Starbucks, Spadina and Richmond

Caucasian male, early 40s, settled deep into an easy chair, legs crossed wide, staking his claim in the early morning rush of bar drinks and lingering line ups.

The Communist's Daughter, Dennis Bock (HarperCollins)

About page 177:

We found room in a railcar loaded with an irreplaceable cargo of government-issue rice, perhaps four hundred bags in all, stacked right to the ceiling. Approximately three hours into our journey, however, in the middle of the night, I was awakened by an all-encompassing silence. We were no longer moving.

He's a young boy, about ten, moving his tray along the rails, considering the desserts. J-ello, red and green, in a glass sundae dish, topped with a hardening dollop of piped whipped cream. Milk chocolate pudding in a glass dish, topped, again, with a hardening dollop of piped whipped cream. A glass bowl of creamy rice pudding with raisins. Something layered and spongy, kind of creamy with a dusting of chocolate slivers. He lifts it and smells. Strong. Alcohol. The clock strikes the hour and he turns to scan the dark wood panel wall. The bird slides in and out, followed by the lederhosen couple chasing each other through the shell, two times. He looks toward the long hall leading to the women's washroom, back to his table and his grandmother's beige purse, tan overcoat. She has trouble swallowing and she's been gone a long time.