I have only two good male friends. One is Herr Röchibäüld Sächse-Heütelier. The other is Monsieur Beauregard Jerricue Mattappan.
That’s Mattappan! As he would say.
At any rate, we were in Dubrovnik. That’s right Dubrovnik, Republic of Croatia. We sat at a table in the Strada drinking our esspressu. There used to be a mission called OTH or ‘over the horizon mission’. We were joined by Major Curtis St. John Flournoy a Major in the Louisiana National Guard.
Rochibauld was a major in the German Army, Mattappan and I were both Majors in the U.S. Army.
I hadn’t seen Mattappan since 1980 when we hitched across the country together. It was from a chance meeting in Sarajevo that I even knew he still mogged. ‘Mog’ is a Bolean word meaning ‘to exist as’.
It was a long time since we roaked the schmiee with a man named Blee on a Ferryboat bound from Vancouver Island to Nanaimo. Blee was a First Nations Native Canadian Amerind Esquimeaux. His real name is Isidore Jesse St. Shiitanmzelph. Blee was the Canadian liaison officer out of Banja Luka, (pronounced Ban-Joe-Lookah). He had traveled with me on the ride to the coast.
Rochibauld held up his tiny little espressu cup in front of his monocled eye.
“One Konvertible Mark for this exquisite little cup. Whatever is this my delectable, delicious Herr Botendaddy?” Asked Rochibauld.
It’s a delicious Sudetenes Czech Kavu actually, grown in Moravia at exceptionally high altitudes, at a place called Śnieżka on the Silesian Ridge in the Krkonoše mountains of Czecho-land”. I replied with muscular America-cowboy gusto, reminiscent of a fully butch Teddy Roosevelt.
“Sorry, sorry, It reminds me of the coffee grown on the highest peaks of Mt. Logan in the high Yukon of my beloved Canada, eh?” Said Blee.
“Hein là-bas! We have ‘dat good bayou coffee, be made from da bowel movement of the giant Nutria after dey be eating ‘dat good Louisianaise Coffee bean, Vous-aûtres! Just clean off ‘dat tasty bowel movement de bon goût and voilà! You got ‘dat Koppee Louisiannaque!” Added Flournoy in his nearly unintelligible Creole-Cajun colloquial vernacular idiomatic gibberish.
“Well in Boston we got Mt. Greylock Coffee, grown at almost 3,500 feet in western Massachusetts during the January growing season. Back in 1960, it was minus 15. Best Massachusetts Coffee ever grown that year. It’s much better than Botendaddy’s shitty New Yahwk Coffee.” Said the shitty Mattappan leaning back in his chair with his shitty Boston sneer.
“Minus 51 degrees on Mt. Marcy back in 1979 at 5,343 feet. The 1979 coffee was one of the best American coffees ever. We used to get it at the War memorial Coffee shop at 37th and Lex in Manhattan. Better than any shitty Boston loser coffee.” I retorted, just as Mattappan choked on the sugar cube and fell backwards out of his chair onto the stone surface of the Strada.