Portugal
It’s purported to be the oldest café in Porto, circa 1899.
The hostess, standing outside in the cool evening air wearing a winter coat, smiles and gently holds out a menu to me.
I take a seat outside on the cobblestones on a narrow sidewalk, so close to the road that couples must squeeze together to get past me.
There’s a speed bump near me that slows down vehicles and decreases the traffic noise, but still, it’s not serene.
A woman across the street struggles to park her car in a tight space, bumps gently into a sign, and then gently into a construction fence.
I see that her scarf is caught in the car door, hanging out like a surrender flag.
The café is packed inside, but the hostess is doing well charming passersby with her shy smile and filling outdoor tables.
I order a burger with cheese, caramelized onions, bacon, and egg, which is something I’ve never had on a burger.
It’s delicious!
My server is an Asian man whose English is spotless.
He speaks Portuguese to the hostess, Spanish to the couple at the table in front of me, and yet another language to one of the staff.
Alas, when the couple behind me struggle in English and finally ask him if he speaks French, he apologizes, no, he doesn’t unfortunately, speak French.
A strange man with a white beard, draped in a multi-coloured blanket, approaches me along the sidewalk.
He stops suddenly beside me, but doesn’t look at me, instead just staring down the street.
I study him, wondering if he is homeless, if he will ask me for food or money.
But he doesn’t.
I see that the hostess is also watching him carefully.
Finally, he pulls the blanket higher onto his shoulders and walks to the restaurant across the street, repeating the same strange behaviour with another restaurant guest.
Meanwhile, the beautiful sound of Norah Jones drifts out from the café.
