Nando's (story)

 

“Nando’s”

 

Ralf and Gilbert were walking down the cobbled Charing Cross, over by St-Martin-in-the-Fields, from the shipyard in Canary Wharf. The year was 1667, and the two had just returned to their city from a seaward journey to the New World. Spice artisans by trade, their overseer booked them passage to the Hampton colony in a bid to jump on potential new money-makers.

 

However, the pair were forced to return to London empty-handed; they found no spice they recognized in the harsh landscape, and what they did find is a different story.

 

Ralf and Gilbert had hoped to get a quick pint in before they had to break the hard news to their overseer. But what they found instead was that their city had been ravaged by a great fire in their absence -- all their old haunts destroyed, and foreign places and storefronts built upon the husks.

 

“Oh no! Not McKillan’s too!” Ralf lamented.

 

McKillan’s had been a popular spot to hear a bard and drink a glug of strong ale. Sometimes see a pretty lady and talk with friends. Ralf and Gilbert had come here often before their trip west. Seems like it too had been burned down.

 

Nothing filled the charred wood ramshackle that was once McKillan’s, but Ralf and Gilbert couldn’t help but notice the bustling crowd in the place next door. It seemed like the fire had been fairer to this building, or the thing had been completely rebuilt. It was made of a fine dark wood and had fancy melted glass windows. The stone crenellations that rounded the roof of the two story thatch looked like the odd cups Ralf remembered some of the natives drinking from.

 

Drinkin’ that strange bev’rage they liked . . . what did they call it?

 

When Ralf saw the painted sign hung up over the wide double-doors, he remembered -- coffee! What a strange word . . .

 

Ralf was tired of the foreign, of the new. He had enough of it in the colony. But it was too late -- as he was wont to do, Gilbert had, like a moth to candle, already wandered towards the big doors and the loud murmur of voices coming from the thatch coffee-building. And once Gilbert had started to wander, there was no stopping him.

 

Ralf followed Gilbert into the wide awning that served as a door. Above it, in white and crimson, was painted NANDO’S COFFEE-HOUSE. Ralf shrugged as he and Gilbert entered into a large and well-furnished parlour. There were fifteen or so stuffed French recliners and about triple as many wooden tables and chairs, all covered in nice taut leather and filled with people in various finery and rags and the loud birdlike chatter that went with them.

 

It was really a sight to see for both Ralf and Gilbert, who were used to strict lines between the rich and not. Easiest way to tell who was who was by their clothes and who they talked to. But in here it was strange -- Ralf could swear he saw real gold in the buttons of that man’s red finery overcoat, but he knew the bloke in the corner that he was chatting with -- ‘twas Wainescaipe the butcherman apprentice, who couldn’t be pulling in more than a threepence salt.

 

And over there! The strangest sight yet for the pair -- a monk! Hardly ever seen outside of their cloister, but here was one, strange cup in hand. Speaking of -- what was that smell? So many things washed over Ralf as soon as he stepped into the coffee-house that he had hardly noticed the overpowering smell permeating through every object, pore, and surface of the room. It was a deep, rich, earthy scent.

 

Gilbert again began to wander, weaving his way through the packed tables and chairs to the bar counter at the front. Ralf could see Gilbert fingering his belt loop to find his coinpurse.

 

So the madman really is going to purchase a cup of this stuff, Ralf thought. He shook his head. Gilbert was always falling for the silliest things. Ralf, on many occasions, had wanted to tell Gilbert that there were really only two important things in this world -- gold and spices. Everything else was just for fancy’s sake.

 

Neither of them had come from fancy backgrounds. Ralf had been born on a pension farm outside the Viscount’s Manchester and was forced to come to London to find work when his pa died of getting his head kicked in by a horse. His ma had died in child labor along with baby Walter, Lord Jesus rest their souls. With no family left and no one to work the farm, Ralf had come to London penniless and alone.

 

Gilbert was born in London, eighty blocks from Charing Cross in a glued together hut outside of Long Acre. The opposite of alone, Gilbert came into the world thirteenth of fifteen. There never being a scrap to eat in his Catholic hovel, Gilbert grew up scrawny, sleight, and curious, always hoping to find a bite somewhere.

 

Gilbert was at the shiny counter now, it being polished to a gleam so that Ralf could see his hair sticking every which way, his tunic stained and stitched over. Gilbert didn’t look much better, but all the same the little man in the red-and-white jumper came over with a smile like Mary herself.

 

“‘Ello, chaps!” he said to them energetically. “”What’ll it be for you boys?”

 

Gilbert sort of shyly spit out, “Em, a coffee for me, sir.”

 

And Ralf said: “I’d like a nice ale.”

 

And the man behind the counter smiled then frowned then went back to smiling.

“We don’t actually serve any of that strong ‘ere, friend. But how about I grab you’s a mug of the stuff, and we’ll see if you don’t like it.”

 

And he turned and walked over to a giant metal cistern behind him. He grabbed two of the ceramic goblets he had called “mugs” and turned a spigot on the cistern. A steaming hot, black as sin liquid came gushing out of the spout, violent and powerful and alien. The man filled two of the mugs and set them on the counter in front of Ralf and Gilbert, the steam cascading upwards. He beamed the two a smile and said:

“Name’s Nando, by the way! Now you boys enjoy.”

 

And then he rushed off to another customer at a different part of the long counter. Ralf and Gilbert picked up their mugs, careful not to burn themselves, or spill any as they weaved through the mass of people in the main parlour. They found a table on the second floor, tucked in a quiet corner, away from the din downstairs.

 

Gilbert, bold as ever, took a long draught and sighed.

 

“Good,” he said. “Hot.”

 

Ralf took a sip too, and realized that the beverage was divine. And it was only a penny! He felt energized, optimistic for the future despite the empty-handedness of their journey. It only took three months, Ralf thought. Not so much time that we couldn’t try it again.

 

“You know what, Gilbert old friend?” Ralf said, taking another sip.

 

“What?” Gilbert asked.

 

“I think it’s good a King’s back. I can feel it -- there’s a future again for England.”