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

Fanis grabbed a chair from a nearby table, offered it to Daphne, and squeezed himself between the two young women. Adjusting the silk scarf around his neck, he said, “Daphne, dear, with all that studying, I don’t know if you’ve had a chance to see our City. I’d love to show you around. Would you like to join us, Selin? If you have some free time on Saturday, perhaps the three of us could meet at the Pearl for profiteroles and go from there. I can show you parts of the City that nobody knows.”

“Why not start at the Lily?” said Rea.

“The Lily,” repeated Fanis. “Well, yes, the Lily has quite a reputation, and I’m sure Kosmas does a superb job, but I was thinking of the Pearl more for the atmosphere.” To show that he was au courant with current issues, Fanis added, “Besides, I don’t know if anyone can make anything decent out of the genetically modified wheat we have now. What you do think, Kosmaki? Share your thoughts.”

Kosmas set his elbows on the wooden armrests of the patio chair, folded his hands in the air, and said, “I’m not old enough to remember what wheat was like when you were young, Mr. Fanis.”

Was the little brat trying to stick it to him? Well, it wasn’t going to work. Because Fanis was not the least bit ashamed of the number on his identity card. “Such a pity!” he said. “I remember the Lily when it used to make a fabulous pastry called the Balkanik. Back in your grandfather’s time. I bet you’ve never even heard of the Balkanik.”

“I have, in fact,” said Kosmas, “but it’s not something I’ve ever made. Or tasted.”

Fanis turned to Daphne. “The Balkanik, my dear, was a coiled éclair filled with strips of different flavored creams. One for each of the Balkan peoples. Despite recent conflicts, we lived in harmony for centuries.”

“Do you know its origins?” said Daphne.

“No, but I do remember my mother saying that it was a very, very old recipe. Unfortunately, everybody stopped making it after the pogrom of ’fifty-five and the deportations of ’sixty-four. Harmony became a doubtful word back then. It’s too bad because it was the most divine pastry ever created.”

“The Balkanik was the reason I became a journalist,” said Dimitris, with his characteristic stutter. “Fanis, do you remember Miss Evyenidou?”

Fanis served Daphne a few butter cookies despite her protests. “Of course,” he said. “I used to try to touch her long hair when she wasn’t looking.”

Dimitris waved both of his shaking hands in excitement. “Miss Evyenidou failed me in first grade because I didn’t pay any attention. The second time around she made sure I learned to write better than anyone. My mother felt sorry for her because she had to deal with me twice, so she sent me to school with a Balkanik as a gift, and Miss Evyenidou shared it with the class.”

“Do you know its origins, Mr. Dimitris?” asked Daphne.

“Of course. Miss Evyenidou gave me a prize for an essay I wrote about it. The Balkanik was invented by the great Rum pâtissier Christakis Usta in the sixteenth century. He went to Florence to study with Pantarelli, the chef of Catherine de’ Medici, but he missed Istanbul so much that he decided to invent a pastry to honor it. Christakis Usta mastered Pantarelli’s pastry technique, then designed flavored creams that would represent the diversity of his homeland.” Dimitris gazed dreamily upward at the linden tree, ruffling in the evening breeze. “Rose, cardamom, chocolate, vanilla, pistachio, and others that I don’t remember—all distinct yet complementary. You could pick the pastry apart and try to eat them one by one, or you could be lazy and stick your spoon in with your eyes closed and taste them all together.”

“I’ll ask Uncle Mustafa,” said Kosmas.

Daphne took a sudden interest in Kosmas. “You have a Muslim uncle?”

“He was my late father’s business partner. And now mine. But I’ve called him ‘Uncle’ for as long as I can remember.”

Daphne leaned her elbows on the table and cradled her chin in ringless hands. “I love the symbolism of that pastry.”

“Uncle Mustafa has an old Ottoman recipe book,” said Kosmas. “The Balkanik has to be in it.”

“You can read Ottoman script?”

“A little. I studied it a few years ago.”

Daphne faced Kosmas squarely, turning her back to Fanis. “Really? Why?”

“I found it frustrating not to be able to read the inscriptions on mosques, fountains, and other monuments. Once I got past the Arabic script, I found it wasn’t as difficult as I thought it would be.”

Daphne nodded in respect. Fanis, however, was not so gullible. He would put the boy to the test. Pointing at a cemetery obelisk with ornate floral motifs, he said, “Can you read that tombstone over there, Kosmaki?”

Kosmas examined the obelisk. “It’s the grave of a nineteen-year-old girl named Şükran, daughter of Ömer Efendi. She died in the Islamic year 1313, at the end of the nineteenth century, that is. The poem reads: ‘I came into this world to become a blossoming vine, but I did not have the joy of raising a child, nor did I find medicine for my sorrow.’”

Bastard. It seemed that he really could read Ottoman, unless he was clever enough to fake it, which was doubtful. Fanis returned his attention to Daphne. He loved her smile, but not when it was directed at Kosmas. Feigning annoyance with some fallen leaves, he pulled his chair closer to hers. The tea-garden cat, which had apparently been lying beneath it, startled and yowled.

“There you are!” said Julien. He unwrapped a packet of raw minced meat and set it beneath a bush. “I’ve been waiting for this one. What can I do? I feel sorry for the poor things.”

“And the pellet rifle you keep on your back balcony,” blurted Aliki, “for the ones who do their business—”

“Sus!” he said. “That’s for rats.”

Selin stood. My, she was lovely. The kind that others might call plump, but to