Today we are allowed to leave class and explore the city on the condition that we write about everything we see and observe. I make my way to this small café I had passed earlier in the week – Salt café. The outside is very neat and modern. The front of the store is dark grey paneling with large windows and a small entrance door. There is a chalk sign with the day’s specials on the sidewalk. As I enter, I notice that it’s quite warm inside the store. There is a gentle bustle and a level, even energy and atmosphere. Everyone seems busy, but no one is moving all that quickly. I’m quickly sat down at a table near the window. That’s a win, I love the window seat. Now I get to look both inside and outside, instead of being limited by the puke-green walls with the weird paintings and varying sized and shaped mirrors.
The waitress arrives at my table with a smile and a menu. She has a sweet Scottish charm about her; she asks me what I want to drink with a thick accent. After some pointing, hand-gestures, and repeating, I’m finally able to order some kind of coffee and milk concoction. I think it’s what I want, but I’m certain what I ordered. I begin to scan the food menu. Eggs. Eggs and meat. Eggs and another meat. Eggs and bread. Another form of eggs. Dozens of sides. There is an almost overwhelming amount of choices. I zone off and stare at the mahogany hardwood floor. It’s stained with a dark stain and has a lot of scratches; however, they’re so clean that they’re almost reflective. I look up, searching for more direction for my appetite, and see a well-lit pastry shelf. They look fresh but I’m not really into desserts, especially not for lunch.
My eyes continue to wander as I scan the small shop. I notice that nothing really matches, but all the furniture and decorations blend together in confused harmony. My table is actually a picnic bench. Next to me is a small table with miss-matched chairs; some have backs, some have cloth seat pads, and some are short stools. On the other side, there is a fully-fixed picnic bench with no moveable bench like mine has.
My coffee arrives and it is exactly what I wanted. It’s a nice flat white coffee with a fancy fern design in the cream. The waitress asks if I need any milk or sugar and then she smiles. But it’s one of those fake smiles where you know she’s not truly happy right now, and she doesn’t actually want to be at work right now. But she’s still trying to get through her day, and is thinking maybe if she smiles hard enough she might actually enjoy being at work. The upward turned corners of her mouth say “I’m delighted to help you” but her sunken, bagged eyes say “I’m so sick of this shit”.
The sugar is in a really cool resalable jar. Now that I’m looking around, there’s one on every table. Each table has its own slightly different jar varying in size and shape. There are also salt and pepper grinders. The pepper grinders are massive and look like the kind you see in an Italian restaurant. The kind that’s trying to seem authentic so they have someone wander around the restaurant with a massive pepper shaker, asking each unsuspecting guest if they are interested in “Ah fresh ah peppér” with a phony Italian accent. Tall and made of a fine wood, these pepper shakers are much grander than the average McCormick spice blend and grinder that we see so commonly in restaurants.
Looking around at the objects grows boring pretty quickly, so I begin to people watch. There’s an odd slew of people at the café. The postman is sitting at the coffee bar. He’s obviously a local so I begin to think that I’ve found a true local hangout, which I think is exciting. Even though I stumbled upon the place by accident, I still can’t help but feel like I’m beginning to belong and fit in to my temporary home. Next to me, there is a tall woman that keeps laughing uncomfortably into her phone. She’s probably talking to her nagging husband, ensuring him that he’s not too overbearing, and that she really does like his meatloaf recipe. We make eye contact for a split second. She has bright green eyes that pop against her strawberry blonde hair and contrast with the gross green walls. Her features are so characteristic that she honestly looks like she has a leprechaun for a father. She continues her awkward conversation with whoever is on the other end for as long as I spent in the café.
An awkward, creepy, and self-centered looking man enters Salt. He has a concerned look on his face with his hands half stuffed into the baggy pockets on his pants that are a few sizes too large. The man goes straight to the till, tripping over the leg of a chair on his way over, cursing to himself under his breath. He has a nervous, disturbing grin on his face and has his pale eyes locked on one of the waitresses. He doesn’t look like he’s hungry or is going to order anything or do anything people normally do in a café, but he starts talking to one the woman behind the counter. I’m going to write this section from what I imagine to be his perspective to be able to dissect his thoughts and actions based on how I watched him interact with the café staff.
—–
“Hello, Mary”, I say as I walk through the narrow entrance of the café.
“Hi, James”, she says, not fully paying attention to me as she finishes up closing a bill with another customer.
I wait patiently, careful not to let anyone else try to help me. It has to be Mary. I hope she’s in a good mood today. Maybe she’ll like my new haircut. Maybe she’ll even say something about it, and then we can get coffee together or something.
She glances in my direction, her dark shirt contrasting against the light green walls. A diamond in the rough. I look back and try to muster up a smile, but end up just flaring more of my gums than my teeth. I have to breathe through my mouth because I’m kind of congested today. I reach into my bag and feel around for the envelope I’m dropping off. She has such a bored look on her face. Say something charming, I think to myself. Say something funny, you dummy. Impress her with your wit.
“My co-workers name is Bill”, I begin saying.
“When he introduces himself, he says ‘I’m Bill. But the good kind of bill, not the kind I drop off!”
I chuckle to myself, unable to contain the combined feeling of joy and nerves. I think I pulled off the joke successfully, punch line and all.
Mary lets air out of her nose a little faster than usual. Was it a polite laugh? Maybe she thought it was funny. She has to think it was funny. It is funny. And I’m funny.
The envelope falls from my hands and hits the wooden floor. Our hands reach for it at the same time, and they even touch for a split second. My heart start to beat faster. This is going really well, I think to myself. She’s interested in me. I smile again.
Her lips tighten and she asks if I need anything else today. I know I should leave. I should go to the next store, to drop off the other bills. But we’ve made such good progress today. I feel so conflicted.
“I need a cup of coffee, please”, I blurt out.
She sighs gently and begins to ring me up on the old, clanking till.
I’m feeling bold today. Way more bold than usual. She seems more interested than usual, too. Everything is lining up perfectly.
“So what are you doing later tonight, Mar?”
I’ve never called her Mar before. Surely she’ll be wooed by my confidence.
“I’m seeing a movie with my boyfriend”, she says, as I begin to spill coffee on my suit.
—–
Back to Addison’s perspective.
My food came out shortly after watching my new friend Bill battle to win a date with Mary (without any luck, poor guy). On my plate are two eggs cooked sunny side up, a few sausages, some toast, and a warm spinach salad with a vinaigrette. The eggs have soft, runny yolks that, when cut, spew yellow lava that flows along the spongy whites. The plump sausages are boiled in an ale or cider, depending on the season, and are finished on a skillet to achieve the desirable browning on the casing. They burst with flavor and have a silky texture, almost turning to liquid in your mouth. The sage, apple, and subtle spices enhance the sausage’s flavor, giving it a fresh taste that is incomparable to anything I’ve ever tasted before. The toast is a hearty artisan loaf, smothered in salted butter and herbs. A spinach salad spills vinaigrette into my pool of yolk and sausage juice, creating a medley of flavor that screams to be sopped up by a piece of bread. It was one of the best breakfasts I’ve ever had, let alone in Edinburgh.
I finish eating a walk to the till to pay for my meal. We talk for a few moments as the card reader takes its merry time figuring out if I have enough funds to pay for breakfast. She asks why I’ve been writing in my journal this entire time. I see this as an opportunity to make myself a lot more interesting. Watch how it’s done, James.
“I’m a food blogger, exploring the local cafes in major European cities”, I lie. “My friends recommended this place, and I’m really happy I checked it out. The food was great.”
The details and made up facts are rolling off my tongue like the R’s of a Spanish soccer announcer. She’s eating up my story more intensely than I are my breakfast. Things are going really well and I’m having a good time talking to her out of my ass. Then she asks a really difficult question to wiggle out from: “So what the name of your blog? I want to read about your travels and the food you’re eating. I’ve always wanted to eat my way through Europe!”
Everything rational and logical tells me to abort. Leave. Pay and leave. Never go back. You dug your hole too deep this time and now you can’t crawl back out.
But I’ve already committed to this façade. I buy some time by talking about how much traction and attention my blog has been getting lately. I stretched my story a little and told her it was so much more than just food, though there were a lot of posts about that. It was also about the many aspects of traveling. I also tell her that I write from the perspective of about 10 different people, all traveling together, enjoying their trip to Europe in different ways. Each has his or her own special style of writing and unique perspective.
I left her with a link to pittinedinburgh.wordpress.com. We exchanged phone numbers and she said if I had any other questions about Salt Café or Edinburgh in general, I should give her a call. As I walk out of the door, I reflect on what just went down. I lied to total stranger. Again. But I wonder if she lied at all. Is the number she gave me legitimate? Does she like coffee as much as I do? Would she get coffee with me at some point?
The door slams behind me. A car honks at a J-walking pedestrian. I’m no longer absorbed in my eggs and toast. I’m no longer chatting up a cute Scottish girl about my successful blog. I’m surfing along a slab of concrete, heading to my next destination, wherever that may be.
Pitt in Edinburgh, a blog 
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