I’m Not Who You Think I Am
I wasn’t in the mood for coffee when I paid a visit to Fresh & Honest Café. I know what you’re thinking: You, not in the mood for coffee?
I wasn’t in the mood because I’d already downed four coffee drinks that day. There was the travel mug of instant Nescafé before an early appointment. Then there was the cappuccino I ordered with breakfast. Cup #3 was an Indian-style filter coffee savored after a lunch of pooris and potato curry. Four was a Frappuccino-esque concoction procured at Citi Centre.
I was on my way home from Citi Centre when I spotted the Fresh & Honest signs. I figured I’d take a peak. I have a handful of hangouts in Chennai; I’m always on the lookout for more. Give me Western-style coffee and free Wi-Fi, and you’ve got a customer for life. Well, for as long as I’m here, anyway.
The signs pointed me down a dirt road, through a large gate and into an office building. No café in sight.
Perhaps it’s on a different level, I thought. I took the stairs to the second floor and paused before a set of glass doors. Behind the doors: cubicles, conference rooms and no café.
“Here, madam.” The man came up behind me, ushered me through the glass doors and disappeared.
Indian office workers hustled past me. I spotted two white men in business casual entering a meeting. “I’m looking for the café,” I said to the first person I flagged down.
“Next level,” the woman told me.
The man who’d waved me through the doors reappeared just then. She spoke to him in Tamil. I recognized “coffee.” He wobbled his head in understanding and motioned for me to follow him.
The man led me to a rooftop room with walls of braided palm fronds. The decor: quintessential teachers lounge. There were two rectangular conference tables ringed with plastic chairs, a water cooler, a pair of swivel chairs and couches that looked like van seats. There was no one else there.
“What is Fresh and?” I started. The rest of the name escaped me. I was confused and almost certain I shouldn’t have been there.
“Honest,” he replied. “Fresh and honest.”
Then the man disappeared again, and I heard the hiss and gargle of a coffee vending machine.
He brought the coffee in a bone china cup. The matching saucer held a teaspoon and two cubes of sugar.
“What is this place?” I ventured again.
“No place,” he said. “Only coffee.”
“Milk coffee,” he clarified.
Then he disappeared a final time. I sipped my fifth coffee of the day and wondered about Fresh & Honest*. I wondered who they thought I was. I wondered how many times I could pose as this person they thought I was. How many free coffees before they discovered I had no business there? I have friends who pose as guests to use the pools at five-star hotels. No, I concluded, I lack the chutzpah for petty deceptions. I drained the cup and skedaddled.
* Fresh & Honest Café Ltd., I later discovered, is a Chennai-based provider of coffee vending machines. Thanks again, Google.
I wasn’t in the mood because I’d already downed four coffee drinks that day. There was the travel mug of instant Nescafé before an early appointment. Then there was the cappuccino I ordered with breakfast. Cup #3 was an Indian-style filter coffee savored after a lunch of pooris and potato curry. Four was a Frappuccino-esque concoction procured at Citi Centre.
I was on my way home from Citi Centre when I spotted the Fresh & Honest signs. I figured I’d take a peak. I have a handful of hangouts in Chennai; I’m always on the lookout for more. Give me Western-style coffee and free Wi-Fi, and you’ve got a customer for life. Well, for as long as I’m here, anyway.
The signs pointed me down a dirt road, through a large gate and into an office building. No café in sight.
Perhaps it’s on a different level, I thought. I took the stairs to the second floor and paused before a set of glass doors. Behind the doors: cubicles, conference rooms and no café.
“Here, madam.” The man came up behind me, ushered me through the glass doors and disappeared.
Indian office workers hustled past me. I spotted two white men in business casual entering a meeting. “I’m looking for the café,” I said to the first person I flagged down.
“Next level,” the woman told me.
The man who’d waved me through the doors reappeared just then. She spoke to him in Tamil. I recognized “coffee.” He wobbled his head in understanding and motioned for me to follow him.
The man led me to a rooftop room with walls of braided palm fronds. The decor: quintessential teachers lounge. There were two rectangular conference tables ringed with plastic chairs, a water cooler, a pair of swivel chairs and couches that looked like van seats. There was no one else there.
“What is Fresh and?” I started. The rest of the name escaped me. I was confused and almost certain I shouldn’t have been there.
“Honest,” he replied. “Fresh and honest.”
Then the man disappeared again, and I heard the hiss and gargle of a coffee vending machine.
He brought the coffee in a bone china cup. The matching saucer held a teaspoon and two cubes of sugar.
“What is this place?” I ventured again.
“No place,” he said. “Only coffee.”
“Milk coffee,” he clarified.
Then he disappeared a final time. I sipped my fifth coffee of the day and wondered about Fresh & Honest*. I wondered who they thought I was. I wondered how many times I could pose as this person they thought I was. How many free coffees before they discovered I had no business there? I have friends who pose as guests to use the pools at five-star hotels. No, I concluded, I lack the chutzpah for petty deceptions. I drained the cup and skedaddled.
* Fresh & Honest Café Ltd., I later discovered, is a Chennai-based provider of coffee vending machines. Thanks again, Google.
posted by Badass at 1:57 PM
6 Comments:
I’m trying to find a witty and smartass-ish way to comment on this… ‘five coffees in one day’ thing, but imagination fails me at the moment… Anyhow, I just read your last three posts (“there’s more to crossing the street than looking both ways. It’s look right, then left, then right, then left, then right, then run”. Thanks for the life-saving tip, I’ll keep it in mind), and I meant to say that it’s nice to see that you are not counting the minutes until you return to the US (you aren’t, are you?), like some other expats I see, browsing all sorts of India related blogs…
Enjoy your time there
Hi there. Thanks for reading. I'm not counting the minutes, though I
have to admit I've about HAD IT with mosquitos and mold. It's monsoon
season in Chennai, so there's an abundance of both. Bring lots of bug spray on your trip!
Hi Miss Anna...
or should I call you Miss coffee???
Just noticed there was an explosion in a passenger train in India and wanted to make sure you were well. I know it's in New Delhi, but I am a worry wart!
Still wishing that I were anywhere but in my cubicle!
Once I had an editor who wanted me to do a story where I just went into one of those cubicle-farm-type offices, sit down and start working like I was supposed to be there. He wanted to know how many long distance calls and how much free rent I could get before I got caught, to comment on soulessness of the American workplace or something, I guess. I didn't have the guts for office space. But coffee? Hmm.
No violence in my neck of the woods, Helo. Thanks for worrying!
I was thinking how you might be spending Turkey Day!
Just to make sure, I'll eat some extra turkey for you.
Cheers,
H
Post a Comment
<< Home