Four forty-five, he wakes to the bugle sound of réveille played on a programmed digital alarm. Charles Robidoux rises with the sunlight in his sage colored, Spanish-Style condo along the Merrimack, feet on the floor, butt still on the bed, breath smelling of pickled pig knuckles, with a huge claw hand pressing his forehead on both sides where the cartilage is thinnest, fearing this be the morning he presses too hard. Lets go of his throbbing temples, as the other paw slides back and forth on a five-day beard. He’s the pastry-guy.
Charlie, a retired Navy cook, returns to the old neighborhood and the same bar he hung out at before the war. Many old friends, still there.
The seasons have not been kind. A drinking man. He has his issues.
*
Today, the Food Manager at a homeless shelter where he’s allowed paid days off due to hangovers. That can happen, when you’re a former chef at five star hotels. His passion is making pastries. Loved by residents and staff, not for his magnificent meals, but for his Friday pastry specials.
First ten years in the Navy, was a mess cook for the enlisted men and women. Got his high school equivalency diploma, attended an advanced training school, and became a chef for high ranking officers. After retirement enrolled in the well-known Cambridge School of Culinary Arts. He's skilled in the making of pastries, desserts, cakes, pies, breads, and other baked goods.
One day Slim Nelson, a resident at the shelter asks, “Cookie, when ya gonna share Friday’s recipe with me? I heard those brownies are pretty good.” Not the first time he’s asked.
“A simple technique from my Great Uncle and Auntie Phanna, from Cambodia.” She became the first Cambodian pâtissière during Colonialism. Her husband, Antonie was a pâtissier from Paris.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Tell me how to make ‘em. What are the ingrediants?”
“A long held secret, passed from generation to generation.”
Slim’s not known for taking too much shit. “People say they’re the best brownies they’ve ever had. Visiting family for the holidays. Don’t have much money for gifts, but if I contribute a full pan, they’ll be happy. They’re easy to please. It’s just the thought that counts, as people say.”
Charlie doesn’t take people’s shit, either. “Man, can’t give ya the frickin' recipe. Told you that, twice already.” Feeling sorry for Slim . . . tis the season to be jolly. “Come to the Golden Tap this weekend. I’ll make an extra batch so you can take a baker’s dozen to your family. Be making a bunch for the regulars. They dig ‘em too. I’ll tell the bartender to put your first ten draught beers on my tab, in case I’m late. Merry Christmas, mate.”
Slim sticks out his frail hand and they shake.
A Wicked Blizzard Hits the Golden Tap & Grill
Several of Charlie’s mates stand by the cigarette-machine, leaning against the plate-glass window below the blinking neon blue. Red-nose Charlie suddenly appears, dragging himself over the snowbank in front. He tumbles and lands on a narrow shoveled path, made just for him.
Tap, tap, tap.
Let the bastard in, says the bartender.
He pushes open the stuck green door to enter the darkened cave, steps up to the fifty-foot mahogany bar. “Frickin’ cah’s buried.”
Charlie enters a room full of unshaven laughter. A snowed-in drinking buddy helps him with his backpack and fishes out several baggies. He tosses Charlie’s ‘special’ warm homemade brownies between overflowing ashtrays. Slim’s there and grabs a bag for himself. Laughs turn to cheers. Reefer prohibition has ended down in Massachusetts.
Now Slim knows exactly what’s the secret ingredient that makes Charlie Robidoux’s Friday brownies so special. Tis the season to be jolly!
