The Sad Café

I have always wanted to have a little restaurant. A tiny, intimate little place, yet vast like the ocean. Somewhere in a side street alley, dimly lit by a lamppost, and the stars. With unmatched tables and chairs and china and candlelight, the kind of place one often yearns for, that only exists in novels and poems, or in other, more romantic times, or perhaps never existed at all. It would not be too smart, not too untidy either, just gracefully old, solid but crumbling. I would paint it in warm primary colours; blues and yellows and greens, and bits of orange and red. It will glow with the illusion of a constantly changing appearance: imagine a mirage in a Zen temple sparsely furnished like a Haiku.

There will be fruit on the tables. Wine in the racks. Tea from China, the finest coffees. The food that you would smell on the small cooker in the open kitchen will make you see faraway visions of places that only the imagination can visit. There will be a warm and restful drink, gently spiced, named Nostalgia, available anytime of the day or night. The juices from the blender will lift the drinker with the surge of a powerful and immense tide. The menu will be rich and simple and aromatic, I shall cook to serve my heart and mood and all of the senses. You could order a dish called Autumn, perhaps a bowl of Winter, or a with light filled salad, named Spring. Chef’s favourite would be Summer - served on a wide plate with greens and plenty of colourful ingredients, lots of sun dried tomatoes and olive oil. The hearty sandwiches will fill the tummy with Melancholy and Delight, depending on the music playing, and of course, the temperament of the patron. On each table there will be an opened bottle of special wine of a timeless vintage, with a bouquet that illuminates the soul and floats the body. The sweets menu can only be ordered by those understanding and accepting the mystery of heartbreak, and the ingredients will always remain secret.

The kitchen and the tables will be joined, and I would be able to talk, or not talk with the patrons, even while doing the dishes. Every book and record that I love will be arranged on the infinite little shelf above the back window. Leonard Cohen’s Greatest Hits for midnight (or breakfast), Joni Mitchell’s Blue, Van Morrison’s Tupelo Honey; I will impregnate the walls with all the music of the world, and it won’t always be wistful and ECM or Windham Hill like. Some funky Salif Keita and Zap Mama will echo every overtone released by the Bach and Beethoven that you might hear on occasion, if you are fortunate enough to drop by at the right moment.

At the Sad Café there will be no charge, you only have to offer a bit of your love to help fill the world outside with some warmth. I probably won’t ever put up a sign, or take out any adverts either. But you won’t miss it if you look with care, it may be marked Innocence, Lost and Found, directions written in pencil on your shirt sleeve. Chances are there won’t be that many patrons, yet sometimes it will be somewhat crowded, often it will be almost dense with solitude or cheer, but this Café will always be full to the brim with the rhythm and rhyme of life.

Towards the end of the night, or even in the cold softness just before the first light of dawn, I would take out my old guitar and quietly pick a song line, before the last client leaves. ‘The Sad Café never closes before the thin boy plays’. The last friend may even stay on the couch in the bay window. And, being a morning person, I would meet the new day with a shot of the delightful house cocktail: great Joy. Its odd mixture of kindness, gratitude and mindfulness offers bracing comfort from the world. Joy would always be served in the finest crystal, and sprinkled with glittering sunlight and moonbeams.

So drop in for breakfast; be it eggs and beans and bottomless coffee, warm freshly baked bread, or an exotic fruit and a cup of the purest water from the clearest fountain or spring. The Sad Café has no clock on the wall; you may stay for the rest of the day too, through the slant of the afternoon and into the night.

Stellenbosch, 20 January 2001 (revised June 2003)