Александр Макколл Смит - The Handsome Man's De Luxe Café

Fanwell was concerned about the name. ‘And if you’re not handsome?’ he asked. ‘Where do you go then?’

‘You are very handsome, Fanwell,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘So that is not your problem.’

Fanwell appeared embarrassed, but at the same time pleased. ‘I am not,’ he said modestly. ‘Charlie is handsome. I am just average. The girls always look at Charlie. If they look at me, they shake their heads and turn away.’

‘Nonsense!’ exclaimed Mma Ramotswe. ‘And if they look at Charlie, then they are very silly. We know that Charlie is dangerous to girls.’ She paused, as if to consider an interesting possibility. ‘In fact, there are some young men who should wear a sign round their neck saying “Beware”. ’

Mr J. L. B. Matekoni laughed. ‘That is true, I think. Maybe a sign saying “Girls beware – and cars beware too”.’

‘He is not that bad,’ said Fanwell. ‘And now he is a detective, anyway.’

‘Then there should also be a sign saying “Clients beware”.’

‘We must not be unkind,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘Charlie is learning. He’s becoming more mature.’

‘Yes,’ said Fanwell. ‘Soon the young girls will think he is too old. He will not like that, I think. Hah!’

The subject of Charlie was dropped as Phuti Radiphuti’s car had drawn up beside them. They all went in together, Mma Makutsi proudly announcing as they entered the café, ‘Here we are, Mma Ramotswe – this is my new place.’

It was an important moment for her. She had not forgotten – nor would ever forget – how Mma Ramotswe had given her that first chance and was responsible, therefore, for everything that had flowed from it. Had she not found that job in Gaborone, then she might have ended up in Lobatse or somewhere else, and would then never have gone to that dance class and met Phuti Radiphuti. And then there would have been no fine husband, no new house, no baby, no Handsome Man’s De Luxe Café – all of this she owed to Mma Ramotswe. And here she was welcoming her, that kind woman who had changed her life, who had taught her so much, into a business that she had created herself. It was a proud moment indeed.

‘It is a very good café,’ said Mma Ramotswe as she looked around. ‘Those red tables, Mma – they are very smart. And the lights! They are very bright. Everybody will like those.’

‘Yes, they will,’ said Mr J. L. B. Matekoni. ‘There will be big crowds coming here, Mma; very big crowds.’

Mma Makutsi made a modest gesture. ‘Word will take time to get out,’ she said. ‘Rome was not built in a day. I have read that.’

‘Rome took many weeks to build,’ said Fanwell. ‘There were no bulldozers in those days.’

‘That is true,’ said Phuti. ‘Bulldozers were not invented until…’

They looked at him expectantly.

‘… until much later,’ he finished.

The chef appeared through a door at the back of the café. ‘So,’ he announced in a booming, confident voice. ‘So, welcome everybody. Welcome to dinner.’

Introductions were made and they sat down at the table nearest the kitchen area. In the background, the two waiters, one a young man of extremely muscular build, and the other a young woman in a blue dress, stood at the ready.

‘What have you prepared for us, chef?’ asked Mma Makutsi.

‘I have prepared steak,’ he said. ‘Steak with a special sauce. Potatoes in butter. Green vegetables and cauliflower with cheese on the top. It is called The Steak No. 1 Special in honour of Mma Ramotswe.’

This was greeted with delight – and laughter.

The waiter came to take the orders for drinks. Mr J. L. B. Matekoni ordered a Lion Beer, as did Fanwell, after Phuti Radiphuti had explained that there would be no charge for either food or drink. Mma Makutsi and Mma Ramotswe, neither of whom drank, ordered lemonade, and Phuti asked for water with a slice of lemon and some sugar.

‘You should drink beer, Rra,’ said the waiter. ‘That is the best drink for men.’

Phuti frowned. ‘I do not like beer,’ he said.

The waiter’s jaw set. ‘Most men do,’ he said.

Mma Ramotswe glanced anxiously at Mma Makutsi.

‘He says that he wants water with lemon and some sugar,’ said Mma Makutsi. ‘That is what he wants.’

The waiter shrugged. ‘Beer would be better,’ he said. ‘But if that’s what you want…’

‘It is,’ said Phuti, adding, ‘If you don’t mind.’

The waiter turned on his heels and disappeared into the kitchen area.

‘I’m going to have to talk to that young man,’ said Mma Makutsi.

‘Perhaps it’s his first job,’ said Fanwell. He looked thoughtful. ‘I think I may have seen him somewhere before.’

‘Where?’ asked Mma Makutsi. ‘Does he live near your place?’

Fanwell shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. It is a long time ago maybe. His face looks familiar – you know how it is.’

‘There are some people like that,’ said Phuti Radiphuti. ‘You think that you know them, but you don’t really. They have the sort of face that looks familiar.’

Phuti and Mr J. L. B. Matekoni now struck up a conversation about a new van that Phuti had ordered for the Double Comfort Furniture Store. Fanwell joined in; he had views on the make of van and the conversation soon became quite technical. Mma Ramotswe was examining her surroundings, taking in the details of the décor and watching the activity in the kitchen.

‘It’s a very good idea to let people see what’s going on in the kitchen,’ she said. ‘That will stop them becoming impatient while they are waiting for their food.’

‘Exactly,’ said Mma Makutsi. ‘They will like that.’

The waiter returned with the drinks.

‘Here’s your sugar water,’ he said dismissively as he put a glass down in front of Phuti Radiphuti.

Phuti’s politeness prevailed over the waiter’s surliness. ‘Thank you, Rra,’ he said.

Mma Makutsi bristled. ‘You do know who we are?’ she muttered.

The waiter glanced at her. ‘You’re that woman,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m that woman.’

A few minutes later the food arrived. It was preceded by its aroma – a delicious waft of beef and gravy that would gladden the heart, thought Mma Ramotswe, of any citizen in Botswana. Cattle – and beef – were at the heart of the culture, and she imagined what her father, the late Obed Ramotswe, would have made of the sight of the large steak on the plate before her, surrounded by its steaming vegetables and pool of sauce and gravy.

Mma Makutsi felt a mixture of pleasure and pride – pleasure at the anticipation of the succulent steak; pride at the thought that she had chosen a chef who could so engage the senses. She leaned forward slightly to savour more fully the delightful smell arising from the plate of food, and it was at this point that she heard the small voice from below.

I wouldn’t touch that, Boss!

She froze where she was, her head tilted forward above the plate, furtively glancing at Mma Ramotswe beside her at the table. Had she heard anything? There was no reaction from her friend, who was gazing at her own plate with undisguised delight.

It’s a word of warning, Boss . You don’t have to listen to us, of course – you often don’t.

Mma Makutsi caught her breath. She leaned back and looked down at her shoes. She had changed out of the blue open-toed pair and was now wearing a pair of red shoes with white cloth rosettes on the toes. In the centre of each rosette was a small glass button that now looked upwards, for all the world like an eye upon her. On the side of each shoe was a diamante clasp. It was one of her best pairs, if not her very best, and she had only worn them a couple of times before. This occasion, she had decided, was sufficiently auspicious to justify taking them out of the drawer they shared with the special shoes that she wore to weddings and funerals.