Author and Artist
Lovejoy’s
A fictional travelogue; three minute read.
At the corner of Clipper and Church streets in San Francisco at an antique Maplewood table inside Lovejoy’s Tea Room, my wife is sitting across from me. She is half-buried in cushy throw pillows. A small Mona Lisa smile paints her face.
On this planet, there are quiet, consecrated places. Hideaways. Places I only go when I want to listen slowly, carefully, joyously.
While she studies her menu, we hold hands. My gaze steadies on the prettiest woman here.
Glancing at the tea menu, I stop reading after thirty titles. Single Estate Ceylon, Lapsang Souchong, China Rose Petal, Masala Chai, Dragonwell, Ginseng Green, Pomegranate Green, Genmai Cha mean nothing to me. My wife decides for us. The House Blend.
Finger sandwiches are surprisingly filling. I could have ordered cucumber & cream cheese, or roast beef & horseradish, or pickle chutney & cheese. Today, it’s deviled egg, onions & capers. She’s ordered cream cheese and mandarin. The savories arrive standing at attention like a Royal Regiment of Fusiliers.
Between mouthfuls, we discuss everything and nothing. A few words about the food and the funky, funny wall decorations. A remark about our waitress who charms us into sharing a dessert. Something said about the week ahead, our health, last night’s symphony, a good book and always the well-being of our children. We say nothing about the state of the world.
Scones, clotted cream, finger sandwiches, fruit, jams are served on a jumble of chinaware of the sort one uncovers in abandoned attics, heirloom steamer trunks and farmhouse yard sales. The décor is 19th Century Dainty Doily.
For the perfect scone, I’m a man willing to risk clogged arteries. Or as my autopsy might reveal, death by clotted cream.
“Why does my dictionary include the word stoner, but not sconer?” I wisecrack. My wife feigns a renewed interest in her choice of sandwiches. Ignoring my teasing is her way of teasing back.
We are playing a game of knowledge-sharing. A game about staying in love.
“Do you think anyone here knows the clotted cream origin story?” my history teacher brain wonders out loud. “Did you know that 2000 years ago the Phoenicians brought it to England?”
My wife, a skilled cook and more widely read than I am, tosses out, “Did you know that clotted cream—butterfat—was first used to preserve milk. Or, about the Cream Tea rivalry between Cornwall and Devon?”
I add, “I think the culinary genius who first dropped a dollop of clotted cream onto a pastry made from just flour, cream and eggs and then topped it with a spoonful of raspberry preserves deserves a much more exalted place in the cookbooks of history.”
History doesn’t tell us who invented clotted cream. Is it even a real invention like the telephone or scissors? Or was it discovered accidentally? Or like the serendipity of meeting my wife for the first time?
Four women with colorful scarves draped over their shoulders—perhaps two mothers, two daughters—hover over a cozy corner table. They are prolonging their conversation with bottomless pots of tea. When we leave, they’re still there.
Lovejoy’s is that kind of place.
