I had an errand on Geneva Avenue and after that mission was accomplished I wandered into Cesaria just down Meeting House Hill at #266 (Dorchester's) Bowdoin Street. It was an hour after lunch time when I settled down at the bar and placed my order. I wanted to keep it simple and light so I requested a beer and Iscas a Portuguesa from the appetizer menu.
A striking redhead was working the bar and, after she diasppeared into the kitchen, I asked the fellow sitting next to me, "Who is that woman?"
"Ah, her," he said in English pressed through a thick Cape Verdean creole accent. "Keep your distance from that one. She's only here to serve drinks and food." I didn't have any other intentions but to be served drinks and food so I was content with his answer.
I got my beer and soon afterward the bartender brought me a small plate of sauteed liver and onions in a savory paprika-butter sauce. I noticed the other patrons didn't interact with her much except to get her attention for a fresh-up. After my thoroughly satisfying snack of iscas I thought I would linger awhile to enjoy the soccer game on the television and the Portuguese ballads on the stereo. I ordered a martini. It was a three day weekend.
The bartender assembled the ingredients on the bar top and went about mixing my drink. After she had poured it in the glass she reached down under the bar and then lifted her hand brandishing a blue, plastic cocktail sword. She pointed it the fellow next to me and accused him of something in their native language. I didn't understand a word, but she could have put his eye out if she wanted to. He replied sheepishly and she went back to preparing my drink. She speared two olives with her sword and placed the arrangement in front of me. She said, "Don't believe a thing this fool tells you. I'm a nice lady."
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