Fruitcake piano blues

Daniel is passionate about his art. I once saw him get the waitress in the Art Bistro to tell a table of noisy customers to quieten down while he was playing. They do as they're told.

Daniel has given up a lucrative career at a German bank and an intense relationship with a girlfriend who has since given up poetry – she won a number of national competitions – in order to study law. I listen to Daniel as he patiently explains the creative differences between classical and jazz pianists; the challenge of trying to be improvisational when classically trained. About an extraordinary Hungarian jazz pianist called George on the cruise ship they worked together. Carried all his sheets in his pocket (everything else improvised). We draw parallels between writing and playing the piano.

Amongst many other things, we discuss smoking, the disintegration of personal interaction skills due to social media (he with his Galaxy, me with my Fujitsu Lifebook), bringing up children to be creative, teaching, Japanese tourists who text but don’t talk, the 1958 Newport Jazz Festival, Thai temples and getting a shave on the Burmese border. Interestingly, we discover we both use the same popcorn guy at the top of Republicii.      

When Daniel talks about something he is particularly passionate about he looks over the rim of his glasses at you, leaning slightly forward.       

A large bright red cocktail arrives and is placed in front of Daniel. It has a frosted rim and the stem is decorated with a polka dot ribbon offset by a mint leaf made of plastic. This is soon followed by an enormous round plate upon which is mounted a ball of wonderfully textured ice-cream, in turn mounted on a thick slab of fruit cake flanked by segments of alternately coloured grapefruit. Daniel explains the Art Bistro provides these things in addition to a decent wage – and the bartender likes to try his new cocktail recipes on him. Later on, when we are propping up the bar, I buy Daniel a Cuba Libre. 

It seems we both enjoy a drink, or two.

Anime-tiger girls 2

I’m sitting outside the Cafecera on Republicii having my late morning Americano. A bunch of guys – massive, built like replicant robots – park up at the far end. They are eating garish green ice-creams, which they’ve bought from somewhere else. They aren’t buying anything here.  

The waitress comes striding out of the Cafecera like a Nakajima Type 4 surface to surface missile. WHOOSH! She is incredibly tall with a feline face, olive skin, long black hair in a ponytail and eyeliner. Skinny jeans, trainers. She carries herself like a gymnast. Another anime-tiger girl.

A terrific argument ensues. This is my territory. So buy something or leave. The replicant threatens to hit Tiger Girl but she isn't backing down. She shouts at him, standing her ground. Go, girl. It is the replicant and his friends who eventually walk away. They take their atomic coloured ice-creams with them.  

Half an hour after they've left, Tiger Girl is still striding around outide the cafe, angrily talking to herself and furiously wiping down the tables. Sometimes she stops and stares down Republicii as if daring the replicant to come back for another fight.

Go, Tiger Girl.

Sponsored inspiration

I’m struggling with the penultimate chapter in Zen Ambulance when Cherokee and Mohawk go through Benny’s stolen packing cases full of weapons. I want something dramatic, completely OTT like Tarantino. Heavy cal machine-gun? No, no, too predictable. Rocket Propelled Grenade Launcher? No, they’ve already chosen one of those. I spend a good twenty minutes in Colette’s trying to figure out what the other weapon is. It’s got to feel right, you know. But it’s not happening. I can’t pluck that right weapon out of my torpid imagination. Damn it.

I leave Bistro Colette and head back to Republicii (pronounced “-chee” by the way). I park myself in the cafe near my apartment. I order an ice-cold, dark beer to settle my jangled nerves.

A couple walk past. They’re lanky and kitted out in red t-shirts that say Feel the Beat! They both wear dazzling white baseball caps, shorts, knee-length socks and trainers. As they walk past, heading towards the Bank of Transilvania, I notice the girl is carrying a small silver cylinder with a coca-cola logo on her back; there’s a tube and nozzle hooked up to it.

I push my beer to one side and dig my laptop back out.

Got it.