A latte taken when you should be somewhere else, when you should be doing something that others consider useful, this is the best kind of latte. It is an illicit latte. When enjoying an illicit latte, Bill can’t help himself – he looks around with curiosity. In this new column, he shares those observations with us – a completely new approach to reviews.
The sound of the City drifts into the Café through the door that often does not close. I sip an excellent latte, and I pick off a bit of the crispy top of the berry muffin and put it into my mouth. The air drifting in has the freshness of a cool summer morning.
Most of us are tapping away on our laptops. A man with a gentle open smile sitting beside me does his writing longhand on clear, clean, lineless, white sheets of paper.
He smiles at me and asks, in an accent I do not know, if he can look at my newspaper, which I had finished before I started to tap away. I smile back, and I notice that he carefully takes The Star and leaves undisturbed the NY Times, making, as considerately as he can, a clear statement.
Another of the regulars arrives to set up his laptop on the other side of the man with the smile. The new man introduces himself to the smile man. They chat for a moment and then both get back to work.
A young man with close-cropped hair and beard sits down nearby and concentrates on a crossword puzzle, while sipping his liquid caffeine by picking up the cup at its sides, making unconsciously a style statement. He then opens his laptop and focuses on its screen.
The smile man has stopped writing again. He walks over to another table to pick up a Globe, politely not appearing to notice the NY Times still sitting alone on my table.
A young couple walk by hand in hand along College smiling the smiles of a couple who are familiar with having sex together but for whom sex is still new enough to bring them alive together. Another couple, this one elderly, walk by, not holding hands, though still contentedly together. They too are smiling in the cool summer morning sun from the east, which reflects off their faces.
The image of the young couple echoes inside me, bringing to consciousness an old memory of walking hand-in-hand on a street with someone I newly loved, with someone I then innocently thought I would spend my life with. There is sadness left with this memory. I know I cannot change what happened. I can only understand it and live now. If I was strong enough, that would be enough. I am not, and I push the memory again below my consciousness to live there until it returns to ask me again for understanding.
Two tall young men in summer shorts, which could not rest lower on their hips and survive, walk in with a confident, relaxed athleticism. Their bodies are only partially in sync, showing them to be friends. They are comfortable with each other, and the second one listens patiently as his friend takes much longer than necessary to place his order, the simple acceptance of a straight man for another.
A slim woman in a white summer hoody strolls in and we share smiles. A young woman covered in a black hijab carrying a wallet in her right hand strides in confidently. I want to smile a welcome, but her clothes suggest that a smile from a man unknown to her would not be appreciated, so I quickly lower my eyes to my hands on the keyboard.
An old man in a coat with a bag, who appears to come from a culture familiar with coffee places, leans in the door. With a tense face, he speaks in a strong accent to no one in particular asking for directions to an address on College St. The young, close-cropped hair man turns towards the old man and answers his question, and the next one, with consideration. The old man relaxes and strikes out again with confidence in the morning sun. The young man returns to his computer not interested in acknowledging my smile of appreciation at his consideration for the old man, not aware that I will always think well of him because of this small act, this small gesture to another human who was born far away in a different time.
There are quiet murmurings that Manic will be changing. The owner has made a comment to one of us, and the others are analysing this comment. Will Manic become one of those memories that are called up by an echo of another newer experience, part of the layers of our life, part present, part past?
At Manic, now, we can sip an excellent latte while putting good baked goods in our mouths as we sit with others who are part of our City. This is a place for a true illicit latte.
***
The latte is excellent. The berry muffins are excellent. The staff is well trained. The music (recently) is low enough not to intrude too much (though a year ago when the music was not under control, I did spend a blurry hour unwillingly listening to very loud female Screamo followed by the knock out punch of Johnny Cash singing old pop favourites out of tune). Manic rates three stars. Anyone should be willing to come here from far away.
Photo Credit: Manic Coffee
