Mrs. Walley showed me the thin line between genius and madness, or rather that they are the same. She was an elegant living apparition. Everyone gave concerted efforts to win her favor. It was a good day on the planet if she said "hello." Other times, her poison tongue could cut through you. All of this in light of - she knew none of us and we didn't know her. I remember seeing her on casino rooftops, specifically one time: it was raining which happens once a year in Reno She stood with her long dress and crown like hair. She must have been singing. It was one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen.

She sure scarred the hell out of people who didn't realize how frightening they were themselves in their own way.

"May I have some Roman Meal please?"-the Queen of Spain on many occaisions.

So, I'm behind the counter of the Deux one night..say early to mid 90's, jerkin' cappaccinos(wheres the freakin spell check!?) And I look up and catch Mrs. Walleys eyes as well as she catching mine. It was a mutual catch. I'm jerkin' a cap, she's got her hands at the side of her head with her forefingers pointing up and her whole head/fingers bobbing up and down together. We both had that look of; woops, didn't think you'd notice. Of course we both looked away quickly as if it never happened. She later approached me and exclaimed; Sometimes I'm a Buffalo, I just don't look like it.

OK, here's one of many; There was this time, Kris Annette Strange Walley, handed me a note, one her custom napkin jobs, corners torn and all. On it was a question; Was I the motorcyclist involved in a fatal accident she drove upon...explicit details of the time, road, conditions...? I had to ask her if this was a trick question and of course pinched my self. She replyed;" There is resurection you know".

Mrs Walley was cafe diva. Often she was found seated like a trained assassin facing the front door at a two seat table veiled or not, besparkled or not but always imperious and knowing. I was always curious as to what she knew. On several occasions, she told me. She carried her cup and dish gracefully from the counter to the table and sat for awhile... At our first formal encounter, I took the liberty of sitting across from her at her table... probably invading her space. When I asked her the question, however, all indiscretions appeared forgiven. I asked her why the glitter on her face. She gave the most stunningly appropriate reply. She said, "Because these people dont have any energy." We had a charming conversation about the basal metabolic rates of Americans and their absence of "sparkle" for lack of a better word. She smiled several times throughout this conversation and in subsequent ones as well. It wasn't a smile one could count on like the polite inauthenticity predictibly offered by people who participate in the customary. It was a vulnerable smile that I felt was a window into this sensitive aristocrat. She told me as we became acquainted that I should leave America because I would never be appreciated here. That I should move to Mother Russia where people are alive and can understand energy like mine... I was terribly complimented. Sometimes she would follow me out onto the balcony with bright words such as, "See you in Russia". Words spoken with no shortage of joy and sincerity and with a lovely transatlantic accent. And with an elegant flourish of her arm, I was bidden adieu. Sometimes I know she saw me as one of the sheep and other times, she ignored me. Sometimes I could tell her hello and she would acknowledge and other times she avoided my eyes entirely. It didn't matter. We shared a love of coffee shops, the opera and exotic hair arrangements, (she has much better hair than I do) Once she brought me photographs of herself as a young woman. She was gorgeous and she always will be. And I havent been to Russia.... Yet.

as a long-time employee of the deux (by the way, millerick, quit being so goddamn sanctimonious), i experienced much of mrs. walley, though defining the parts as stories would be a stretch. the sum, perhaps, makes a story. she and i got along well. at first, like most women, she detested me. then we became civil towards one another. finally, unlike most women, i was able to reach a point with mrs. walley whereby our congress was not only pleasant, it might have been anticpated with--dare i say, glee. i learned quickly that mrs. walley liked her coffee in espresso cups, liked that it wasn't referred to as "joe," and when receiving change, did not want to be touched. she also didn't appreciate banalities. so, i always had her espresso cup full of coffee ready, i never spoke to her unless spoken to, and when i did speak i elevated my dicition and grammar--eshewing colloquialisms, slang and abnormal inflection. in fact, she appreciated one who was recondite. when possible, i tried to deliver. when it wasn't, i kept my mouth shut. it was this concession on my part, honed by years of service and the influence of david kalmanovitz, that lead to our eventual detante, and then to our friendship. after my daughter maggie was born, mrs. walley, after asking how she was doing, said, "someday, she will become a princess. her father is a prince." might i add, she also pointed out that, in a past life, i was samurai warrior. ah, and one other memory--reid you'll dig this one--mrs. walley showed me the place where reid was conceived--if memory serves me right, it was on the grounds of the university of virginia. and of course, the singing. i will never forget the singing. which fluttered from her lips like bird song. mrs. walley, you are a princess. in all of your past lives, and in this one.

Hi, Reid. Hi, everybody. Reid, your mom and I had a fondness for each other when I worked there in '94. I was baffled but so pleased that she liked me. I still have two of the nicest notes she wrote to me, on napkins. One's in black pen and the other is in her lipstick. I'd be happy to scan them in so they could go up on this site.

Reid, You are likely a bit younger than me so this suggestion comes from a reverence for history,culture and use of language. My understanding is that in the U.S. "Coffee Shops" are remnants of the era before the emergence of the European style 'Coffee House" in America. Coffee shops serve American style breakfasts, hamburgers and pot roast. Coffee houses do not. Coffee Shops follow a model of sameness and cater to the homogeneity of clients. Coffee Houses are unique enclaves of eclectic energy, people, style and food. Coffee Shops serve coffee. Coffee houses are deeply rooted in the mystery of espresso. Please, my good man, do not call the Deux a 'Coffee SHOP' To paraphrase your dear mother "This is NOT a coffee SHOP...it is a Coffee HOUSE" Michael

In 93-ish I went to the Nose with a girl that I was dating at the time. She went down stairs to go to the bathroom and returned with a look of mild astonishment. I asked her what had happened. She explained that she had ran into Mrs. Walley in the bathroom and cordially said, "How are you Mrs. Walley?" Quite directly Mrs. Walley replied "I haven't reached the Palace yet." My friend had no response to that. It leveled me. Good luck to you Mrs. Walley. Your Palace awaits you. Tom Gordon

1990, or thereabouts with a very wide radius. Outside the Deux Gros Nez, around the corner on a autumnal leaf-scattered sidewalk. It had just rained, and Reno was almost majestic. I had left without buying anything, knowing that a coffee-based beverage would have pushed my fervour over a painful edge, yet again. The saving grace of my listlessness: Mrs. Walley. There she was, amoungst the wet leaves. She did not stand there so much as pronounce herself vividly in that spot, an apparition with more spirit than most of the living. Long drab dress, gathered at the bosom. I mean no offense at Reid refering to Mrs. Walley's bosom. Masquerade mask was firmly stretched across her glorious face, so commanding and supple. Her lips were stretched taut, reprimanding. And then those lips parted, and she sang. What she sang about I do not know, and I doubt that my passing black-clad presence stirred her more than a stray breeze would rustle her skirts. But that day, I pretended that Mrs. Walley sang just for me.