Miranda Dickinson - Take A Look At Me Now

I relaxed back into the squashy booth seat. ‘Recently I just haven’t done it. Not since Aidan and I – since the last time we were together.’

My cousin frowned. ‘But you didn’t just bake for him. It’s always been your thing, hasn’t it?’

It made me uncomfortable to be thinking about Aidan, especially as I had tried so hard not to think about him over the last week. ‘I think after the last attempt between us failed I shelved everything that reminded me of him. I wanted to be someone different, I suppose. I was sick of the merry-go-round of our relationship.’

‘I can understand that. But, you know, my kitchen is your kitchen while you’re here. So if you get the urge to bake again you’re more than welcome.’

I laughed as her veneer of innocence completely failed to cover the ulterior motive. ‘Oh and I suppose it wouldn’t be too much of an imposition if you had to eat whatever I made?’

Busted, she giggled. ‘Maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing …’

Laverne returned with a jug of freshly brewed coffee and filled our huge coffee cups. ‘Here you go. Annie’s house coffee, Golden Grain.’

Puzzled, I looked at Lizzie. ‘But coffee isn’t made from grain.’

Laverne giggled. ‘You know that and I know that. It’s one of the mysteries about this place. Enjoy,’ she chirped as she left us.

My first cup of American coffee smelled good and tasted like heaven, although it was considerably stronger than the filter coffee I was used to in the Planning Department – even when caffeine-fan Terry was making it. The memory of my former colleagues brought a glimmer of sadness to the pit of my stomach. I wondered how they were all doing. I made a mental note to ask Lizzie if I could email Vicky when we returned to her apartment.

‘So I hear the Brit invasion is happening?’

I looked up from my two-pint coffee mug to see the half-smile of a diminutive woman of uncertain years. Her hair was dyed the colour of a new penny and her white smile glowed against the warm caramel of her skin. She had a red pencil behind one ear and several gold chains were arranged about her neck. Dressed in a black polo shirt several sizes too large for her that had Annie’s emblazoned in red embroidery on the front, black skin-tight jeans and leopard print pumps, she possessed a presence so all-encompassing that it was as if the sunlight streaming in from the diner windows dimmed a little in reverence.

‘Hey. I’m Annie Legado. I own this place.’

‘Hi. I’m Nell.’ I wasn’t sure whether I should curtsey or bow in her presence. Instead I extended my hand and she shook it, her grip surprisingly strong for her slight frame.

‘You look like Lizzie. How long you here for?’

‘Two months.’

She nodded, the strange almost-smile still in place. ‘Two months is good.’

‘So that means we have two months to turn my cousin into a fully-fledged San Franciscan, Annie,’ Lizzie grinned.

Annie drew in a breath through her teeth, like the sound a mechanic makes just before he tells you how much your car repairs will cost. ‘Tall order. But I guess we’ll try.’ She slapped the back of my seat. ‘You ladies have a good day.’ And with that, she was gone.

I stared at Lizzie. ‘She is one scary woman.’

‘Wait till you get to know her. I think the term you’ll choose then is indomitable . You can see why her business has survived as long as it has. Nobody would dare to take it away from her.’

The buzz in Annie’s was incredible, with several conversations crossing the room. A young couple dressed entirely in black with pale faces and matching Goth make-up at one end of the counter were happily conversing with Marty and Frankie at the other, comments occasionally moving to the opposite side of the diner where a woman with three small children was seated. Annie stalked the room like a stealthy lioness, dipping her head into conversations at every table as she went, nodding with her trademark half-smile before moving on.

Lizzie nudged me. ‘So, do you like Annie’s?’

I knew that I was grinning although I couldn’t tell whether this was due to a chronic lack of sleep, the power of turbo-caffeine racing through my body or simply the thrill of being here. ‘It’s wonderful,’ I replied. ‘Surreal, but wonderful. Two weeks ago I was losing my job and now I’m in San Francisco in a real-life American neighbourhood diner. For the first time in my life I don’t have a clue what will happen next. And it feels good.’

‘O-K, we got one Banana Maple Walnut, one Nutella Pomegranate.’ Laverne handed us oval plates so big that two of them barely fit on the table. ‘ En-joy .’

A gargantuan mountain of buttery toast triangles nestling between a blanket of banana slices, dusted in icing sugar and swimming in a glistening pool of maple syrup gazed oozily up at me. It was truly a sight to behold.

‘Are all the varieties of French toast here this big?’ I asked, staring at my plate.

‘Yup. Actually, compared to some other diners I’ve been to that’s a small portion.’

I wondered if my arteries were going to hate me for dragging them across the Pond to be assaulted by this amount of fat. But as this was the first day of my American odyssey, I reasoned it was only right I made an effort. Although, if the food was going to be this amazing for the next eight weeks, I realised I would have to make sure I upped my exercise while I was here to stop me returning to the UK looking like Jabba the Hutt after a slave binge.

An hour later, Lizzie and I struggled out onto the sidewalk in the bright sunshine. My stomach felt as if it had dropped several inches and was now snoozing somewhere around my knees.

Lizzie gave a loud groan. ‘I was going to suggest we catch the Muni home, but given the amount of food we just ate, I think a walk might be good.’

‘A walk would definitely be good.’

We crossed the street and walked for several blocks, passing a church and multicoloured wooden buildings. The sound of the traffic mingled with birdsong from the trees lining the pavements and at one corner we could hear the enthusiastic rhythms of a drummer practising in his apartment. Walking further still, we reached a grand stone staircase leading up into a park.

‘It’s a bit of a scramble up here, but I promise you, the views are worth it,’ Lizzie puffed, as the after-effects of our enormous brunch laboured our breathing. ‘This is Buena Vista Park. I didn’t even know it existed for the first two years I lived here. But then quite a few of the people who help out at my after-school club are San Francisco natives and they didn’t know about it either.’

The park was more of a wooded hill, with pathways disappearing off into the trees around us. We passed a couple of people walking dogs and a tramp asleep on a bench, but besides them the park was largely empty. It seemed surprising to find this in the middle of a city and as soon as the trees overhead blocked the view down to the road I could have believed I was out in the wilds. Birdsong surrounded us and the wind rustled through swaying branches and these became the only sounds, spoiled a little by the puffing and groaning from two overfed women struggling up the hill.

When we reached the summit we flopped down to catch our breath, Lizzie flinging herself dramatically back onto the sun-baked grass in the clearing.

‘You’d think, after so long living here, that my stomach would know its limits,’ she said, patting her belly, which made the long glass bead necklaces around her neck tinkle together. ‘But no. One trip to Annie’s and my resolve disintegrates.’

‘That French toast is amazing. How on earth do you manage not to be the size of a house?’