The Gypsy Coffee Place

We are sitting at our friend’s place, ready to go over some ‘business’ plans.  He gets a phone call.  He hangs up and informs us that some more will be joining us in about an hour and a half.  Personally, I don’t want to sit here for this amount of time watching Tonya and him smoke.  I decide to make a suggestion to help pass time, “Well, why don’t we get something to eat while we are waiting?”  Tonya looks up with a bright look on her face, “Are you hungry too?”  Does she really need to ask?

Raul looks at the both of us and says OK, “I know this great coffee place” 

This confuses me a bit, so I have to clarify, “Is this a coffee place, or a coffee place that serves real food?”

“It is a coffee place that serves real food” he says reassuringly.  Raul tells us it is close by, and if we are ready, then he will lead us on our way. “I was just told that Richard Burton used to live here in my building” he says smiling.  As we walk, he tells us about the neighborhood we are in.  “This area is nice.  A few blocks over there” he says, rolling is eyes, “…is the Zona Rosa.  It’s the gay part, and some of it is pretty sketchy.  A few blocks that way and it gets pretty dangerous.  Don’t go over there.”  He laughs as he continues his advice.  “If you walk that way, in about 15 minutes you are in the middle of downtown.  This place is great….I hardly ever use my car, I walk everywhere”

I am thankful it is daylight.  I would hate to accidentally walk down the wrong few blocks and never be able to return to the real world.  Then again, this is Mexico City.  I suppose it can be like that anytime day or night.  As long as hipster guys walk past me with their shoulder bags, I figure that is a good sign you are in a ‘safe’ environment. 

Raul is right.  It is a nice walk to our destination.  As we near our spot, he points “Ok.  This is the place” Standing in front of it is smells of roasted coffee.  I look at the sign over the door and it simply reads ‘cafeteria’.  It is old, and faded, and looks like a great spot.  I liked this place as soon as we step inside.  It is sparse, but neat.  There are loads of old coffee grinders up along the wall.  There are three industrial size bags of pancake mix sitting on the table near the counter.  Counting us, I think the total number of patrons is 5 or 6.

The guy in the corner with the book on the table keeps looking at us after we sit.  It may be because he hears us speaking English, or maybe we are interrupting his reading.  A few times we lock gazes, but no need to puff chests or anything.  He is a nerd with a book, drinking coffee.  I have no idea what Raul is saying, as I keep looking around at the place.  It is so charming in its own harum-scarum, lonely little way.  The old guy by himself drinking coffee tells me that this place is legit.

“I love this place” Raul says with a giant smile on his face.  “It is run by gypsies” The gypsy comment catches both Tonya and I off guard.  She beats me to the punch with the question, “What kind of gypsies?”

“The Spanish kind” Raul says. He then gives us the brief rundown, how the gypsies thrive here between the homos and the thugs.  “This is the only place in the whole of Mexico City that has a gypsy population like this.  It is crazy, for two or three blocks, this is all gypsies.  It is funny, you walk down the street and everywhere you look its gypsies.  They all like to stand out in the street and smoke.  They dress really funny too, so it makes for a great site, seeing all these strange looking people out, just smoking and staring back at you”  This seals the deal for me.  I am fascinated by gypsies, and now knowing I am sitting in a boss gypsy coffee shop surrounded by the only official gypsy enclave in Mexico City, I feel like a real insider.  Yes, this is the area I would definitely like to hang out in.

Looking around, I notice something odd.  I don’t know if it is ‘gypsy’ or just plain Mexican, but the coffee place is open on two sides.  It is a corner spot, so its two sides are wide open.  To one side, directly a few feet from tables along the longest side, a street vendor is set up with her hot plate, cooking up goods for those on the sidewalk.  I think it is amusing, if you don’t like the gypsy joint, take two steps and order form the street lady.  You can eat up what she serves and stare at the people drinking gypsy coffee.  I suppose the gypsies don’t care what this lady does, along as one of their customers doesn’t call out for some street food to be handed through the open doors and windows.  This…is Mexico.

First pieces on the table; Tonya's drink, hot sauce and some rolls

We get our orders in and sit and plot our future.  Raul asks me why I do not drink the ‘waters’ here.  “You know it is not water water, but water made from different fruits” he says.  “I know, I know.  I just don’t like to drink fruit juices with my food” I explain to him.  He smirks, “Why won’t you drink fruit juice with your food?” 

“Because I am not 6 years old anymore” I say.  Raul still cannot understand why I choose not to drink fruity drinks with my meal.  “I suppose I don’t mind orange juice with my breakfast…but that is it” Tonya helps Raul to understand my idiosyncrasies by telling him, “Tim is weird, that is why.”  He laughs in agreement.  Hey, but at least I am not the guy wearing grey ankle socks with boat shoes.

Even the menus look awesome, in their stark simplicity.  I know there is no design team behind this place, just straightforward gypsy logic.  This gypsy has great, refined taste though.

The food shows up and it all looks great.  Tonya has cactus leaves, I am eating ‘molletes’, which is basically a split long roll smeared with beans and topped with cheese then put under a grill to melt the cheese to goo.  Raul has a plate full of brown, with a few dollops of cream.  He’s eating chilaquiles.  They look awesome.  “Those look fantastic dude” I say as he is his taking a bite.  He confirms my observation. “How often you eat here?” I ask.  “Once, maybe twice a week.  Usually on Saturdays and Sundays” Of course, he has had a chance to seriously sample the menu. “It is all good” he confirms.

The entertainment.

While enjoying our food, I hear a voice coming from the direction of the main entrance.  Then I hear some plucking on a guitar.  Before the guy starts singing, it has already got me irritated.  I thought he was tuning his guitar, but if he was, he did not tune one string.  This string made an obvious ‘boinnnng’ sound.  In fact, it was almost as if it belonged in a cartoon, that is how obvious and out of place it was. 

Now, guys walking into any possible place and beginning to sing is nothing new here.  Neither is seeing guys play vintage marimbas in someone’s driveway.  However, in all the places I have been and heard all sorts of serenading, none had ever had a guitar with the one plasticy, boinging string like this guy.  He sings and we talk.  He finishes a song, says thank you, enjoy your meal, then starts up again.  I look to Raul and ask, “Do you hear that, or is it me…” and just as I am asking, he hits the spastic string. “That!  Do you hear how out of tune that is?”  Raul stops and looks to the entrance where the lone mariachi is standing. He looks to me and nods, “Yes.  I hear it”

Halfway through his second song, I have to put my utensils down and turn to face this guy.  Where is the video camera when you need it most?  I pull my trusty digi-cam out and take a few snaps.  I then remember that I can get some video footage, so I switch to video mode, take aim, and let it roll.  I end up getting his closing stanza.  I suppose that will do.  I put my camera away and finish up my yummy molletes.  A few seconds later, I hear a voice repeating itself, “Thank you.  Thank you.  Enjoy your meal.  Have a nice day” The lone singer is walking through the gypsy café, hoping for a few bits of change.  He’s behind me, and I turn to him and smile.  He nods and shows lopsided grin, with one front tooth to the left of his mouth.  This obviously gives him his unique, gravelly edge over the other street serenaders.  As he rounds our table, the nerd in the corner who keeps looking at us hands the guy a coin or two.  As he is even with our table now, Tonya reaches into her purse and hands him a few more coins.  He smiles again, and his worn, leathered hands take the shiny coins, and he does a small bow of gratitude.

He gets back to the entrance and turns one last time to all of us inside.  “Thank you.  Thank you.  Enjoy your meal.  Have a nice day” and with the backlighting of the streaming sun, I see the old guy raise his guitar up like he just played a sold out house in Cleveland.  He is victorious.  He came, he sang and he conquered.  Now he is off to his next gig.

With the entertainment finished, we decide we should move on too.  We have others to meet.  The food was great and I want to be able to visit this place again. 

As we pass Raul’s building, we see his landlord.  We stop and exchange a few kind words.  I ask him, “Did Richard Burton used to live here?”  Raul turns to his landlord with big eyes, ‘Si?’  The landlord smiles, and puts his hand out to quell Raul.  This is a dead giveaway, well, the hand on hand gesture and his frosted highlights. “No, no.  He used to throw big parties in the penthouse upstairs.  All those actors from the 50’s and 60’s.  This was their favorite party place…I mean, for that time, this place was quite fancy” he tells us with a giant smile.  You cannot argue this, a Mexican queen with his frosted highlights, surely knows the true sordid tales of swinging Mexico.