Not many, but almost always the same. Not too many people like to sacrifice some of his minutes of sleep for a coffee with milk from those of true machine bar (whatever they say, no posh coffee can match the creamy lather that a skilled bartender can get similar tome metal) and a freshly baked croissant and cooked on the grill, but those who are faithful to that culture and regular bar that smells of ink, do whatever it takes to greet a dawn whimsical best possible way.
Of the seven tables in the bar, at seven o'clock, only three are occupied and the ancient wooden bar stools lining the sky preimio vying for the peak demand. At this time only is Pierre, the owner of the premises. Aides dragging their feet in the warmth of the sheets at home.
Pierre is a tall, strong man who rarely loses his smile. Although enough has been years in the city, still has a French accent that betrays its origin and baptized his bar with the nickname of "French", so that none of the regulars remember his real name. At sixteen he got his first job as a cook at a merchant seaman. He said that this was the place to really learn to cook, a boat and other eighteen years of experience in a small but charming French restaurant run with his wife, eighteen years locked in a kitchen without a companion pots and rags. That's why now, "the French" do not serve meals, because Pierre is tired of cooking and being alone, missing the warmth found in the waiting room coffee. Nonetheless, still smiling and friendly, his old colleagues have used to being a good listener and conversationalist shy, little by little, is connecting with the many stalwarts who fall in grace in this particular bar, those for that in special coasiones, disappears into the back room and makes delicious and complex dishes at ridiculous prices, monsters proud and talkative to discuss them with their clients or to offer repeat again, without involving any change in the price.
Mondays crew waits for the early gathering arrived there at half past seven. Week after week has been known to all. Angel is the oldest, always ask for coffee with milk and repeat the visit three or four times a day. Galeltita never eat that comes in the cup and, in general, tends to keep a book on top. Rare is the occasion when they do not share a few sentences to question their manhood. Lope is greater than Angel but was second to join the group. Latte or alone, usually only in the morning and a beer at noon. Lope can talk politics and sports and his passion for debate makes him think of those speakers of yesteryear who liked to use the hours in the company's match for his intellect and passion for languages. And then there's Louise and Grace, the ladies of the party, eager heavy smokers and drinkers cut.
not even need to utter a word, a sincere good morning would be enough for Pierre was put to work, but their nature leads them to the greeting and the familiar white lie "four milk" which actually means: a large milk, one small and two cut. While placing, with the ability of a goldsmith, sugar packets to help you identify the different concoctions, Lope view the paper on the bar, away from the attention of other patrons, and a lion of the Serengeti, he catches between their claws. Noe is casual. Pierre weeks ago it hides under the napkin waiting for them to arrive and Lope to enjoy this eccentric hunting morning.
A headline especially caustic remarks unleashed a river of laziness and still dresses the memory of a soft bed to do at home. Cafes, lazy, resting on the table, barely enduring the indignity of being poked by stainless steel spoons. Pierre metaphorical folds its wings, grasping, almost embracing, the tray on his chest and belly, with a sly smile, makes a comment about Grace's hair.
The sudden silence in the bar followed by loud laughter and finally seems to give a huge machine invisible to guide shafts and gears for the new day finally began.
0 comments:
Post a Comment