At a large square table near the doorway a group of eight men were absorbed in an animated political discussion, accompanied by much waving of arms, and thundering of gutturals. It appeared to be a table of importance, for the high-backed bench that ran along one side was upholstered in worn red velvet, and every newcomer paused a moment to nod or to say a word in greeting. It was not of American politics that they talked, but of the politics of Austria and Hungary. Finally the argument resolved itself into a duel of words between a handsome, red-faced German whose rosy skin seemed to take on a deeper tone in contrast to the whiteness of his hair and mustache, and a swarthy young fellow whose thick spectacles and heavy mane of black hair gave him the look of a caricature out of an illustrated German weekly. The red-faced man argued loudly, with much rapping of bare knuckles on the table top. But the dark man spoke seldom, and softly, with a little twisted half-smile on his lips; and whenever he spoke the red-faced man grew redder, and there came a huge laugh from the others who sat listening.
“Say, wouldn’t it curdle your English?” Blackie laughed.
Solemnly I turned to him. “Blackie Griffith, these people do not even realize that there is anything unusual about this.”
“Sure not; that’s the beauty of it. They don’t need to make no artificial atmosphere for this place; it just grows wild, like dandelions. Everybody comes here for their coffee because their aunts an’ uncles and Grossmutters and Grosspapas used t’ come, and come yet, if they’re livin’! An’, after all, what is it but a little German bakery?”
“But O, wise Herr Baumbach down in the kitchen! O, subtle Frau Baumbach back of the desk!” said I. “Others may fit their shops with mirrors, and cut-glass chandeliers and Oriental rugs and mahogany, but you sit serenely by, and you smile, and you change nothing. You let the brown walls grow dimmer with age; you see the marble-topped tables turning yellow; you leave bare your wooden floor, and you smile, and smile, and smile.”
“Fine!” applauded Blackie. “You’re on. And here comes Rosie.”
Rosie, the radiant, placed on the table cups and saucers of an unbelievable thickness. She set them down on the marble surface with a crash as one who knows well that no mere marble or granite could shatter the solidity of those stout earthenware receptacles. Napkins there were none. I was to learn that fingers were rid of any clinging remnants of cream or crumb by the simple expedient of licking them.
Blackie emptied his pitcher of cream into his cup of black, black coffee, sugared it, stirred, tasted, and then, with a wicked gleam in his black eyes he lifted the heavy cup to his lips and took a long, gurgling mouthful.
“Blackie,” I hissed, “if you do that again I shall refuse to speak to you!”
“Do what?” demanded he, all injured innocence.
“Snuffle up your coffee like that.”
“Why, girl, that’s th’ proper way t’ drink coffee here. Listen t’ everybody else.” And while I glared he wrapped his hand lovingly about his cup, holding the spoon imprisoned between first and second fingers, and took another sibilant mouthful. “Any more of your back talk and I’ll drink it out of m’ saucer an’ blow on it like the hefty party over there in the earrings is doin’. Calm yerself an’ try a Bismarck.”
I picked up one of the flaky confections and eyed it in despair. There were no plates except that on which the cakes reposed.
“How does one eat them?” I inquired.
“Yuh don’t really eat ‘em. The motion is more like inhalin’. T’ eat ‘em successful you really ought t’ get into a bath-tub half-filled with water, because as soon’s you bite in at one end w’y the custard stuff slides out at the other, an’ no human mouth c’n be two places at oncet. Shut your eyes girl, an’ just wade in.”
I waded. In silence I took a deep delicious bite, nimbly chased the coy filling around a corner with my tongue, devoured every bit down to the last crumb and licked the stickiness off my fingers. Then I investigated the interior of the next cake.
“I’m coming here every day,” I announced.
“Better not. Ruin your complexion and turn all your lines into bumps. Look at the dame with the earrings. I’ve been keepin’ count an’ I’ve seen her eat three Schnecken, two cream puffs, a Nusshornchen and a slice of Torte with two cups of coffee. Ain’t she a horrible example! And yet she’s got th’ nerve t’ wear a princess gown!”
“I don’t care,” I replied, recklessly, my voice choked with whipped cream and butteriness. “I can just feel myself getting greasy. Haven’t I done beautifully for a new hand? Now tell me about some of these people. Who is the funny little man in the checked suit with the black braid trimming, and the green cravat, and the white spats, and the tan hat and the eyeglasses?”
“Ain’t them th’ dizzy habiliments? “A note of envy crept into Blackie’s voice. “His name is Hugo Luders. Used t’ be a reporter on the Germania, but he’s reformed and gone into advertisin’, where there’s real money. Some say he wears them clo’es on a bet, and some say his taste in dress is a curse descended upon him from Joseph, the guy with the fancy coat, but I think he wears’em because he fancies ‘em. He’s been coming here ever’ afternoon for twelve years, has a cup of coffee, game of chess, and a pow-wow with a bunch of cronies. If Baumbach’s ever decide to paint the front of their shop or put in cut glass fixtures and handpainted china, Hugo Luders would serve an injunction on ‘em. Next!”
“Who’s the woman with the leathery complexion and the belt to match, and the untidy hair and the big feet? I like her face. And why does she sit at a table with all those strange-looking men? And who are all the men? And who is the fur-lined grand opera tenor just coming in— Oh!”
Blackie glanced over his shoulder just as the tall man in the doorway turned his face toward us. “That? Why, girl, that’s Von Gerhard, the man who gives me one more year t’ live. Look at everybody kowtowing to him. He don’t favor Baumbach’s often. Too busy patching up the nervous wrecks that are washed up on his shores.”
The tall figure in the doorway was glancing from table to table, nodding here and there to an acquaintance. His eyes traveled the length of the room. Now they were nearing us. I felt a sudden, inexplicable tightening at heart and throat, as though fingers were clutching there. Then his eyes met mine, and I felt the blood rushing to my face as he came swiftly over to our table and took my hand in his.
“So you have discovered Baumbach’s,” he said. “May I have my coffee and cigar here with you? ”
“Blackie here is responsible for my being initiated into the sticky mysteries of Baumbach’s. I never should have discovered it if he had not offered to act as personal conductor. You know one another, I believe?”
The two men shook hands across the table. There was something forced and graceless about the act. Blackie eyed Von Gerhard through a misty curtain of cigarette smoke. Von Gerhard gazed at Blackie through narrowed lids as he lighted his cigar. “I’m th’ gink you killed off two or three years back,” Blackie explained.