What a faux pas!

I walked into my favorite cafe, Cafe Regular, on 11th Street between Fifth and Fourth Avenues, holding a half-full light iced coffee in a clear take-out cup with a straw. I sat down at my usual seat against the wall, planning to buy something,

"Did you get that at the new Dunkin Donuts?" the friendly barista asked pointing at my iced coffee.

"You mean that new one on Fifth Avenue near Ninth Street," I said stating the obvious.

"Yeah," he said accusingly.

"No, no. I would never go in there. Never," I said with a touch of guilt. I wondered if Regular’s business was suffering due to the bright pink incursion of Dunkin Donuts and Baskin Robbins. I  studied the antique pastry case which displays delicious treats from Marquet Bakery in Cobble Hill.  "I’ll have a slice of the coffee cake, please."

The Regular is the antithesis of a Dunkin Donuts. A tiny, tiny place, it looks exactly like a French cafe: an antique bar with stools, an old mirror with the menu painted on, newspaper racks filled with the London Times. It has a gently faded ambiance; the kind of place where a surrealist poet might spend the day.

I felt compelled to explain the derivation of my iced coffee: "I’ve had this iced coffee for a very, very long time." Making it sound like an ancient relic, I tried to convey that I didn’t mean to insult him by bringing it in.   "I bought it almost an hour ago. At the Mojo."

My words hung in the air while I deliberately unwrapped the coffee cake and began eating it with obvious pleasure making a point of NOT sipping my Mojo iced coffee. After a few minutes, the barista, a high school senior who runs the place with quiet aplomb, went back to his business behind the counter.

I read quietly until it was time to go. I always go in before my therapy appointment; it’s my routine and I feel quite comfortable there. Usually.

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