Café Maya, which lay in a rundown plaza on the edge of Cold Spring, New York was an old diner with eight stools, eight tables, and a television set tuned to soccer from Europe. There was a small staff of devoted workers. Apart from the good cheap food, the reason you went there was Louis, the owner. He was irresistibly charming and his place became the place that made eating out a guaranteed pleasure. You brought your own bottle, but the lemonade always had a kick to it. Then it closed, just like that. We heard rumours, and they proved to be right. He opened a large place 5 miles up the road. A road house for commercial travelers, IBM on-their-way-uppers, and sundry dusty housewives and adulterers. We starved, and he made a fortune.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Café Maya
Café Maya, which lay in a rundown plaza on the edge of Cold Spring, New York was an old diner with eight stools, eight tables, and a television set tuned to soccer from Europe. There was a small staff of devoted workers. Apart from the good cheap food, the reason you went there was Louis, the owner. He was irresistibly charming and his place became the place that made eating out a guaranteed pleasure. You brought your own bottle, but the lemonade always had a kick to it. Then it closed, just like that. We heard rumours, and they proved to be right. He opened a large place 5 miles up the road. A road house for commercial travelers, IBM on-their-way-uppers, and sundry dusty housewives and adulterers. We starved, and he made a fortune.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment