Chapter Text
Cardamom by Sabrina
“Just a long black, please.”
The barista looks at him. Erwin looks right back.
“Americano,” he tries instead.
The barista drawls something in Arabic, sounding mildly irritated as he points at the menu. Erwin frowns, not understanding a word – neither from the young man or the chalkboard with its foreign lines and smudged squiggles.
“Coffee,” Erwin clarifies intelligently. He’s hot, he’s tired, he’s confused. He just wants caffeine as soon as possible.
The barista lifts his small chin up, grey eyes sharp. Erwin vaguely registers that he is much older than his short stature and slim build had initially led him to presume. He hisses something and Erwin thinks he hears a word that sounds like coffee. Progress.
“Ah…”
Someone on a nearby bench puts their book aside with a smack, glasses glimmering in the light.
“What kind of coffee, idiot,” they grin. Their English has an accent he can’t place.
Erwin turns toward them.
“Excuse me?”
They point at the barista.
“That’s what he said.”
Erwin sighs out his relief.
“Can you tell him anything will do, as long as it’s strong?”
They communicate this to the barista, who huffs and mutters something to himself as he turns around to his coffee machine.
“Thank you,” Erwin says to his anonymous rescuer. He gives them a fatigued smile. “What did he say just now?”
“No problem! He said ‘stupid American just assumes I speak English’.”
Erwin gives a small pout. He has an Arabic language guidebook for travellers in the conference bag by his feet but he’s too tired and irritated to fish it out. The first day of the Archaeological Symposium has been long and tiring and he just needs one cup of coffee before he attempts to find his way back to his hotel.
“I assumed coffee was a universal language, and I’m not American,” he defends. “Did I offend him?”
The person gives a high screech, their greasy hair shaking about as their chest heaves with laughter.
“No, he’s just like that.”
The barista calls out something over the clang of a metallic coffee pot. Erwin looked to his new friend eagerly.
They wave a hand at Erwin. “Oh, that one was for me. He told me to stop talking shit.”
The barista scowls and clicks his tongue, communicating his irritation and disapproval quite clearly. Despite, or perhaps because of his obvious ill temper, Erwin can’t help finding his theatrics rather endearing.
Reaching beneath the counter the barista places a small handle-less cup in front of Erwin and turns away. The cup is tiny, white, flared at the lip, tapering at the base, decorated with intricate green and gold designs. Erwin is admiring it in an off hand fashion, wondering what it’s for, when the barista returns to the counter with a long-handled enamel pot, out of which he pours something that looks suspiciously like mud. Erwin stares down at the gritty brown sludge filling the dainty cup and then glances up in confusion. The barista touches his fingers lightly to his chest and gestures towards the cup with a tilt of his head. Erwin has the distinct impression he is being mocked and the curve of the barista’s lips only confirms his suspicions.
“Is that supposed to be…coffee?” Erwin asks incredulously.
The barista leans back and crosses his arms. He’s definitely smirking now, one narrow brow curving upwards, and there’s something about the tilt of his lips that draws Erwin’s eye irresistibly.
“Well, I suppose, when in Rome…” Erwin mutters.
He lifts the tiny cup between thumb and forefinger and sniffs it cautiously. It’s definitely coffee, strong coffee, but there’s something else there as well, something heady and spicy. The barista is watching him with open fascination as Erwin tilts the cup to his lips. The coffee is barely liquid at all, thick and gritty and overpoweringly sweet. At first all Erwin can taste is the sugar but then a fresh, nutty, resinous flavour washes over his palate, filling his mouth and snaking up the back of his nose.
“Oh!” He can’t help his surprise. “That’s…what is that?”
The barista says something but again the words are lost on Erwin, he turns back to his translator.
“What did he say?”
“He said it’s cardamom and asked if you have shit for brains.”
Erwin looks back at the barista who is pushing a small plate towards him. The plate is as Lilliputian as the cup and in the centre is a tiny pastry, slick with honey.
“For me?” Erwin asks, gesturing towards himself.
The barista rolls his eyes and spits something under his breath. Behind him, Erwin hears a bark of laughter. Stupid question then.
Erwin takes another sip of the sweet spicy coffee and bites into the pastry. Honey and pieces of nut ooze out over his fingers and he has to toss the whole lot into his mouth before he makes even more of a mess. He’s left with a mouth filled with sweetness and spice, honey coating his fingers. He lifts his thumb to his mouth to catch a drop of honey before it falls onto the counter and that’s when he realises the barista is staring at him. Really staring. Grey eyes blown wide. The scowl has melted away and as Erwin sucks the honey from his fingers the man’s throat bobs. They stare at each other for a moment before the barista snatches up the empty plate and turns his back on the counter, but not before Erwin sees a faint hint of rose colouring his cheeks.
“Shukran,” Erwin says to the barista’s back. It’s one of the few words of Arabic he knows and he’s sure his inflection is all wrong. The man’s back stiffens, and Erwin wonders if his mispronunciation has transformed his thanks into something deeply, irredeemably offensive, until the dark head turns and the barista smiles over his shoulder. It’s a brief tentative thing, barely there at all, but Erwin can’t help feeling inordinately pleased.
The barista sets about cleaning the already immaculate coffee machine and spotless counter, deftly avoiding Erwin’s attempts at eye contact. Erwin sips his coffee slowly, savouring the fresh aromatic flavour and the burst of desperately needed caffeine, all the while watching the barista. There’s something lithe and graceful in the way he moves, even in the small confined space behind the counter. Conversation is clearly out of the question and, not for the first time, Erwin is acutely embarrassed by his woeful lack of languages other than English and grade school French.
It doesn’t take Erwin long to finish his coffee, leaving a good inch of gritty aromatic residue at the bottom of the tiny cup. The barista has finished cleaning the pristine surfaces and is now flicking through something on his phone, studiously ignoring Erwin. He has no idea how to ask for the bill and is not inclined to make a fool of himself by miming the universal signal for “cheque please”. Instead he takes out his wallet and removes a note that he hopes should be more than enough to cover the cost of the tiny coffee and minuscule pastry. He clears his throat as he lays the note on the counter. The barista continues to ignore him.
“Excuse me,” he says firmly, “I’m sorry, I don’t know how to…”
Without looking up, the barista snatches the note from the counter, turns to the till and then lays Erwin’s change in front of him on a small metal plate.
Erwin smiles and nudges the plate back across the counter. The barista glares at him for a moment before returning his attention to his phone. Erwin sighs and reaches down for his bag. As he leaves, he stops at the book reader’s bench.
“Thank you for your assistance,” he says, “and please could you tell him,” he inclines his head pointedly towards the barista, “thank you for the coffee and the charming company.”
Erwin doesn’t give a damn if he’s being rude, he can feel his jetlag kicking in again despite the coffee, and something about that cool grey gaze has worked it’s way under his skin.
Erwin leaves the café and walks back to his hotel through busy streets, loud with traffic, rich with unfamiliar sights and smells. He intends to spend the evening running through his presentation for the conference tomorrow, instead he lies on the bed, half naked in the heat, listening to the rattle of the air conditioning unit, the ceaseless drone of the traffic and, floating over it all, the fluid call of the Mu’adhan. When he sleeps, his dreams are filled with piercing grey eyes, the tilt of narrow brows, the intoxicating aroma of cardamom.
He can still taste spice and honey on his tongue when he wakes.