Peppermint Tea

I was off the road, attending Boston University nights, and generally had my life together. Together is a relative term. Life had settled down from a constant hullabaloo to a slow roar. It was Friday, my scheduled day off from John and Mary’s apartment, who were the elderly siblings that I cared for Monday through Thursday. As was my habit, I had lunch at one of the Charles Street coffeehouses—a folk music venue at night and a stylish luncheon venue in the early afternoon.

Bridgette was the proprietor and discussion leader. You did not just have lunch at this establishment; you joined a pleasurable luncheon discussion led by Bridgette. Her foil was Sam. She would ask a question to get it rolling, and he would offer an opinion, observation, or quip. Then it was an open discussion. There was a tight club of older regulars. I was pretty much silent, just appreciating the flow of witty exchanges and learning bit by bit about their world. Arguments were not common. That was not what the luncheon group was for. In Catalan, Spanish, or Portuguese, you’d call it a tertulia – an informal gathering to discuss current topics.

That day, the discussion had turned to coffee and coffee drinks. Being a coffeehouse, you’d suspect that the chef would be knowledgeable about the preparation of coffee, and she was. Sam, a retired Air Force officer, was describing a coffee drink he had in the Solomon Islands. He bet lunch on the house ( five of us) if Jaan, the Friday chef on duty, could duplicate it.

He shouldn’t have done it. Jaan prided herself on her coffee virtuosity. As the ingredients were described, we grew fascinated and disgusted by turns. Bridgette prided herself on a well-stocked spice and herb shelf; Jaan was raiding it liberally.

At last, an indescribably complex, but not too appealing odor wafted out of the kitchen, and Jaan marched out with the concoction in a demitasse cup. He sniffed, he lifted the cup, and he drank. We waited for a reaction. When it came, it was not as expected. Sam bolted explosively to the men’s room and was not seen for five or ten minutes. Eventually, he returned. Pale, he sat down and whispered, ” I’d forgotten the kick.” Bridgette offered to drive him to the nearby Mass General Hospital’s Emergency room, but he refused. Jaan set a cup of peppermint tea beside him to ease his digestion, and the discussion departed from coffee to whether the concoction should or shouldn’t be put on the menu.

About three weeks afterwards, Jaan penciled in a new coffee drink on the Friday Menu, Sam’s Eye Opener, served with a side of peppermint tea. She had gentled the concoction down, deleted some ingredients, and reduced others. It was still potent, but it appealed to customers who needed a pick-me-up after a stormy evening prior.