A simple cup of coffee on an otherwise unremarkable day of the week, every week…
Sundays. God’s day. Some folks go to church or temple to worship on Sundays. I, however, have likely secured a room in hell, utilities and HOA included, for I do not pray or worship on Sundays. I’m a heathen — unabashedly so. I don’t work or sleep in (too much) either. Instead, I start my Sunday mornings with a reluctant jog at the behest of my husband. He likes to spout about all this being healthy crap so we can live long crap. I acquiesce so he will stop spouting and well, because I know deep inside he’s probably right (but don’t tell him that). After I have endured a sweaty, out-of-body experience from painfully propelling my body forward through a man-made trail, I return home and quickly utilize the magic of running water, make up, and a hairbrush to transform myself into something that somewhat resembles a respectable human again. Then, I await for what has become a traditional event every Sunday morning — Sunday coffee with a man who will never break my heart.
At about 15 minutes before the agreed meeting time, my dad nonchalantly arrives at my house with his usual chaperone — my little sister. The weather can be sweltering hot, like it is today with the hot summer sun blazing mercilessly upon us, and surely enough, my dad will be wearing jeans. At least he would not be wearing his trademark grey coat. He looks older than his age of 68. His thin hair is peppered with mostly salt under his white baseball cap, his gait slightly stalled and careful, and his face and neck exhibits so many age spots, it’s as if someone flicked a paintbrush full of burnt umber at his head. The skin at his neck hangs loose and in delicate folds. His hearing is so poor that I often feel winded after a conversation with him from having to force my soft voice to speak loudly. For the longest time, he had refused to obtain a hearing aid and obstinately rationalized a preference to not hear everything around him, including (or particularly) my mom. Today, and every Sunday, she is working. That was how it all started — my sister and I inviting my dad out for coffee on Sundays after he retired to offer him some company and change of atmosphere while my mom worked.
“Hi Daddy,” I cheerfully greet when they reach my front door. He flashes me a quick smile and immediately makes for my orchids inside. I wonder if he heard me. He proceeds to watering and tending to my orchids as my sister and I decide on which café to hit up today. It’s endearing how he tries to keep them alive when deep down, in our hearts, we all know I will be delivering nearly dead orchids to him for emergent resuscitation in about a month. That’s his thing — planting and gardening. And then there’s my thing — um, nearly killing things.
He finishes watering the thirsty orchids, and rather than making conversation, proceeds to plop down on the sofa in front of the TV; the fact that the TV is not on is a moot point. He looks relaxed and comfortably settled.
“Dad, let’s go,” I announce and head towards the door. He hastily rises up as if late for an appointment.
Although a Starbucks resides at nearly every corner promising no desire for a caffeine fix would ever go unmet, we usually settle for a local café establishment. Portland offers such a wealth of local and gourmet coffee shops that it would be almost criminal to choose to sip upon a corporate roaster instead.
Today, we decide to embark upon Nuvrei, a quaint café tucked away in a corner of the ritzy Pearl District. This French-inspired café is touted for their delectable pastries, sandwiches, and especially, macarons. My dad doesn’t care for pastries though. He fears all things sweet — not good for the blood sugar, and salty — not good for the blood pressure,..well, there’s not much he doesn’t fear or worry about come to think of it. I truly believe my dad has borderline diagnosable anxiety disorder.
The sunlit sidewalks of the Pearl District were busy with people happily strolling about, window-shopping, or sipping and dining on some artisan coffee or exquisite, locally-sourced brunch. No one seemed in a rush. Time held no sway here. One has only to inhale the sweet, summer air here to bask in its warm euphoria. I have begun to arrive at the conclusion that only happy folks stroll here on Sunday mornings in the summer. Either that or some unfortunate incident had left a permanent Joker-esque smile etched upon their miserable faces.
Between the chatter and flux of people, we spot the bright pink chairs set in front of Nuvrei. My dad, of course, proceeds to plop down on a Pepto-Bismol chair as soon as we reach the café.
“Dad, would you like anything besides coffee?” I offer. It was a futile question. My dad briskly shakes his head and returns his focus on people-watching. No, of course he doesn’t care to follow my sister and me inside to check out what decadent pastries are laid out in their buttery glory within the display case or peruse through the plethora of espresso offerings on the menu. Just a small, black coffee will suffice. My dad is a simple man, for better or worse.
The rich, heady aromas of earthy coffee grounds and freshly baked breads and the hubbub of chatter from the bustling patrons and whistles of the shiny espresso machine awash us as we make our way inside the busy cafe. My sister and I stand eagerly in line staring in gluttonous awe at the colorful spectra of brioches, croissants, canelles, and macarons laid out in all their spectacular glory. She finally settles upon an almond croissant and chai tea while I justify this morning’s run with a salted caramel macaron, a canelle, and a macchiato — not the froo-froo latte mixed with caramel well-known to Starbucks loyalists mind you, but the authentic shot of espresso kissed with a touch of foam.
A barista rings me up. “Fifteen dollars, please.” I believe I just got robbed, I speculate as I handed her my credit card. Perhaps Starbucks would have been a cheaper option. Oh well, this coffee better be the best damn, delicious coffee that has ever graced my taste buds for that price. And the macaron had best be filled with gold.
Heading back outside, we find my dad exactly how we left him — contently people-watching. After I hand him his coffee, I inquire of him the usual mélange of questions, “How was your week?” “What did you do this week?” “Have you been socializing?” “What do you think of this coffee?” “Can you plant sunflowers in my garden?” I have to ask twice because he didn’t hear me the first time.
He mostly answers in one to two word answers, “Fine,” “Nothing much,” “Yes…um, socialize” (whatever that means),“The coffee’s fine,” “Sure.” Then he returns to people watching as he sips on his black coffee. My sister and I return to our chatter as we enjoy our caffeine- and sugar-filled goodies. I realize as I sipped on my macchiato that I had not been completely robbed after all. This tiny, porcelain mug held an impressively rich and decadent espresso that did not disappoint. And the salted caramel macaron made me realize the sole reason for my existence — to devour this delightful, round thing. If ever I held any questions about what love is, this macaron answered them all in just one delicious bite. Perhaps my time on Sundays would be better spent on repenting for my sin of gluttony.
As if he had not heard my sister and I already immersed in our conversation, my dad suddenly chimes in. “This reminds me of Viet Nam.” He leans back on his chair and takes another sip of his coffee. The late morning sun highlights all the fine wrinkles on his face.
My sister and I quickly exchange a quizzical look. Man, what did they put in my dad’s coffee? Or perhaps sitting under the blinding sun for some time had been doing wonders to his memories…like altering it.
“How so?” I inquire patiently. My dad is a man of few words, so when he has something to say, I listen. And well, I was curious to know how sipping on his artisan coffee at a boutique cafe in the opulent Pearl District conjured up nostalgic images of his small, impoverished village in southern Viet Nam.
He sets his coffee mug down on the table and looks intently at me. Although there is a twinkle in his eyes, he is far away now — back in a time and place that was foreign to me. “We drank coffee every morning,” he smiles. “We sat outside at the neighborhood cafes and sipped on our coffee each day. Vietnamese coffee is very strong coffee, so you know. Not like this American coffee.”
Huh, well that answers my earlier question of “do you like this coffee.”
My dad sips thoughtfully, then smiles at us, “I’m very lucky. Although I have always been poor, I have always been surrounded by people who loved me. I got to sit with my friends or family for sometime in the morning and enjoy coffee. We discussed the day’s events, world events, who just enlisted, who was marrying who, which cousin just got busted for gambling.” The lines on his face scrunch like a sponge as he chuckles in the trance of his nostalgia, “We were poor, but we got to enjoy our coffee in the morning.”
Then just as quickly, he seems to snap out of the trance. And at that moment, I finally understood the parallel he was reaching at now, the gift he was offering. He takes another sip, looks us both in the eyes, and exhales an unhurried, content breath, “And now, I get to sit and enjoy coffee with you girls.”
Sundays. Rain or shine. Whether I am enraptured in bliss and happiness, impassioned with anger or pain, completely nonchalant, or somewhere in between the spectrum of the colors in life, time slows down for a brief morning every week as my sister and I share a serene moment with our dad over a cup of coffee. Unremarkable,…but remarkable.
