From Real Coffee

“This is on my list,” I say. She nods, chewing. Both of our eyes are elsewhere, on the ocean. We are watching the palms sway in the wind. We are watching the waves push across the world’s finest sand. We are watching the boats drift or motor past. In another way, we are remembering rather than seeing.

The list in question, of my favorite restaurants, is slightly absurd. It contains a dozen or so spots that are not primarily famous for their food. They’re often not famous at all. And, while I recommend them, they’re not places I expect others to love the way I do. Each one is a place that matters to me, that happens to serve food. Or coffee. Or alcohol.

Our first visit to Real Coffee was in November two thousand seven, the old location, mid-island behind Station 2. I remember the tables, the photos, the food, and the camaraderie. It was cramped and hot in November, and still great. The current location, with its second floor view of the ocean, has the same great food and friendly staff, the same photos and a super-sized sense of place. It is perfection. Every time I’m there I don’t want to leave. I just want another cup of real coffee and some time with my novel and the view, in alternating measures.

My favorite places are all like this. They’re places I am happy to be. I appreciate their owners, their staff, so much, because they’ve created not just a meal but a place, an environment. Creating something like that takes huge amounts of work. It takes work every day, greeting every customer, maintaining the business, cleaning the restaurant, cooking the food. It takes time chatting with customers, remembering faces, taking care of staff, holding holiday parties, giving sick leave. More than anything, building a great place takes caring.

I guess that’s what all my favorite spots are famous for.