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“Pistachios, fresh cow's milk butter, phyllo dough, cinnamon, cloves, honey, sugar, water, and lemon.” Thiago checked each ingredient off his clipboard, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt and positioning his chef's hat. "It's time to go!"
It was a unanimous agreement among the Kirkby residents that Thiago was one of the best cooks in the building, only second to Mona Nemmer herself. The two took turns preparing meals for the residents, and Thiago usually did most of the cooking while he was injured. It gave him something to do, and it lessened the feeling of uselessness that permeated his mind while he was injured. Even on an ordinary day, Thiago enjoyed standing by the stove or counter, whipping up a culinary masterpiece.
Today was no ordinary day, though. The calendar hanging from the kitchen wall showed that today was Friday, May 12—Tsimikas' birthday. And for Thiago, that was a big deal.
Originally Thiago had wanted to give Tsimikas a great performance in Monday's match, along with the four other presents he'd bought for him. But thanks to his stupid hip flexor injury, that was out of the question.
So when Thiago overheard Tsimikas talking to Adrian about how much he missed his hometown of Thessaloniki, the Spaniard got a new idea. On the morning of Tsimikas’ birthday, he would wake up early to prepare and bake a fresh pan of authentic Greek baklava.
Thiago had never eaten or even looked at fresh baklava before, so he didn’t know what he was supposed to be working towards. But as he buttered the pan and layered the phyllo dough for the base, Thiago let go of his inhibitions and threw himself fully into what he loved.
“Hey Alexa,” Thiago called over to the AI speaker in the corner. “Could you play Happy Birthday ?”
The speaker lit up, casting light shadows on the still-dim kitchen. “Playing ‘Happy Birthday’ by Stevie Wonder.”
Well, that wasn’t what Thiago had meant. But he had to admit, the jazzy tune and upbeat bass track suited Tsimikas’ personality perfectly. As Thiago carefully picked over the pistachios—he couldn’t have shells in his best friend’s birthday baklava, now could he?—he even found himself dancing to the forty-three year old hit.
“You know it doesn't make much sense, there ought to be a law against anyone who takes offense at a day in your celebration!” Thiago chopped the pistachios by hand, careful not to leave anything unchopped or too big. He knew it would be easier to mince the pistachios in the blender, but that would take away some of the wonderful pistachio aromas that, according to Tsimikas’ sleep talking, made baklava what it was.
“'Cause we all know in our minds, that there ought to be a time, that we can set aside, to show just how much we love you!”
“Tio…what are you doing?” From the door, Bajcetic watched as Thiago shook his body to some old jazz song while chopping nuts at six twenty-five in the morning.
Thiago set down the knife and strutted to the door, taking Bajcetic by the hand and spinning him around. “It’s Kosty’s birthday, Stefanito! And I'm sure you would agree, what could fit more perfectly, than to have a world party on the day you came to be?”
“ This is miles better than the usual birthday song,” Bajcetic admitted, shuffling over to the counter. The teenager wasn’t a big fan of waking up early, but when he’d heard the chef’s knife hitting the wooden cutting board he felt that he had to investigate. “What are we making? Can I help?”
“I’m surprising Kostas with authentic Greek baklava. You can help with seasoning the nut mixture,” Thiago offered, pointing to the small jar on the counter marked “ Secret Spice”.
Bajcetic shrugged, shaking the spices into the bowl of chopped nuts. “There had better not be capers in there. Tio Kostas hates capers.”
“Of course not! Baklava is a syrupy sweet pastry, I wouldn’t ruin it with capers.” Thiago pointed to his apron, custom-printed with a picture of him and Tsimikas on it. “Especially for mi guapo.”
“¡Dios mío, ustedes dos, cásense ya!”
*
“What do we sing when we give Tio Kostas his birthday cake?” Bajcetic asked two hours later. The freshly baked, ready baklava stood on the counter, covered with a colorfully patterned dishcloth. “I would sing the birthday song, but honestly it gets on my nerves.”
Thiago shrugged, setting down his hand of cards. He’d long since changed out of his pajamas and apron in exchange for jeans and a casual T-shirt. “Kostas is a music connoisseur. Whatever we pick has to be appropriate for the occasion..”
Bajcetic nearly fell over laughing. “Love is truly blind.”
They played cards for quite a while. Thiago won the first two two rounds without a problem, but then he saw Bajcetic’s disappointed expression that the younger so desperately tried to hide behind his deck of cards. It wasn’t much of a surprise when Bajcetic triumphed in the next round, and Thiago barely managed to hide his smirk.
Just when they thought Tsimikas would never arrive, a loud yawn signaled the Greek Scouser’s presence. He looked like he’d just rolled out of bed, but Thiago grinned broadly upon seeing him anyway.
“Feliz cumpleanos, guapo! How’d you sleep?”
Tsimikas took a deep breath, eyes brightening as all the sleepiness instinctively went away. “Not bad. I smell homemade baklava.”
Thiago and Bajcetic exchanged looks that both said, busted.