Mattheus sat at one of the tables with a notebook open in front of him, tapping the end of his pen against the page.
He had spent most of the morning deciding what food to serve.
The new kitchen gave him many options; he had a proper stove, a refrigerator, a freezer, and enough counter space for food prep—he even had a pizza oven.
It was a small commercial model, barely large enough to fit two medium pizzas at once, but it heated quickly and could cook a pizza in only a few minutes.
He was considering what pizzas to offer.
Too many options would require too many ingredients, but only offering one felt wrong on a spiritual level.
Mattheus decided that three was a good number to start with:
-Pizza alla diavola.
He nodded approvingly; that was one of his favorites (the spicier the better).
If someone complained about the spice, well, anyone who ordered something called alla diavola and then complained that it was too spicy deserved absolutely no sympathy.
Beneath it, he added:
-Prosciutto e funghi.
A classic.
One his yaya had constantly violated by ordering it with as many extra vegetables as she could fit on top, much to his yayo’s disapproval as he insisted that mushrooms were the only acceptable vegetable to place on any pizza
Mattheus had once pointed out that mushrooms were not actually vegetables.
His yayo had stared at him for several seconds before taking the mushrooms off his pizza and putting them on Mattheus’s plate.
If they are not vegetables, and they do not count toward eating healthy, then I am not going to force myself to eat them.
Getting that man to eat healthily had been a constant battle.
His yayo was a traditional Spanish man.
He started most mornings with a carajillo—coffee with a healthy splash of liquor—and by lunchtime, he had already drunk four or five glasses of wine after doing la ronda (the daily pilgrimage from bar to bar around the village with his friends).
White wine before lunch, naturally.
Red wine afterward.
There were rules to these things.
He loved meat, adored seafood, and treated vegetables and fruit as unfortunate necessities of life.
Which was ridiculous considering the man was a farmer who had spent most of his life growing the very things he refused to eat.
Mattheus had never understood how someone could lovingly spend months growing a tomato only to look personally offended when that same tomato appeared on his plate.
He smiled nostalgically at the memories of his yayo before shaking his head and going back to work.
The third pizza required slightly more consideration.
-Pizza quattro formaggi.
The question was which four cheeses.
Mozzarella and gorgonzola were mandatory, but the other two changed depending on who made it.
Parmesan, fontina, provolone, pecorino…
Mattheus wrote cheese combination to be decided later beside it and moved on.
He added several sandwiches, fries, burgers, and nachos.
Then he began listing breakfast options beneath them: pancakes with scrambled eggs, toast with bacon and eggs, a breakfast sandwich, and perhaps a simple plate with sausages, eggs, and fries.
He could add French toast.
Maybe waffles.
He briefly considered adding churros before deciding that he did not want his grandparents haunting him for serving frozen ones.
If he ever put churros on the menu, he would make them properly.
Mattheus stared at the increasingly crowded page.
“Am I being too ambitious?”
He looked around the empty pub.
It was not as though he would suddenly be swarmed by fifty hungry customers.
On most days, he only had two or three people inside at the same time.
Then again, until yesterday, the pub had only had three stools.
Perhaps more customers would begin entering now that the place looked like an actual pub instead of a broom closet with alcohol.
Mattheus shrugged and wrote down chicken wings at the bottom of the page.
He would not know how much he could handle until he tried.
If things became too difficult, he could always reduce the menu, hire someone, or hide in the kitchen and pretend the pub was closed.
All equally valid business strategies.
Mattheus closed the notebook and stood.
He retrieved a small chalkboard he had bought the previous day and wrote his first offer in large white letters.
BURGER + FRIES + SODA OR BEER — $15
He examined his handwriting—it was legible, which was the most anyone could reasonably expect from him.
The meal would not make him rich, but it would turn a decent profit and, more importantly, people like deals.
Mattheus picked up the chalkboard and carried it toward one of the walls, intending to hang it somewhere visible from the entrance.
The front door opened behind him, and Tony stepped through.
He took three steps into the pub, stopped, and looked around with a frown.
Then he turned, opened the door again, and leaned outside to examine the street.
Mattheus watched as Tony checked both sides of the entrance, looked up at the building, and finally stepped back inside.
He shut the door and stared at the pub once more.
“What the hell happened to this place?”
“Good morning to you too.”
Tony ignored him.
The older man’s gaze moved across the walls, wooden beams, tables, stools, long bar counter, and the shelves filled with bottles behind it.
He looked toward the doors leading to the kitchen and bathrooms before returning his attention to Mattheus.
“This place was the size of my bathroom yesterday.”
“You have a ten-square-meter bathroom?”
“That ain’t the point.” Tony gestured around them.
“It’s five times bigger!”
“Six and a half times,” Mattheus corrected, and Tony stared at him.
“I renovated.”
“Renovated my arse.” Tony gestured at the room.
“How the fuck does renovating make a building bigger?”
“By breaking down a few walls.”
Tony stared at him, and Mattheus maintained an innocent expression.
“You had another room five times the size of this one sitting empty behind those walls?”
“Several rooms, actually.”
“Bullshit.”
Mattheus sighed and placed the chalkboard against the nearest wall.
“Fine.
I have some friends who are capable of…” He searched for an appropriate word.
“Let’s say miracles.”
Tony’s expression changed.
“That wizard friend of yours?”
“Something like that.”
Tony grunted.
He accepted the answer far more easily than any reasonable person should have.
Then again, that “wizard friend of his” had cured his daughter.
Tony walked farther inside and ran his hand along the back of one of the chairs.
“Your friend does good work.”
“He does.”
“Damn good work.” Tony looked around again with appreciation.
“This is one hell of a pub, kid.”
Mattheus smiled.
“Thank you.”
He was very proud of his newly renovated pub (he had spent an embarrassing amount of time moving furniture around through the decorating interface); besides, Tony had seen the place before, so his compliment did mean a lot to Mattheus.
Tony approached the counter and inspected the row of taps.
“Guinness,” he read.
“Smithwick’s, Moretti, Peroni, Estrella Galicia, Alhambra, cider…”
He paused at the last tap.
“What’s this?”
“Local craft beer.
One of the customers recommended it.”
Tony grunted and continued examining them.
“You could’ve added Messina.”
“I have Messina.”
“Not on tap.”
“I didn’t know I was building the pub specifically for you.”
Tony rested his forearms on the counter.
“You should.
I’m your best customer.”
“No arguments there.” Without Tony, he would still be shitting in a bucket.
Mattheus walked behind the counter, opened one of the refrigerators, took out a cold bottle of Birra Messina, and popped off the cap before placing it in front of Tony.
“On the house.”
Tony frowned.
“I can pay for my own beer.”
“I know, but today is the official opening of my pub: Crossroads.”
Mattheus had spent a huge amount of time over the past two weeks trying to come up with a name for the place, and in the end, Crossroads had won.
A place where the roads of people from all walks of life (and worlds) could cross for a little while to have a beer or two.
Pretty poetic, if you asked him.
“And you are my best customer,” Mattheus added.
“Crossroads, huh?
Not bad,” Tony nodded.
“And your best customer pays his tab.”
Mattheus shrugged.
If Tony wanted to pay, Mattheus was not going to argue over it.
Tony placed a five-dollar bill on the bar before taking the bottle.
Mattheus picked up the money and smiled.
“Thank you for your patronage.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Mattheus moved behind the counter, rearranging several glasses while they talked.
Tony asked how long the renovations had taken, and Mattheus told him they had happened overnight.
Tony accepted the answer without much difficulty.
They spent several minutes discussing the pub.
Tony approved of the larger counter, thought Mattheus needed a television, and insisted that no respectable establishment should serve nachos.
“Nachos are delicious.”
“They’re chips covered in melted yellow shite.”
“Cheese.”
“That ain’t cheese.”
“That is a controversial opinion to express in America.”
“I’m Italian.
We invented proper cheese.”
“The French might have something to say about that.”
“Fuck the French.”
Mattheus chuckled and leaned against the counter.
Tony finished half his beer before his expression became more serious.
He placed the bottle down, reached inside his jacket, and removed a folded sheet of paper.
“I need you to look at something.”