I took my teeth to their bi-annual early morning cleaning, and walked back up through Chinatown. The day was one of those rare ones in which there were no appointments or pressing work to do, so when I passed Molinari’s I made a detour and landed in Caffe Trieste. It’s not my usual place, but I do admire its musical and poetical story. I ordered a cup of black coffee and sat at the back corner table.
The coffee was hot, so I sat and waited. The sun was coming in the transom-like windows at the top and the center of the room was beaming. Folks were lined up along the windows and the walls, reading newspapers, looking at phones or computers. In the center of the room there was a family, tourist-seeming, and the light was shining on the brown hair of the teenage daughter and son, who both seemed restless and irritated with their parents. The sound of the steamers was going, and the conversation at the coffee counter had a rhythmic rise and fall.