gleaming in the light of the old, goosenecked floor lamp I rescued from a garage sale. From the thankful solidity of these objects come others, until I’ve re-created my teahouse sufficiently to let out a breath of relief.
“Can you?” Belle is asking. When I give her a blank look, she repeats impatiently, “Can you understand why anyone would come to this place rather than to our store? They must have about as much taste as a box of instant mashed potatoes.”
I look around to see who these mashed-potato people are. There are quite a few customers in the café, though it’s not as crowded as I’d expected it to be. I’d been afraid that I might run into some of our old regulars, the pained awkwardness that would ensue. But I don’t know any of these folks. Where did they come from? They look ordinary enough, though, as they sip their coffees and munch their muffins while shuffling newspapers. No zombies here as far as I can see, lured in by the machinations of evil beings from another planet.
Suddenly I can understand why these people—and many others like them—might prefer Java to Chai House. Java demands nothing from them except their money. It allows them to remain unknown. No conversation, no contact, nothing to look at or discuss, nothing of themselves exchanged or exhaled. And yet they have community, too, as much of it as they want: the comfortable company of a roomful of nameless, faceless folks just like themselves, happy to be left alone, to gaze into the middle distance, to notice no one. For a moment, I become one with them, feeling my muscles relaxing into the slouch of anonymity.
While we, with our homemade cookies and custom-ordered coffees, our hand-finished furniture and silk puppets, our bulletin board chronicling our customers’ lives—we’ve insisted that the Chai House be noticed. That our customers allow us into their lives just as we’ve invited them into ours. That our shop stay with them even after they leave it. We’ve believed that places shouldn’t become clones of other places. We’ve believed that it’s important for people to have a venue to enjoy intelligent conversation and a well-brewed cup of tea. Have we built our entire business on an illusion? Have we wasted our time in creating a refuge when all people want is a stop-’n’-go?
But I’ll have to deal with these perplexities another time, because here comes our order, carried to our table by the manager herself. This is the first time I’ve seen her up close, and I can’t help staring. She’s gorgeous, from her seal-sleek blond hair to her perfectly manicured nails. As she walks to our table, she looks like a movie star playing the part of a coffee-shop manager. Even her smile is just the right mix of charm and efficiency.
“Ladies,” she says. “Here’s your tea with lemon”—my mother inclines her head—“your espresso”—Belle raises a finger—“and this latte must be for you!” She sets the cup down in front of me and looks at us appraisingly. “Your first time here, right? I can always tell!” She raises her voice. “Zelda, bring over a plate of our complimentary new-customer cookies.” Then she narrows her sapphire-blue eyes at me. “Aren’t you the woman who owns the tea shop across the street? I’ve seen you standing at your window.” The smile appears on her face again, sharp as crystal. “Checking out the competition, huh?”
My face is hot. I look down and pull my cup toward me. But before I can take a sip, my mother puts her hand on my arm.
“Dear,” she says. “I’ve changed my mind. I think I’d rather have coffee today. Would you care terribly if I took yours and gave you my tea?”
I stare at her. My mother isn’t a coffee drinker. She claims it gives her a headache. And she knows I hate lemon in my tea.
“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” the manager says to my mother as she puts a plate of large chocolate-chip cookies that look unpleasantly delicious on our
“Can you?” Belle is asking. When I give her a blank look, she repeats impatiently, “Can you understand why anyone would come to this place rather than to our store? They must have about as much taste as a box of instant mashed potatoes.”
I look around to see who these mashed-potato people are. There are quite a few customers in the café, though it’s not as crowded as I’d expected it to be. I’d been afraid that I might run into some of our old regulars, the pained awkwardness that would ensue. But I don’t know any of these folks. Where did they come from? They look ordinary enough, though, as they sip their coffees and munch their muffins while shuffling newspapers. No zombies here as far as I can see, lured in by the machinations of evil beings from another planet.
Suddenly I can understand why these people—and many others like them—might prefer Java to Chai House. Java demands nothing from them except their money. It allows them to remain unknown. No conversation, no contact, nothing to look at or discuss, nothing of themselves exchanged or exhaled. And yet they have community, too, as much of it as they want: the comfortable company of a roomful of nameless, faceless folks just like themselves, happy to be left alone, to gaze into the middle distance, to notice no one. For a moment, I become one with them, feeling my muscles relaxing into the slouch of anonymity.
While we, with our homemade cookies and custom-ordered coffees, our hand-finished furniture and silk puppets, our bulletin board chronicling our customers’ lives—we’ve insisted that the Chai House be noticed. That our customers allow us into their lives just as we’ve invited them into ours. That our shop stay with them even after they leave it. We’ve believed that places shouldn’t become clones of other places. We’ve believed that it’s important for people to have a venue to enjoy intelligent conversation and a well-brewed cup of tea. Have we built our entire business on an illusion? Have we wasted our time in creating a refuge when all people want is a stop-’n’-go?
But I’ll have to deal with these perplexities another time, because here comes our order, carried to our table by the manager herself. This is the first time I’ve seen her up close, and I can’t help staring. She’s gorgeous, from her seal-sleek blond hair to her perfectly manicured nails. As she walks to our table, she looks like a movie star playing the part of a coffee-shop manager. Even her smile is just the right mix of charm and efficiency.
“Ladies,” she says. “Here’s your tea with lemon”—my mother inclines her head—“your espresso”—Belle raises a finger—“and this latte must be for you!” She sets the cup down in front of me and looks at us appraisingly. “Your first time here, right? I can always tell!” She raises her voice. “Zelda, bring over a plate of our complimentary new-customer cookies.” Then she narrows her sapphire-blue eyes at me. “Aren’t you the woman who owns the tea shop across the street? I’ve seen you standing at your window.” The smile appears on her face again, sharp as crystal. “Checking out the competition, huh?”
My face is hot. I look down and pull my cup toward me. But before I can take a sip, my mother puts her hand on my arm.
“Dear,” she says. “I’ve changed my mind. I think I’d rather have coffee today. Would you care terribly if I took yours and gave you my tea?”
I stare at her. My mother isn’t a coffee drinker. She claims it gives her a headache. And she knows I hate lemon in my tea.
“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” the manager says to my mother as she puts a plate of large chocolate-chip cookies that look unpleasantly delicious on our
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