London stared after them. Where had Audrey’s sudden attraction to Cyrus Bannister come from? In fact, she’d never heard Audrey and Cyrus say a single word to each other. But now …
“What’s going on between those two?” Bryce asked.
“I think she’s just developed a crush on him,” London said.
“I wonder whether the feeling is mutual,” Bryce said.
London had no idea. There were 100 passengers on the Nachtmusik, and she didn’t even try to keep track of their personal relationships. Anyway, she was sure that Cyrus would enjoy Audrey’s admiration.
Meanwhile, others in the group had made their decisions and were heading off to explore Amsterdam on their own. Some hadn’t yet been to the Anne Frank House and headed that way. Others decided to visit the Royal Palace. Others chose to see the Rembrandt House, where the great painter had lived and worked during his happiest and most productive years. Others headed out for shopping sprees in the boutiques, galleries, and perfumeries of the Kalverstraat. Still others, their appetite for art whetted by the visit to the Rijksmuseum, headed for the Van Gogh Museum.
London was glad everybody seemed to have their own destinations in mind. Again, she found herself thinking about that mysterious address …
65 Poppenhuisstraat, Amsterdam
Pretty much since she’d disembarked, she hadn’t had a spare minute to think about her slim hope of finding Mom right here in Amsterdam. But now that all the passengers had headed off on their own, maybe she finally had a chance to track down that location. Of course, it was a long shot. She knew that finding Mom at all was unlikely after all these years. But for some reason, she had a strong urge to try—at least to check out any lead that she came across. Maybe this was her best chance.
Better yet, Bryce was right here at her side and could join her on her quest.
So far, she hadn’t even found an opportunity to tell him about the situation.
“Bryce, I wonder if you could help me with something.”
“Sure, just name it.”
“Well, it will take a bit of explaining …”
London struggled for a moment, wondering how to begin. But before she could even start telling Bryce the story of her missing mother, one of the passengers came scurrying up beside them.
It was the large and energetic Letitia Hartzer.
She had a spring in her step and a lilt in her voice.
“London, you simply must join me for lunch!”
London stifled a groan of despair.
“We need to celebrate right now!” Letitia declared.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Shot down again, London thought.
She was beginning to feel a bit grumpy about the repeated barriers to checking out that address. But she could think of no way to say “no” to this particular request. She knew that Letitia needed approval and support right now.
“What are you celebrating?” Bryce asked Letitia.
“Well, let’s just call it a little moral victory,” Letitia replied with a satisfied chuckle. Giving London a confidential nudge, she added. “London knows what I mean.”
Of course, London did know what she meant. Letitia felt rightfully proud of herself for conquering her urge to shoplift the pretty pen back in the Rijksmuseum gift shop. And of course, Letitia deserved her wholehearted support for her little feat of self-control.
“What do you have in mind?” London asked.
“I saw a lovely little outdoor cafe on my way here. It’s very close by. Let’s have lunch there. And let’s … well, let’s do whatever the Dutch do when want to celebrate something special. Won’t you join London and me, Bryce?”
Bryce shook his head and said, “I wish I could join you, but I can’t. I’ve got to get back to my own kitchen, make sure everything’s going smoothly there, and my assistants haven’t mutinied or something in my absence.”
Oh well, London thought, holding back an audible sigh. Even if she could get away right now, Bryce wouldn’t be able to go with her. Maybe lunch would be brief, and she could slip away on her own afterwards. The ship wouldn’t be leaving Amsterdam until after midnight.
Meanwhile, Letitia was calling out to Gus and Honey, who were still wandering about the plaza.
“Yoo-hoo! Do you two want to join London and me for lunch?”
The Jarretts eagerly agreed.
“It’s a party,” Letitia cooed with delight.
Bryce walked along with the group until they got to the cafe—the Hongerig Kanaal, it was called. It was, indeed, a charming little place with striped awnings and outdoor tables overlooking the canal.
Before Bryce continued on his way, he checked out a whiteboard on an easel.
Then he told London, “I see that the special of the day is a dish called stamppot. I need for you to do something for me.”
“And what’s that?” London asked.
“Order the stamppot and savor it very carefully. Give me a detailed report of your eating experience the next time we see each other.”
With a sly wink he added, “It’s a matter of professional curiosity, you understand.”
“Of course,” she agreed.
She knew that he was just encouraging her to especially enjoy what he expected to be a perfectly delicious dish.
A hostess escorted London, Letitia, and the Jarretts to a table for four. As soon as they were seated with their menus, Honey dug a little Dutch-English phrasebook out of her purse.
“What are you going to do with that?” Gus asked with surprise.
“What do you think I’m going to do?” Honey said with a snap of her gum. “I’m going to talk to the waiter in Dutch. It’s about time one of us tried talking with locals in their own language.”
As soon as a white-shirted waiter came to her table, Honey started reading clumsily but earnestly from her phrase book.
“Mign naam is, eh, Honey. Wat is jouw naam?”
London smiled at Honey’s surprisingly successful attempt to tell the man her name and ask him to tell his.
“Mign naam is Evert,” he said with a smile. “Het is me een genoegen je te ontmoeten.”
Poor Honey stared at the man with perplexity. London could tell that she couldn’t understand a word he’d said after he’d told her his name.
Then Evert said to the whole group, “Ik geef je even de de tijd om naar je menu’s te kijken.”
Then with a cheerful and courteous nod, he walked away.
Gus nudged Honey and asked, “So what did he say?”
“Uh … that his name is Evert … I think.”
Gus let out a chuckle at Honey’s expense.
“Huh! It sounded like he said a lot more than that!”
Honey started nervously and hopelessly thumbing through her phrasebook. London smiled sympathetically. She’d experienced the same problem herself. It was easy enough to figure out how to greet someone or ask a simple question in an unfamiliar language. But the flood of words in reply was often beyond comprehension.
“Don’t bother, Honey,” London said. “Phrase books aren’t much good when it comes to making actual conversation. He told you he was pleased to meet you. Then he told us he’d give us a moment to look at our menus.”
“Oh,” Honey said, looking rather deflated.
London added, “Don’t feel bad. I could tell he was pleased that you at least tried to speak to him in Dutch. It’s always a courteous thing to do in a foreign country, even if you don’t know the language. For future reference, just being able to say “hello” and “please” and “thank you” can go a long way. But don’t worry. My guess is Evert speaks at least some English. If he doesn’t, I’ll do my best to translate for everybody.”
London and her three companions looked over their menus, which were written in both Dutch and English. London happened to glance up in time to notice a familiar face among the nearby pedestrians.
Helga van den Heugel was walking along at a brisk pace. London caught her eye and waved to
her. But instead of waving back, Helga looked oddly startled and kept right on walking. Then she disappeared into the Meyer Fijne Kunst gallery.
I guess she has some business there, London figured.
When Evert came back to the table, the group ordered their meals. As London had correctly guessed, Evert spoke perfectly good English. Then the waiter stepped back inside the restaurant and returned with a platter.
He put it on the table and announced, “Amsterdam is rightly famous for cheeses, this one in particular.”
On the platter little yellow cubes were scattered around a small bowl of dark yellow dip.
Evert said, “This type has been traded in the markets of our town called Gouda since the Middle Ages. However, there are many types, and they all have their special flavors. A lot of gouda is manufactured now, but these are authentic farmhouse goudas, made in the traditional fashion.”
Gesturing at one side of the platter he said, “These are young gouda, made just four weeks ago. You’ll find it very mild.”
“A canal boat I took this morning was named Young Gouda,” London said.
“How appropriate,” Evert commented.
London picked up a cube of cheese and popped it into her mouth. The taste was a familiar slightly sweet nutty flavor, but better than gouda she’d eaten in other parts of the world.
“And these on the other side are more mature gouda,” Evert pointed out.
When she tried one of those cubes, London realized that it was quite different—crunchier for starters.
“It’s almost fruity-tasting,” Letitia observed.
“Sweet,” Honey commented as she munched. “I like it.”
“Good stuff,” Gus agreed.
Evert looked pleased. “Some especially like to use the mustard dip with the older goudas. Or they pair their cheese with beer or wine. So can I bring you something to drink while you await your meals?”
Before anybody else could speak, Letitia asked, “What do Dutch people drink when they want to toast something really special?”
Evert replied, “That would be a straight shot of jenever, a Dutch spirit distilled from juniper berries. For a chaser, we’d have some good Dutch beer—a pale lager would be my recommendation.”
“Excellent!” Letitia said. “Please bring us four shots of jenever and four glasses of pale lager.”
As Evert left the table again Gus asked Letitia with surprise, “What are we toasting, anyway?”
Letitia glanced at London with a slight giggle, then said to Gus, “Oh, I don’t know. How about a toast to life?”
Gus chuckled heartily.
“I’ll always drink to that!” he said.
“Me too!” Honey said.
Presently the waiter returned with shot glasses of the clear spirits and served them with glasses of pale beer. While the beer glasses were damp with the usual condensation, London noticed that the shot glasses were actually frosty to the touch. She guessed that the glasses had been freshly taken out of a freezer, and that maybe the jenever had been refrigerated.
Letitia raised her glass and spoke to her companions.
“Here’s to … well, whatever anybody wants to drink to!”
London and the Jarretts raised their glasses, and everybody clinked their glasses together. As London lifted the jenever to her lips, she paused to notice its faint but pleasant aroma.
A bit like gin, she thought.
Which was hardly surprising, since the waiter mentioned that jenever was also distilled from juniper berries.
Before London took a taste, she heard Gus call out, “Down the hatch!”
Gus swallowed the contents of his glass at one gulp.
London took a sip from her glass as well. Like all spirits, jenever was very strong to the taste. At the same time, it was surprisingly mellow, with an aftertaste that reminded her of wine. The liquid went down smoothly and didn’t burn her throat. Even so, she followed it with a sip of the full-bodied beer, which complemented the taste of jenever quite nicely.
Honey and Letitia also looked pleased as they tried the jenever. Meanwhile, Gus was waving to the waiter and calling out to him.
“I’m ready for another!”
“Take it easy with that stuff, Gus,” Honey said as the waiter brought him a second frosted shot glass.
“Hey, don’t worry,” Gus said. “One or two more won’t hurt me. They wouldn’t hurt the rest of you, either. Come on, drink up! I’ll pay for drinks.”
Everybody, including Honey, politely declined. London was glad of that. The last time Honey had over-imbibed, she’d wound up tearfully—and publicly—singing “Home on the Range” to the accompaniment of a German oompah band. Letitia had tipsily sung “Lili Marlene” and “We’ll Meet Again,” accompanied by an accordion player. London was glad the two women were exercising some restraint. She only hoped Gus wouldn’t overdo it.
Soon the waiter returned with their food orders. Letitia had ordered a salad followed by skewered lamb, while Honey and Gus had ordered a Dutch rice dish for two.
London herself ordered the stamppot, just as Bryce had suggested. As soon as the dish was placed in front of her, she could see—and smell—that it was an excellent choice. Consisting of a length of sausage nestled in potatoes mashed together with other ingredients, it was obviously classic comfort food, Dutch style.
As London got ready to take her first bite, she reminded herself of Bryce’s instruction.
“Savor it carefully.”
He’d said he expected a “detailed report” of her “eating experience.”
London smiled, feeling more than glad to oblige.
She remembered reading on the menu that the sausage was called rookworst, which meant smoked sausage. As she took a taste, she guessed that it was a delicious mix of ground pork, veal, and bacon.
Mixed among the mashed potatoes, London detected kale and green onions, all lusciously seasoned with salt, pepper, and garlic and sprinkled with chopped scallions. London made mental notes with every bite, so she could properly report her impressions to Bryce.
Meanwhile, everyone at the table shared bites of each other’s meals. Letitia’s mouth-wateringly tender skewered lamb came with grilled vegetables, couscous, and a coriander-lime sauce. Honey and Gus’s Dutch rice ditch was a rich potpourri which combined stewed beef with onions, boiled potatoes, red cabbage, sausage, and gravy.
After dinner, all four of the diners agreed to a simple but traditional Dutch dessert called appleflap, pieces of pastry dough stuffed with apples, raisins, sugar, and cinnamon.
All during dinner, London monitored Gus’s enthusiastic intake of jenever and beer. He had seemed to be holding up pretty well, but when it came time to leave, he wobbled as he stood up, then sat quickly back down again.
“I warned you,” Honey said, wagging her finger at him.
“I’ll be fine,” Gus said, still speaking quite clearly.
“You will be, once I get you back to the Nachtmusik,” Honey said, coaxing him out of his chair and supporting him by the arm.
Meanwhile, the waiter had observed the situation.
“Would you like me to call for a boat?” he asked Honey.
“You mean like a cab?” Honey asked.
“That’s right.”
“Oh, that would be a great help, thanks!”
The waiter made a cellphone call, and within moments a motorboat pulled up in the canal. Gus didn’t seem at all steady on his feet as Honey led him across the street to the canal bank.
Letitia laughed and said to Honey, “Maybe I should come along and make sure he doesn’t fall into the water.”
“Yeah, that might be a good idea,” Honey said.
London breathed a sigh of relief as Honey and Letitia loaded Gus aboard, and the boat pulled away and headed toward where the Nachtmusik was docked.
At last! she thought.
For the first time today, she had time to go looking for that address. But before she could bring up a map of Amsterdam
on her cellphone, something caught her eye among the nearby pedestrians.
It was a forlorn, lost-looking face, and it seemed to demand her attention.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The passenger who had caught London’s attention was wandering in her general direction, although he didn’t seem to be aware of her presence. Actually, the short, stooped, elderly man didn’t seem to be aware of much of anything. After the brief puzzled glance around when she had spotted his face, he had tucked his head down and seemed to be completely absorbed by a hamburger he was eating.
London felt a flash of worry. She was sure that the aspiring mystery writer wasn’t accustomed to making his way through strange cities alone. The only place he’d even come ashore had been back in Bamberg, Germany, and he’d always been with his new boon companion, Bob Turner.
But now Bob was sick, or at least he was said to be. And here was Stanley Tedrow, wandering the streets of a foreign city looking more than a little lost, as if he were walking—and eating—in his sleep.
As London made her way toward him, he almost walked by without noticing her.
“Hi, Mr. Tedrow,” she said.
He stopped in his tracks and stared at her, chewing on a bite of his hamburger.
“Oh, I know you,” he said. “You’re the ship’s maître d’, or major domo, or superintendent, or …”
“I’m the social director,” she said.
“Yeah, right. London somebody. Your last name’s a flower. London Lilac, London Clover, London Marigold … ?”
“London Rose,” London said.
“Of course, that’s it, London Rose.”
Then he scratched his head with his free hand and chuckled.
“I guess I almost didn’t recognize you without your dog.”
London certainly didn’t feel hurt to hear him say that. After all, when she and Sir Reggie had sat down with Mr. Tedrow in the Amadeus Lounge last night, he’d been markedly more interested in talking to the dog than to her.
He took another bite of his hamburger and stood there looking down at the sidewalk.
“How are you today?” London asked, wondering if maybe she could strike up a conversation with him just this once.
Misfortune (and Gouda) Page 10