approached the tiny establishment. With space at a premium in Manhattan, it wasn’t unusual for businesses here to occupy a small space since most people took their coffee to go.
“Bom dia, Linda.You are beautiful as always,” I said, greeting the owner, Linda, in her native language and making a play on the meaning of her name. I’d been coming to Café-Café since the day Linda opened, and our greeting had become a bit of a tradition since I found out she’s a second-generation Portuguese-American.
“Max, you know your charm doesn’t work on me,” Linda said before she asked me if I would like the usual and then looked at Isaac for his order. Isaac was looking at me like I had grown a third head.
“Um, are you okay, Isaac? You want a coffee, right?” He just stared at me. “Or maybe tea?” I asked tentatively.
“You speak Portuguese?” Isaac blurted, finally speaking but not answering my question.
“Coffee? Tea?” Linda asked again, and I heard the smile in her voice even though I was looking at Isaac.
“Coffee, please,” Isaac said to Linda, finally acknowledging she was waiting for his response. Then he turned back to me. “You speak Portuguese.”
I laughed. “Yeah, my best friend is Portuguese, so I learned from him when I was twelve.”
“I speak Portuguese, too,” he beamed, “I mean, I’m from Portugal, so obviously I do.”
“I heard your accent, but I couldn’t tell where it was from.”
Despite growing up in Portugal, my best friend Joel didn’t have an accent. His dad was American, and his Portuguese mom had almost lost hers, as well, after so many years in the states.
“Would it be easier for you if we spoke Portuguese?” I asked.
“Definitely,” Isaac said. “But I’d like to practice my English if you’re okay with it.”
I nodded. “I understand. When I learned Portuguese, I wanted to practice all the time, so I was always at my friend’s place. Now I’m glad I did learn.”
Isaac smiled shyly but nodded.
“There you go, boys,” Linda said, placing the two coffees on the counter. I also bought us a custard tart each to go. We grabbed them and headed out since it would take us about half an hour to get to Bryant Park, our next destination.
“Thank you for breakfast,” Isaac said. “I should probably keep this part of the New York experience a secret since my best friend makes these for a living.” He lifted up the hand that was holding the custard tart.
“Well, you wouldn’t want to be accused of treason or be the cause of a rift between Portugal and America, would you?”
“I wouldn’t dare,” Isaac said with a chuckle.
