Cacophonous Cafe
Sometimes, when things take a turn toward the dark in my life and I find myself thinking, “Maybe it would be a good idea to open a cafe,” I like to imagine what it would and will be like.
In my cafe, which, for the purpose of this thought exercise, is named The Cacophonous Cafe1, things would run a little differently than what most have come to think of around the “cafe experience” if there is such a thing.
In my cafe, when you step up to the counter, you set a small disc on one of two areas marked out with tape. The area on the left is named Intelligence. The area on the right is named Intuitive. You place the disc on the left or the right depending on what you’re up for that day. Counter Intelligence means you are smart enough to pick your own drink. Counter Intuitive means you are open to having your drink picked for you (leaving room open for allergies or avoidances).
In my cafe, at least once a week, when it’s very busy, I will stand on the counter and yell as loud as I can, “SHUT UP,” then read a poem once everyone is quiet. And someday, I hope someone comes up to me and asks for the honor to yell SHUT UP at the crowd to share a poem they want read aloud to a group of strangers—a group less estranged after a shared, ridiculous, necessary experience.
In my cafe, we would sell actual French Roast Coffee. Roasters in Portland seem afraid to do more than pass hot breath over a bean. Of course, we would sell other roasts as well, but I need actually French beans to remake my blend of 33% Java, 33% Ethiopian, and 34% French-roasted Guatemalan. I don’t recall the varietals, it was 34 years ago.
In my cafe, I would serve my signature drinks. The Lollygagger. The Hot and Cold. The Mocha. Perhaps the third one doesn’t seem like it would be a signature drink, but when people stop you in the parking lot when you are trying to go home from work, then plead with you to go back inside and make their mocha because, and here I actually quote, “No one else makes it as good as you.”
In my cafe, you can stay as long as you like as long as you follow two rules. One: You cannot hog a 4-topper—you need to keep the space you take up to a minimum. Two: If it’s busy, you can’t keep a 2-topper to yourself. We make room for you, you make room for others.
In my cafe, I would steal pay homage to some of the good ideas of cafes I’ve worked at in the past. Oh, your drink was wrong? We’ll remake it and also here’s a free drink card—no questions asked. Oh, you want more coffee? Free refills of regular coffee—all day long. Pre-paid paper punchcards—because paper is more satisfying. Pay-it-forward Punchcards—because if you can afford 6 lattes a week, you can afford seven. Staff that isn’t dismissive of the customer—looking at you, most Portland cafes.2
In my cafe, I would pay over minimum wage and ask the staff once or twice a year if they would like to unionize and how I can help (if that’s what they want). I’d do this because a healthy cafe has staff that stay. I want your kids to have their first hot chocolate and later their first espresso made by the same person. Okay, maybe no one should work at the same cafe for that long. So I’ll mean that only metaphorically.
In my cafe, everyone is welcome as long as they are respectful. And that isn’t code. If anything, it’s code for “don’t be a dick.” The staff has full authority to not take shit from anyone. Hospitality, like many other things, is a two-way street.
In my cafe, I would sit sometimes and marvel at what a weird thing a cafe is. How, regardless of what is being served, such a space can be used to engender connection as much as it can engender introspection. How a cafe can rally groups to a cause and fuel revolution as much as it can sustain the revolution of breaking the cycle of stuckness you feel in your life—and actually finishing that novel.
In my cafe, there is serenity in the cacophony for everyone willing to walk through the door.
1 My first cafe was one I ran in high school with my friend. We stocked items bought directly from Costco, barely marked up, and made espresso drinks with a home machine not at all designed to keep up with the demands made on it by sleep-deprived teenagers. We called it The Cacophonous Cafe.
2 Most, but not all. But particularly irksome has remained Woodlawn Coffee and Pastry. I went in a few times when we move to the area. Terrible service. I’d go back one in a while over the following years and, every time, terrible service—unless you know the person behind the counter! Classic.
