He was likely in his late 50s or early 60s, but at that early point in my life my age-gauge wasn't always accurate for anyone more than 45 was old. He was stocky and fit, silver hair radiated against the tan I suspected was from his Spanish heritage. He hired a private snowboard instructor and spent a fair amount of time honing his skills. Whenever he entered Bobby's, the staff lit up, as he was kind and extremely generous with his tips.
"What are your dreams for the future," he asked me one afternoon as I set his lunch in front of him. "What would you like to do?"
I told him the truth. I wanted to build an orphanage.
"Where will you get the money to build it?," he asked.
I had no business plan. No savings, no inheritance, no sponsor. Still, he spoke to me about the importance of following one's dreams.
Another time, we spoke of the hardships my parents faced in wartime Germany and the importance of the family bond. When he was finished his lunch and was ready to shred the slopes again, he winked and said, "Santa doesn't only come at Christmastime."
I didn't see him again for quite awhile, at least a few weeks, until one day near the end of the season. He walked in the front door and made eye contact with me. When I made my way through the throngs of thirsty skiers, he took my hand and pressed a roll of paper into it.
"Put that somewhere safe and don't tell anyone," he whispered. Then he walked back out the door.
When I had the chance to get to the bathroom, I saw that he'd given me $2,500 in German marks.
Making sure no kitchen staff overheard, I called my mother at work.
"One of my customers just gave me $2,500 in Deutschmark." I said.
"Who?," she asked.
"I told you about him before," I said. "The one who always asks me what I want to do with my life."
"You can't accept it." She said. "Put it somewhere safe for now. When he comes in again, give it back."
Towards the end of my shift that day, he returned. I went over to where he stood. I had the money in my apron and was fully prepared to give it back to him. But when I opened my hand to give the roll of money back, he pressed another roll of bills into it. I could barely contain the money in my hand.
"This is the same amount as I gave you this morning," he said. "It is my wish that you visit your relatives in Germany."
I was speechless.
"But you need to take your mother," he continued. "That's why I doubled the money." When I didn't respond, he continued. "Family is the most important thing in our lives," he said. "I've told you that before."
Travelling to Germany wasn't part of my immediate plan; I had student loans, rent to pay.
"Do what you want with the money," he continued.
"Buy clothes, whatever, but it is my wish that you and your mother visit her home country."
I'd only been to Germany once as a child and barely knew the few relatives we had there.
"I will be at the Dusseldorf Hilton these days," he wrote a few dates on a napkin - they were only a week away.
"Ask for me at the Hilton and I'll have my driver tour you around," he said. "But remember, it's completely up to you what you do with the money."
It didn't occur to me to ask for his surname or a contact number. (Again, I attribute that oversight to the folly of youth.) I assumed that he must, at the very least, have been the owner of that hotel, if not some kind of politician or city official.
If I was going to accept the generosity of this stranger, I would make sure I at least did as he wished with it. My mother and I bought tickets to Germany via Amsterdam, and booked a room at the Dusseldorf Hilton. We arrived in Dusseldorf unscathed and on-schedule in a VW Rabbit I'd rented at the airport. While I checked in at the front desk I informed the clerk that I was a guest of Frankie's (or Freddie's).
"What is your party's surname?" The clerk asked in German.
I repeated his first name.
"How do you expect me to find a guest with only a first name?," the clerk repeated, obviously annoyed by my naivete.
I had no answer. No clues. No idea.
I sat in that lobby for the whole day, and the next, hoping he'd walk in.
When we realized he wasn't going to make an appearance, we left Dusseldorf and drove to Hanover, where my grandmother lived alone. She was overjoyed to see us - her daughter who had immigrated to Canada as a teenager and her only granddaughter whom she hadn't seen in more than a decade.
That evening, my mother, my Oma and I ate a delicious cheesecake for dessert. It wasn't homemade, I'd seen the box it came in, but the fact that I was in the midst of three generations of my family's women made me realize how truly blessed I was to savour this moment. And it had been made possible through the generosity of a stranger.
I kept every receipt from that trip safely in an envelope; wanted to prove that I had fulfilled his wish. It was easy enough for him to find me, he knew my full name and where I worked.
My Oma passed away shortly after that visit with her. It was the last time my mother and I saw her alive. Now here I am, two decades later, still wanting to thank him for that precious moment in the kitchen - one of my most treasured memories.
