The Paradise of Glass (The Glassblower Trilogy Book 3) by Durst-Benning Petra

Author:Durst-Benning, Petra [Durst-Benning, Petra]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: AmazonCrossing
Published: 2015-09-22T07:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Strobel shifted about restlessly on his chair in an effort to let in some air between the fabric of his pants leg and his thigh.

It was so sticky in here!

He took a silk handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the sweat on his brow. He tried not to think of his cool dining room, where the shutters would be closed and not a single ray of sunshine could intrude. He tried not to think of a glass of chilled white wine. Or of the slices of cold roast meat, served with white bread and a little salad, that his maid would have prepared for his lunch if he were home.

You are not here for the pleasures of the table, he scolded himself. The waitress had just brought him a plate of potato gratin, but he pushed it aside in disgust. He pulled his table toward the wall to get out of the sunshine, as far as that was possible; the sunbeams were flooding in through the dirty window. There were no curtains to protect customers from either the sunshine or the passersby on the street. It was disgraceful, perfectly disgraceful!

All the tables were taken except for one by the kitchen, and Strobel seemed to be the only guest who had any objection to the food. Two old people sitting on his right were shoveling the food into their mouths without even looking up. To his left were three young men who acted like snobs but who had ordered only one dish of the day, with three forks—the waitress grumbled, but brought their order. Even as he came in, Strobel had noticed them and deliberately taken a table nearby. But none of them was the man he was looking for.

The waitress hurried over to Strobel. Would he like to order anything else? Something sweet? He forced a smile and ordered an extra-strong coffee. Anything but more food.

Potato gratin today, roast potatoes yesterday, potato soup the day before that. Strobel had been coming here at twelve o’clock sharp every day for the past three days, and as far as he could tell, the cook couldn’t afford anything but potatoes. The dining room smelled so strongly of bacon fat, grease, and potatoes that it had seeped into every fiber of his clothing. Strobel had to stop at home to change his shirt and jacket before he went back to the shop.

What a difference from the fine restaurants he had visited in Berlin! The dishes there were delightful. The service was perfect, but unobtrusive. There were beautiful people wherever he looked. Whereas here . . .

He sighed and opened the newspaper he had brought with him. He tried to simultaneously keep an eye on the door.

Despite the unappetizing potato dishes and the overeager service, the restaurant had two distinct advantages: it was directly opposite the Grosse bank, and it was so cheap that even the lowly bank clerks could afford to have lunch there.

Or at least so Friedhelm Strobel had thought when he had begun his daily potato pilgrimage upon his return from Berlin.

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