InsaneJournal

Who: Ian Rammsteiner and Kirk Alden
What: An evening out
When: Saturday evening, mid-June
Where: Café Cèdre, the Cove
Rating: Negotiable
Status: Open and ongoing


He took coffee every evening at the café on Stoker Street. The venue was small, but it had the advantage of being well off the beaten path of pedestrian traffic (Washington state, through no fault of its own, had become a sort of Mecca for coffee enthusiasts and caffeine junkies, many of whom had no business mainlining further external stimulation). It also relied upon the French press model of coffee making, which Ian found far preferable to the Italian design. Rows of the devices occupied the shelves behind the counter, their glass cylinders and pistons like something out of Frankenstein's laboratory. The employees were capable and not too chatty. There were no displays of tie-in merchandise. There were no frequent customer punch cards. No Xfm radio station playing over the sound system. It was the sort of business that had enough respect for its patrons to leave them the hell alone. The coffee, it must also be said, was exceptional.

Ian Rammsteiner arrived at exactly 7:17, two minutes shy of his usual time. He had spent the afternoon with council business and had then made an impromptu trip to the nearby kitchen supply store, where he had treated himself to a Paderno copper 10.25" frying pan and a set of Masahiro chefs knives. The clerk had delayed while tying his parcels. Ian had felt his anger rising but calmed himself by focusing on the light reflecting off the side of a chafing dish. He thanked the clerk, smiled, and took his bags with him out into the street. His car hunkered down next to the curb. He had the key fob in his palm but changed his mind at the last moment and veered away onto the sidewalk. The café was not more than a ten minute walk from here. He had stored his parcels in the trunk of the car and then turned north on foot.

At the café they acknowledged him with a glance. He ordered his usual -- a café mélange -- and chose a seat on the open terrace. The sinking ball of the sun reflected off a pair of smoked half-lenses balanced across the bridge of his nose. He was looking forward to using the Japanese knives. The blades were made of carbonized steel with polycarbide handles, making them both sharp and reliable. He would like to go to the village in Japan, Seki, where the blades were manufactured. Legend had it that the village had once produced swords for the samurai. Ian believed there was much that could be learned from Eastern tradition.

He raised his cup to his lips and took a sip.

Perfect.