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The story of the Samira wake-up!

 

One morning, a man of about fifty, showed up in the restaurant doorway. His face was split in the middle by a huge moustache above an irresistible smile.  The man hesitated a few seconds before entering, finally giving in to the aroma of nutmeg coming from a dish of oatmeal that had just been served at the counter. From his appearence, it seemed that he was a refugee from a noble family, used to more luxurious establishments. He walked towards the counter and had to step over old Sarto’s cane to take a seat. For a few seconds, he stared at the crêpes being flipped on the big griddle and then asked :

Some fruit… nice and fresh, if possible.
Fresh! Replied Marie, as if she’d found a tarantula in the sugar bowl. My goodness, we have nothing but fresh fruit. How could you not know that? Where have you been?

 

And that’s how Mr. Samira came to tell us he was an immigrant florist who was enjoying a certain success on Décarie Boulevard in Saint-Laurent. Samira’s request led us to serve him a beautiful plate of nothing but pretty, cut fruit, no crêpes, no cheese, no French toast. Because that was his favourite dish in Beirut, back when his mother would bring him a small glass dish full of peaches, apricots, and purple fleshed figs.

We named the dish we served that day Samira wake-up because of the Lebanese florist, and for a long time our drawing of it had a row of multicoloured tulips under the words.

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