An old friend called out of nowhere, insisting that it was imperative for us to grab a cup of coffee and catch up. I had no problem whatsoever with that, given my other alternative of spending a particularly sunny Saturday was rummaging the landlady's dusty storeroom for old novels that I had not read. I had been doing that for the last couple of months, ever since I found out that the storeroom was not locked. Accidentally came across 'Merantau ke Deli', that Soe Hok Gie book, and heaps of old computer magazines. Anyway, after some negotiation, it was agreed that for geographical fairness, we would meet at a cafe somewhere around Sudirman. Now that could pose a bit of a hiccup. I'd never been to cafe before. Not once.
Yes, I suppose it's pretty sad. I had been living in Jakarta for nearly two years and during that period of time I had never set foot into a cafe. Not that I didn't want to. The guys at the office had been mentioning about going to this cafe or that. They even conjured up some sort of verb for it; ngafe, which I deduced to mean 'going to a cafe'. To my mind, it was equal to going to a fancy place where people dress up fashionably and had intelligent conversations, both of which would make me feel helplessly out of place, like the last time another friend asked me to meet him at the lobby of Borobudur hotel, which was just across my office but felt like a world away. I guess I just wasn't up for it. Anyway, I had agreed to this little rendezvous and it was too late to fake terminal illness. There was nothing left to do but act the part and hope nothing disastrous happened.
After a frantic effort to make myself a bit presentable, which I assured you was not easy, and a surprisingly smooth bajaj ride, I arrived somewhere near the vicinity an hour before the designated time. I needed the extra time to do a little reconnaissance survey to give myself a little edge. Now, by then I have come to terms with the fact that I was, and still am, a hillbilly beyond salvation. But I was not particularly keen about everyone finding out. So yeah, I needed the time to find out as much as possible about the procedures of going to a cafe. One fundamental question, for example, is whether you sit down and wait for the waitperson to come to you or order straight from the counter like in the warung at the end of Pejambon street where I usually had dinner. It would be awkward if I missed this important information. I could end up sitting there sweating under my shirt for an hour waiting for the waitperson that never came. Then everybody would know that I had never been there before, or worse, they would find out that I had never been to a cafe. That prospect made me shudder.
It took another half hour before I found the rendezvous point. I couldn't make out much from where I was standing but it seemed like a nice place. I could see the the entrance, which also served as the exit. At least three waitpersons manned the counter and some patrons were doing whatever it was they were doing in there. The procedure was still a bit of a mystery. However, I couldn't get any closer because it would look very suspicious. Then I struck an ingenious plan. It was childishly simple. I would wait for my friend to show up, ambush her near the entrance, and just follow her lead. Simple. It amazed me as to why I did not think of that earlier. However, as fate would have it, no sooner than I congratulated myself for crafting such a magnificent plan, my phone rang. It was her and she's very sorry to inform me that she would be around half an hour late. Something about her hair needing some sort of treatment. She then suggested that I went ahead and wait for her in there. Fuck. So much for my brilliant plan. I couldn't wait under fierce Jakartan sun for that long. Now that seemingly air-conditioned cafe looked very inviting. So I decided to go for it.
This was it. The poor sod from Kebonmanis, Cilacap is going to enter a cafe. By then my stomach was doing a backflip every few seconds and my heart was jumping up and down at quite an alarming rate, but I steeled myself and approached the counter. The waitperson was very nice and she asked me what I would order. Actually, years later I learned that they are called baristas, not waitperson, or coffee-maker. Anyway, I looked up to the menu and realized that I might as well be trying to read Cyrillic in Braille. Aside from the cappuccino and green tea, none of the inscriptions in the menu rang any bell. The numbers was even more frightening. The least expensive item on the menu was the equivalent of three helpings of nasi padang. This excursion was going to cause a significant dent in my already meager budget. But that's another issue. Right now, I was torn between playing it safe and went for cappuccino or being adventurous and blindly went for some other beverages, assuming that's what they were. This was my chance of trying something new because I was in no hurry to go back to this place in the near future. After what seemed to be an eternity, I heard myself croaked the word 'cappuccino'. Damn, I chickened out at the last moment. But then I consoled my self with the thought that this heftily priced cappuccino would surely taste better than the ones in the sachet. Plus, I would probably didn't know how to pronounce the other coffees correctly anyway.
The barista immediately grabbed a weird-looking apparatus, packed it with dark-brownish powder which I suspected to be coffee and strapped it into a nearby weird-looking machine. Then with her other hand she grabbed a large stainless-steel cup and placed it under a small pipe which immediately produced weird sound, like when you blow your straw into a bottle full of liquid. The cup was then shaken in circular motion and banged to the table. She then proceed to pour whatever was into the stainless-steel cup into a waiting smaller ceramic cup and top it with chocolate powder. I was thoroughly amazed by this strange coffeemaking ritual. Then, voila. My first cup of non-sachet, handmade cappuccino. She asked me if I wanted to have any cakes with that but I politely declined. I must keep the damage to my financial health at the minimum.
A while later, I settled down on a chair with the cup of cappuccino sitting prettily on the table in front of me. It looked good. It smelled good. So this was what going to a cafe like. I was tempted by the soft colored sofas at the corner but decided against it. It would be weird to sit there alone. The place was cozy and snug. It was funny because at that precise moment I could have been roasting alive in my own room reading whatever I dug up from the landlady's storeroom and feeling utterly miserable. Yet here I was. In a cool cafe with soft background music. Admittedly I would feel more at home at my own oven-like room, but this was not bad. Not bad at all. I was feeling pleased with myself just to be there. Suddenly a rather embarrassing feeling crept in. I felt the urge of wanting to be seen. You know, like when you're going out with a really gorgeous chick and you wanted to make your friends jealous but they were not around. You wanted them to think, man, that Eko guy is something. I wished the guys at the office would walked right then and there. I know it's pretty sad.
Anyway, there's the coffee in all its glory. It was almost to pretty to drink, but hey, I paid dearly for that. So I took a sip. It was much better than what I had expected. It's far better than my usual dose of Kapal Api. The taste of coffee was so thick you could almost chew it. It was not as sweet as I would have imagined, but I thought that was what a real cappuccino supposed to taste like. Besides, seriously, it's smooth and creamy as hell. It dawned on me that the white liquid on the stainless-steel cup was probably milk. I was right about this being better than the sacheted cappuccino--by several miles. I cursed myself for not bringing a book. A good novel would complete my first cafe experience. Just like in the movies.
Then my friend showed up and walked straight to my table, something which puzzled me. I was under the impression that one should order something from the counter to gain access to this particular establishment. She apologized for her lateness. She had had a creambath, which explained the coconuty smell. Then she walked up to the counter and chatted with the baristas. Apparently they knew each other. She returned with a cup of her own. After one sip, she asked me how I liked my coffee. Trying to sound casual, I told her that it was fine, except that it was a bit too bitter for my liking. "Oh," she said," you can get the sugar from that table over there", nudging to the far corner. Right.
Yes, I suppose it's pretty sad. I had been living in Jakarta for nearly two years and during that period of time I had never set foot into a cafe. Not that I didn't want to. The guys at the office had been mentioning about going to this cafe or that. They even conjured up some sort of verb for it; ngafe, which I deduced to mean 'going to a cafe'. To my mind, it was equal to going to a fancy place where people dress up fashionably and had intelligent conversations, both of which would make me feel helplessly out of place, like the last time another friend asked me to meet him at the lobby of Borobudur hotel, which was just across my office but felt like a world away. I guess I just wasn't up for it. Anyway, I had agreed to this little rendezvous and it was too late to fake terminal illness. There was nothing left to do but act the part and hope nothing disastrous happened.
After a frantic effort to make myself a bit presentable, which I assured you was not easy, and a surprisingly smooth bajaj ride, I arrived somewhere near the vicinity an hour before the designated time. I needed the extra time to do a little reconnaissance survey to give myself a little edge. Now, by then I have come to terms with the fact that I was, and still am, a hillbilly beyond salvation. But I was not particularly keen about everyone finding out. So yeah, I needed the time to find out as much as possible about the procedures of going to a cafe. One fundamental question, for example, is whether you sit down and wait for the waitperson to come to you or order straight from the counter like in the warung at the end of Pejambon street where I usually had dinner. It would be awkward if I missed this important information. I could end up sitting there sweating under my shirt for an hour waiting for the waitperson that never came. Then everybody would know that I had never been there before, or worse, they would find out that I had never been to a cafe. That prospect made me shudder.
It took another half hour before I found the rendezvous point. I couldn't make out much from where I was standing but it seemed like a nice place. I could see the the entrance, which also served as the exit. At least three waitpersons manned the counter and some patrons were doing whatever it was they were doing in there. The procedure was still a bit of a mystery. However, I couldn't get any closer because it would look very suspicious. Then I struck an ingenious plan. It was childishly simple. I would wait for my friend to show up, ambush her near the entrance, and just follow her lead. Simple. It amazed me as to why I did not think of that earlier. However, as fate would have it, no sooner than I congratulated myself for crafting such a magnificent plan, my phone rang. It was her and she's very sorry to inform me that she would be around half an hour late. Something about her hair needing some sort of treatment. She then suggested that I went ahead and wait for her in there. Fuck. So much for my brilliant plan. I couldn't wait under fierce Jakartan sun for that long. Now that seemingly air-conditioned cafe looked very inviting. So I decided to go for it.
This was it. The poor sod from Kebonmanis, Cilacap is going to enter a cafe. By then my stomach was doing a backflip every few seconds and my heart was jumping up and down at quite an alarming rate, but I steeled myself and approached the counter. The waitperson was very nice and she asked me what I would order. Actually, years later I learned that they are called baristas, not waitperson, or coffee-maker. Anyway, I looked up to the menu and realized that I might as well be trying to read Cyrillic in Braille. Aside from the cappuccino and green tea, none of the inscriptions in the menu rang any bell. The numbers was even more frightening. The least expensive item on the menu was the equivalent of three helpings of nasi padang. This excursion was going to cause a significant dent in my already meager budget. But that's another issue. Right now, I was torn between playing it safe and went for cappuccino or being adventurous and blindly went for some other beverages, assuming that's what they were. This was my chance of trying something new because I was in no hurry to go back to this place in the near future. After what seemed to be an eternity, I heard myself croaked the word 'cappuccino'. Damn, I chickened out at the last moment. But then I consoled my self with the thought that this heftily priced cappuccino would surely taste better than the ones in the sachet. Plus, I would probably didn't know how to pronounce the other coffees correctly anyway.
The barista immediately grabbed a weird-looking apparatus, packed it with dark-brownish powder which I suspected to be coffee and strapped it into a nearby weird-looking machine. Then with her other hand she grabbed a large stainless-steel cup and placed it under a small pipe which immediately produced weird sound, like when you blow your straw into a bottle full of liquid. The cup was then shaken in circular motion and banged to the table. She then proceed to pour whatever was into the stainless-steel cup into a waiting smaller ceramic cup and top it with chocolate powder. I was thoroughly amazed by this strange coffeemaking ritual. Then, voila. My first cup of non-sachet, handmade cappuccino. She asked me if I wanted to have any cakes with that but I politely declined. I must keep the damage to my financial health at the minimum.
A while later, I settled down on a chair with the cup of cappuccino sitting prettily on the table in front of me. It looked good. It smelled good. So this was what going to a cafe like. I was tempted by the soft colored sofas at the corner but decided against it. It would be weird to sit there alone. The place was cozy and snug. It was funny because at that precise moment I could have been roasting alive in my own room reading whatever I dug up from the landlady's storeroom and feeling utterly miserable. Yet here I was. In a cool cafe with soft background music. Admittedly I would feel more at home at my own oven-like room, but this was not bad. Not bad at all. I was feeling pleased with myself just to be there. Suddenly a rather embarrassing feeling crept in. I felt the urge of wanting to be seen. You know, like when you're going out with a really gorgeous chick and you wanted to make your friends jealous but they were not around. You wanted them to think, man, that Eko guy is something. I wished the guys at the office would walked right then and there. I know it's pretty sad.
Anyway, there's the coffee in all its glory. It was almost to pretty to drink, but hey, I paid dearly for that. So I took a sip. It was much better than what I had expected. It's far better than my usual dose of Kapal Api. The taste of coffee was so thick you could almost chew it. It was not as sweet as I would have imagined, but I thought that was what a real cappuccino supposed to taste like. Besides, seriously, it's smooth and creamy as hell. It dawned on me that the white liquid on the stainless-steel cup was probably milk. I was right about this being better than the sacheted cappuccino--by several miles. I cursed myself for not bringing a book. A good novel would complete my first cafe experience. Just like in the movies.
Then my friend showed up and walked straight to my table, something which puzzled me. I was under the impression that one should order something from the counter to gain access to this particular establishment. She apologized for her lateness. She had had a creambath, which explained the coconuty smell. Then she walked up to the counter and chatted with the baristas. Apparently they knew each other. She returned with a cup of her own. After one sip, she asked me how I liked my coffee. Trying to sound casual, I told her that it was fine, except that it was a bit too bitter for my liking. "Oh," she said," you can get the sugar from that table over there", nudging to the far corner. Right.
