The Brew Worth Killing

By Devananda Edamadathil

Being the proprietor of my own cafe wasn’t much of a dream come true for me. However, I wholeheartedly accepted the hand-me-down responsibility, not because I cherished cakes and coffee, but because what appealed to me was that it offered a window into the lives of the common folk. Children bustled for their turn to choose their favorites: pastries, tarts, madeleines, and muffins. The town elders came for negotiations about angry neighbors, broken taps, and the noisy children. The tobacco-addicted headmistress nearing retirement made her way in for the tea, both herbal and verbal. Susan Flicks, the town’s sweetheart, swooned over the peach iced tea, often carrying the velvety, peach scent around.

I loved it when people were predictable. Mr. Strauss having a tough day at work meant two cups of ginger tea. Little Ellie devouring a slice of rusted caramel cake meant that she had won the penmanship competition.

The power of leaning back and observing made me feel like I’d achieved imperium. A peek into the lives of the troubled, the bereaved, the loved, and the forgotten. I could play a catalyst, watching from afar, without getting involved.

I do have trouble navigating the emotions of those who aren’t interested in bon mots or, worse, order the same refreshments. Those were burns.

However, the puzzle of the highest caliber turned up the day Susie Flicks was reported to have left town. A charming bloke. All he ordered was a warm glass of milk, but lactose wasn’t his fascination. He brought his own teabags. I was asked to prepare his special tea, using the teabags that he had brought.

The silent customer earned my respect, for never in my life had I seen such an umpteen collection of tea. Every cup of tea had a distinct aroma. It was strenuous to guess what exactly gave out the flavor. Often, it was too soothing, while at times, it didn’t smell like tea at all. I wondered how he concocted his special mix.

Despite my inability to demarcate them, they were all familiar to me. Scents that I’ve crossed paths with. It tormented me that one strange man could test my abilities at such lengths. I regretted not having had the passion for gustatory pleasures.

I was determined to find out more about him. I boiled milk every night, anticipating his untimely visit.

He didn’t turn up for weeks. The week after Little Ellie’s family moved, late at night, minutes before I closed, he was at the counter with a teabag. I couldn’t say no to this special customer, for this is exactly what I wanted. As the teabag gracefully descended into the creamy milk, a serenade of sensations unfolded. The milk's pristine whiteness surrendered to a warm, golden shade of sunset amber. The colors swirled, and the aroma was in the air. Sweet, velvety peach. It was peach.

Peach, like my iced tea.

Peach, like Susie Flicks.

A string of sensations struck me. All the flavors he had concocted made sense.

Rustic caramel. That was Ellie.

Tobacco and vanilla. The headmistress.

They all had left town. Or did they?

It was dark, and he was the last customer. I didn’t want to think anymore until he’d make his way out. He finished his drink and chuckled, “Citrus-bergamot. That scent on you. I like it.” A chill ran down my spine as he got up and locked the cafe doors from the inside.

By Devananda Edamadathil