A Recipe for Daphne by Nektaria Anastasiadou (reading well .txt) 📕

“The Brazilian? Did you dance with her?”

“Just once.”

“Just once?” Daphne tried to keep her voice down so that Gavriela wouldn’t overhear. “You’re ruining tango for me. It used to be our th—”

“Daph, please. If something was going on, would she be sending her regards?”

“You know how I feel about her.”

“I danced with her. I didn’t screw her.”

Daphne took a deep breath and released it. “I have to go. I’m cooking with my aunt.”

“You cook?”

“I do now.”

“Call me tonight.”

“If I can.”

“Love you, babe.”

Love you. Not I love you. She wasn’t even worth a complete sentence.

“Me too.” Daphne snapped the flip phone shut, replaced it in her purse, and noticed the business card Kosmas had given her the day before. In the upper left corner was the pâtisserie’s logo, a flamboyant lily. Beneath the name was a list of degrees, followed by his culinary institute title, a German word she couldn’t pronounce, and a gold symbol that looked like a falling cake, but which was probably an abstract chef’s hat. Impressive. But why had he given it to her? He obviously wasn’t interested in her or he would have asked for her number. Perhaps he was just overly enthusiastic about advertising his business. Daphne returned to the kitchen and stuffed the card into the tiny white plastic trash bin that her aunt kept on top of the counter.

“Who was that?” said Gavriela.

Daphne finished her coffee. “My boyfriend.”

“You have a boyfriend?”

“Paul.”

Gavriela turned down the flame beneath a pot of boiling eggs. “Rum?”

“American.”

“American-American?”

“American-American. English only.”

Gavriela grunted, took a bunch of parsley from the vase of cut herbs, and said, “You’d be better off with a Rum.”

“Are you trying to reclaim me?”

“That’s not what I meant. It’s just better to find someone who shares your language and religion, that’s all.”

Daphne began washing her coffee cup. “And where would I find him? Most are in the Baloukli Nursing Home already.”

“Don’t be so sure,” said Gavriela. She opened the oven and took out a baking tray covered with bright green papery things. “Celery-root leaf. You dry it in the oven and then grind it up to season your soups and stews. Did your mother teach you that?”

Daphne sat back down on the stool and toyed with the tiny icon of the Holy Mother dangling from a door handle. “No.”

“Tell me more about this Paul.” Gavriela tossed the celery leaves into a mini-blender. “What does he do?”

“He’s a math teacher.”

“A teacher? Now I know your mother didn’t teach you anything.”

“He’s a nice guy. He takes care of everything in the house, cooks, brings me flowers—”

“Flowers? Flowers you can buy yourself. You need a man who puts both hands in his pockets for you, little mama, not just one. A teacher isn’t going to do that.”

Daphne suddenly felt defensive. She had always admired Paul’s dedication to his students. Once he had stayed up half the night messaging with a boy who was having an anxiety crisis over a final English exam. “Money isn’t everything,” she said.

“It isn’t everything, but it’s a big thing.” Gavriela emptied the blender contents into a jar. “Stinginess kills a woman.”

“Paul isn’t stingy.”

Except when it came to their joint tango lessons. He insisted that Daphne pay half, even though his salary was twice hers. And he also expected her to pay for dinner every other time they went out. But Daphne thought it best not to confess this to her aunt.

“Fine, maybe he’s not stingy,” said Gavriela, “but is he a worker? What does he do in the summer? You don’t want a man in the house all day, little mama. When your uncle retired, I thought I was going to go insane. Then he went out and got another accounting job. That’s the kind of man you need. Does this Paul work with you?”

“No. I’d never date someone from the same school.”

“At least you know not to shit in your own kitchen.” Gavriela tucked the ends of her housedress into the bottom of her underwear so that they wouldn’t catch on the plastic bags and cardboard boxes at the foot of the cupboards. “I hate it when my dress gets in my way,” she said. “How does he treat you?”

“Very well. Most of the time.”

“Most of the time?”

“He likes dancing with other women—”

Gavriela stored the celery-powder jar on a shelf. “You let him dance with other women? Are you crazy? You shouldn’t even trust your best friend close to your man.”

“I told him how I felt recently.”

“Told him how you felt? Christ! A man should know you from here down, little mama”—Gavriela crossed her arm over her waist—“and from here up he shouldn’t know a thing. Don’t tell him how you feel.”

“That’s a strange philosophy.”

“My grandmother’s,” said Gavriela. “Anyway, you know best.” That was Greek for: I’m not going keep arguing with you, but you’re still full of shit. She took the plates, napkins, and silverware from the crowded kitchen counter and handed them to Daphne. “Now go set the table.” She followed her niece into the living room with the breakfast tray and shouted, “Ready!”

Uncle Andonis, still wearing his baby-blue pajamas, emerged from the master bedroom and joined Gavriela and Daphne at the table. “You always wake me from the best dreams,” he grumbled.

Gavriela placed her mastic gum in a dainty ceramic dish and covered it with a lid. To save for later, apparently. “What did you see?” she asked her husband.

“Yüksek Kaldırım Street.” Andonis poured Daphne’s tea and then his own. “And the women’s behinds jiggling as they went up and down those steps, just like they used to—”

“Andonis!” snapped Gavriela.

“What? You’d prefer I think of Cobblestone in ’fifty-five? Or after all our people left? When there are better things to remember about the place?”

“Life goes on,” said Gavriela. “We don’t have to talk about any of that.”

The call to prayer buzzed from the local mosque. Andonis clicked his tongue. “The call to prayer was beautiful when the muezzin still had to climb up to the