their order and nab a seat, or grab their fresh salad baguettes and homemade rhubarb pie as takeout, before trekking back to their offices in Government Center or Downtown Crossing or the Financial District.
There was no Myrtle. In fact, Mick McGee, the café’s Irish-born, carrot-topped proprietor and chief cook, looked more like a retired army recruit than a health-conscious homemaker. But according to Mick, his clientele liked the idea of some sweet old Irish lass working with deliciously fresh produce beyond his lime green counter and multicolored chalkboard menus—and if the myth brought in the customers, then who was he to destroy the fantasy?
“Ah . . . Davy, my boy,” said Mick as he threw an extra carrot into a swilling juice concoction that looked more like a multicolored vitamin tablet than a palatable beverage. “Want to try my latest combination? It’s carrot, celery and beetroot with a handful of wheatgrass and a smidgen of mint.”
“Geez, sounds tempting, Mick,” said David, finally reaching the crowded counter front. “But I might play it safe and go for a fresh orange and pineapple instead.”
“Same here, Mick,” said Tony Bishop who wormed his way up next to his attorney friend. “And how about two of your famous Mexican chicken rolls to go? There is no way we are bagging a seat in here today,” he said, looking around.
“Maybe we are in the wrong business after all, DC,” said Bishop, turning to David. “Seems like there could be more cash in melons than mergers. What do you say, Mick?”
Mick looked up from his juicer to survey the “thriving” enterprise before him.
“To be sure, Mr. Bishop.” He grinned. “And a lot less stress. No monkey suit and a breathtaking harbor view to boot. I am looking for a breakfast hand by the way—if you’re interested.”
“That’s a definite no , Mick.” David smiled, answering for his friend. “Unless the job comes with a six-figure bonus and a company Porsche.”
“Not this week, lad.” Mick laughed, handing them their juices and generous chicken wraps. “But I’ll keep Mr. Bishop here in mind if anything else comes up.”
David and Tony took their lunches, said good-bye to Mick and began negotiating their way back out of Myrtle’s and down toward Christopher Columbus Park at the northern end of Boston Harbor. They took a seat on the grass, enjoying the midday sunshine and the welcome lull in the recent spate of biting offshore winds.
“I don’t know how he does it,” said Tony as he unwrapped his oversized roll.
“Who?” asked David.
“Mick. The guy is up at five a.m., works through until at least six. Doesn’t have time to scratch himself and all for what? Eighty grand a year tops? I make more than that by the time I’ve brushed my teeth in the morning.”
“He’s happy,” said David who was used to his corporate lawyer friend’s somewhat materialistic outlook on life. “He built Myrtle’s from scratch. He’s got a lot to be proud of.”
“Pride didn’t pay for my three-bedroom apartment in Copley,” said Tony. “And I still feel pretty good every time I take the elevator to the penthouse floor.”
David smiled and glanced at his friend. “Whatever works, bud,” he said.
They sat in silence for a while, finishing their lunches before David turned to his friend again. He noticed Tony was looking out toward the water, an almost daydream-like expression on his strong dark features. He was also looking a little tired—gray circles framing his deep brown eyes. Tony was definitely not in his normal ten-miles-a-minute mode today. In fact, on closer examination he looked exactly like Joe Mannix had the night before—downright exhausted.
“So what’s up?” asked David, guessing he already knew. “You’ve missed two rugby games in a row and Deakin sucks in the backs. You still propping up the Nagoshi share price, or have you moved on to some other poor suffering multimillion-dollar
There was no Myrtle. In fact, Mick McGee, the café’s Irish-born, carrot-topped proprietor and chief cook, looked more like a retired army recruit than a health-conscious homemaker. But according to Mick, his clientele liked the idea of some sweet old Irish lass working with deliciously fresh produce beyond his lime green counter and multicolored chalkboard menus—and if the myth brought in the customers, then who was he to destroy the fantasy?
“Ah . . . Davy, my boy,” said Mick as he threw an extra carrot into a swilling juice concoction that looked more like a multicolored vitamin tablet than a palatable beverage. “Want to try my latest combination? It’s carrot, celery and beetroot with a handful of wheatgrass and a smidgen of mint.”
“Geez, sounds tempting, Mick,” said David, finally reaching the crowded counter front. “But I might play it safe and go for a fresh orange and pineapple instead.”
“Same here, Mick,” said Tony Bishop who wormed his way up next to his attorney friend. “And how about two of your famous Mexican chicken rolls to go? There is no way we are bagging a seat in here today,” he said, looking around.
“Maybe we are in the wrong business after all, DC,” said Bishop, turning to David. “Seems like there could be more cash in melons than mergers. What do you say, Mick?”
Mick looked up from his juicer to survey the “thriving” enterprise before him.
“To be sure, Mr. Bishop.” He grinned. “And a lot less stress. No monkey suit and a breathtaking harbor view to boot. I am looking for a breakfast hand by the way—if you’re interested.”
“That’s a definite no , Mick.” David smiled, answering for his friend. “Unless the job comes with a six-figure bonus and a company Porsche.”
“Not this week, lad.” Mick laughed, handing them their juices and generous chicken wraps. “But I’ll keep Mr. Bishop here in mind if anything else comes up.”
David and Tony took their lunches, said good-bye to Mick and began negotiating their way back out of Myrtle’s and down toward Christopher Columbus Park at the northern end of Boston Harbor. They took a seat on the grass, enjoying the midday sunshine and the welcome lull in the recent spate of biting offshore winds.
“I don’t know how he does it,” said Tony as he unwrapped his oversized roll.
“Who?” asked David.
“Mick. The guy is up at five a.m., works through until at least six. Doesn’t have time to scratch himself and all for what? Eighty grand a year tops? I make more than that by the time I’ve brushed my teeth in the morning.”
“He’s happy,” said David who was used to his corporate lawyer friend’s somewhat materialistic outlook on life. “He built Myrtle’s from scratch. He’s got a lot to be proud of.”
“Pride didn’t pay for my three-bedroom apartment in Copley,” said Tony. “And I still feel pretty good every time I take the elevator to the penthouse floor.”
David smiled and glanced at his friend. “Whatever works, bud,” he said.
They sat in silence for a while, finishing their lunches before David turned to his friend again. He noticed Tony was looking out toward the water, an almost daydream-like expression on his strong dark features. He was also looking a little tired—gray circles framing his deep brown eyes. Tony was definitely not in his normal ten-miles-a-minute mode today. In fact, on closer examination he looked exactly like Joe Mannix had the night before—downright exhausted.
“So what’s up?” asked David, guessing he already knew. “You’ve missed two rugby games in a row and Deakin sucks in the backs. You still propping up the Nagoshi share price, or have you moved on to some other poor suffering multimillion-dollar
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