For those writers who know better than to begin drinking before noon, a Java cafe may be the best repair on a beautiful Sunday. Mid-morning is the perfect time to arrive; there is no fight for a table, as the crowds will be on their way after church, and therefore a nice quiet. The waiters, while anticipating the Hell Shift, are for the moment at ease, and thankfully never over attentive, nor hovering. The manager is in his office, wherever, gathering up his strength for the problems that will inevitably arise this afternoon. The smells are warm and inviting, the coffee is excellent, and inspiration clearly on its way...
The trickle begins unobtrusively. I have just written a good chunk, and am well in the flow. I barely notice that a few chairs are being pushed back, and a murmured conference has begun between customers and server. A couple of young women have settled on the picnic table next to mine and begun a furious bitching session about the traumatizing events of a typical Saturday night out, the verdict of which will inevitably be that Men Are Dogs. I almost wish I could tell them that the statement is already a truth universally acknowledged, that the discussion they are about to embark on is an inexhaustible one of old, and suggest that they begin a fresh one about possible business opportunities –or even the psychology of murderers.
A couple of older expatriate males have quietly settled at tables on opposing sides of the court, determined to ignore each other and everyone else, in favour of their newspaper and cigarettes, and usual breakfast fare. A family of four has arrived, and the children flown to the playing pit, from whence their joyous laughter will now be heard. Later, more children will join them, and there is nothing sweeter than the sight of innocent children playing determinedly, in an apparent bid to destroy the clothes they were so firmly ensconced in this morning, for church.
A couple of Mothers with faces radiating relief have managed to ditch their respective families for a short, sweet Me-Time with each other, to discuss... what else? Their families. No doubt somewhere quite at the other side of town, their husbands are separately enjoying the virtuous feeling of having Denied Themselves for the first time in 10 years, and deigned to take their offspring out By Themselves like the Responsible Fathers they know themselves to be. Said offspring are equally ecstatic, since they are being allowed to eat the very things Mother never allows, to put their elbows on the table, talk with their mouths full, and generally behave the way they feel like doing, so long as they aren't making too much noise for Dad, who is alternatively trying to read his paper, and to decide where and with whom he'll catch The Match later, having gratefully disposed of his Brats.
A foursome of animated Indian teens is deciding what table to take, amidst much flirting and chaffing of one another. Practicing at being adults, the girls are alternatively prim and forbidding, then laughing unreservedly with much flicking of the hair. They are beautiful and additionally expertly made-up, and constantly checking that this remains the status quo. The boys are good-looking, confident, unselfconscious and loud, with much puffing of chest, each intent of being the more manly, the funnier one, the outrageous one. They will talk about absolutely nothing, and return home completely satisfied.
A sextet of older, less animated young Indian adults follows. These are properly "established" couples. Their talk will be more serious, the men will be checked when being too loud or obnoxious or unreasonable; the ladies will talk among themselves.
A quintet of solidly built white males stride in with presence and a military bearing. Expert idle sweeps of the court reveal to them that there are no females to pursue here. It is, after all, a Family place. They decide to settle at the counter inside the restaurant with their backs to the world, the better to talk shop, and enjoy a satisfying version of what food they would eat back home.
"Naughty Lucy, NAUGHTY!" An elderly lady barks at a little girl with newly dirtied hands. Lucy, unfazed, impassively proceeds to wipe her hands on her almost immaculate white summer dress.
"LUCY?!!! Look what you've DONE!!!" The elderly lady is apoplectic, and for a moment, the waitress thinks she might witness her first heart-attack, idly wondering what the procedure might be. Grabbing the unmoved child, the elderly lady now marches her towards the ladies so fast, that the girl's bare feet barely grazed the ground.
"Bye Mommy!" She cheerfully waves a dirty hand at her blushing mother, as the rest of the family address dessert. There is an attentive silence, and then a cheeky suggestion rings out.
"No, you can't have chocolate cake AND chocolate ice-cream Tommy, really not. It's too much sugar. Your teeth will fall out!"
Tommy, undaunted by his emphatic mother, immediately puts to her an argument typical of boys his age.
"But Jimmy's parents always let him..."
"We're not Jimmy's parents, Tommy," his mother smartly rejoinders, "we're yours, and clearly we care much more about your teeth that Jimmy's parents do about his."
"I wish you didn't care about my teeth," Tommy grumbles unabated. His mother smiles and pushes a chip into her mouth.
"Now what kind of parents do you think we'd be if we didn't, with your father being a dentist?"
Tommy grimaces fiercely, and pushes himself aggressively forward on the table.
"When I'm a dentist, I shall give all the children in my office chocolates to eat and to go home with."
"You won't have very many clients then, will you?" Tommy's father lazily counters, flipping over a page of his newspaper. That seems to do the trick, and Tommy goes back to his perusal of desserts with temporarily subdued resentment.
A puzzled look is proceeding from the next table, where an African family is enjoying a Sunday lunch out. Mama Kabiru's expression plainly states her puzzlement at the fact that a Grown-Up could be bothered to argue with a Child –and her own at that. A mere glance from her round seemingly composed brown eyes had sufficed, at the beginning of the meal, to make little Kamau begin it with the side of steaming vegetables he definitely had not ordered from himself. Having graduated to partaking his burger (cut in half so as not to Make A Mess In Public) he observes with frank interest the antics of his age-mate at the next table.
I hazard to dream that presently, they will meet, and begin an interesting and lifelong friendship. And perhaps, in a couple of months, Tommy's and Kamau's mothers will have become the mothers relieved to have foisted their offspring on their husbands, to escape for a little Me-Time...
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