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“It’s grilled chicken, eggs, and potatoes wrapped in this dough and baked,” I tell her and she takes a huge bite and swallows greedily.
“Is this a Houston thing?” she asks.
“More like southeast Texas. No one else anywhere I’ve lived has ever heard of them,” I tell her.
“Oh my God, that chicken. Does it have … curry or something on it?” She smacks her lips together, and I frown at her in mild disgust.
“What’s all the smacking for?” I ask.
She smirks and smacks louder. “I’m country, Hayes. We smack our lips when something tastes this good. This is Czech food?”
“Well, the concept is. But, Sweet’s pastries are all made with a flavor of her home country, Senegal—that’s in West Africa. And Lo, his real name is Lotanna, is her husband. He’s from Nigeria, and he’s the reason that Sweet doesn’t give away everything she bakes and makes,” I tell her.
“I love their coffee; can’t wait to actually eat there. Let me get dressed and we can head out,” she says and stands and hurries to her room. And instead of following her like I want, I pull out my phone and call Gigi.
SWEET AND LOW
CONFIDENCE
I step through glass paned French doors of Sweet and Lo’s. that Hayes is holding open. Below the yellow cursive writing of their logo, it says, “We Bake the World.”
The cafe’s abundance of windows, on both the front street facing side and the left wall that opens onto a small garden where people are seated reading and talking, give it a warm airy feel. It’s packed with people, and the only thing louder than the concentrated murmur of conversation is the whirring of the coffee grinders, the hissing of steaming espresso makers, and the background music that’s too low to make out clearly, but loud enough that you know it’s there. I eye the huge chalkboard behind the small hostess stand ahead of us. The menu is written in neat cursive and lists everything from pastries and sandwiches to omelets and salads and specialty breads.
I crane my neck so I can see above the heads of the people clustered and waiting to be seated in the smaller-than-comfortable waiting area.
“Given the menu, I’m not shocked there’s a wait,” I observe. “Can we just take it to go like I do my coffee?”
“Nope,” he says without stopping to even look back at me.
“Why not?” I grumble.
“My aunt is meeting us. She’s here already, seated.” Hayes drops that bomb on me and keeps walking toward the young woman smiling prettily at us as we approach.
I, on the other hand, stop dead in my tracks. The person behind me slams into my back and the sharp edge of his shoulders poke my back and the toe of his rubber-soled shoes scrape against the backs of my heels. I spin around just in time to see a very old, frail looking woman falling backward.
I cry out, my hands over my mouth in horror. She sits right where she fell, flat on her ass, her spindly green floral-painted legging covered legs sprawled in front of her like a newborn foal.
I reach down to help her up and glare at Hayes who’s just made it back to my side. He looks between us with an expression of complete bewilderment on his face.
“I’m so sorry,” I say and reach down to cup her elbow. She swats my hand away and says, “I can get myself up. I look old, but I bet you I could beat you in a race around the block.” Her voice, thin and frail, says otherwise. But she hops up in one quick, acrobatic movement. “See? Right as rain,” she says proudly.
“I’m Sally, Sally Turner.” She says her name like it’s a compliment. She’s got to be eighty years old. Her face is covered in a spray of freckles that even kiss her eyelids and lips. Her eyes, a sparkling dark brown, are full of mischief and her smile is disarmingly youthful.
“Are you okay, Sally?” Hayes asks as if he’s been saying her name his whole life as he puts a hand at the small of both of our backs and ushers us out of the way of the customers trying to get to the booth.
“Oh, I’m fine. I was just distracted by the specimen of man meat ahead of me.” She nods at Hayes and winks. “You’re Hayes Rivers. Nice that you finally came down from you tower to visit us,” she says.
Hayes, as unflappable as ever, doesn’t correct her and say that he’s actually been spending a lot of time in town. Instead, he smiles roguishly. “I heard this was the place to come if I wanted to find a pretty girl to talk to. Of course, I came to see.”
She throws her head back and laughs delightedly. “Oh, how wonderful, and you’re charming, too. Those Wilde boys pretty things up nicely. I’d say you’re about to add something better than pretty,” she says and laughs again.
“I’ll leave the prettying to the Wildes and my woman.” He slips a hand around my waist. Her eyes roam Hayes’s body like someone contemplating what part of
their steak they’d like to eat first.
“Either way, we can always use another fine piece—”
“Uh, I’m so sorry I stopped like that; I’m glad you’re okay.” I interrupt her before she says any more.
