Smoking on Sunday at Tosca
I’d all but lost faith in the world I remember. It’s hard to admit, or speak openly about, but it is easy to complain about. I find that the cynical remarks and lack of interest in things have a lot to do with my faith in the world. I mean, why bother going somewhere if it’s just going to be taco bell, wall-mart and the same old awful people in sweat pants listening to music I don’t like? Leaves a person at home, thinking like this does. Yes it does. And it sets a man on edge without explanation.
After a delicious meal at the House of Nan King, really delicious, we were walking up Columbus Avenue and I thought we’d cross the street and take a peek into Tosca and maybe Adler. These are tiny little cafe bars left over from when I was a kid. Maybe leftover from when my parents were kids. The real thought was to blow it off, and get espressos at Cafe Trieste. Trieste is the cafe where Kerouak wrote in the mornings, Vesuvios is where he got drunk at night. We stood in front of the cafe looking in. Opera was playing. It was beautiful. Then we saw the sign, “Smoking permitted on Sundays. Owner operated.” This may seems silly to you, maybe even disgusting, but the joy which spread over us was contagious.
The coffee was strong and sharp. The cream floated on top, a whipped, cool, sugarless cream. I sat with my cigarette burning, watching the trails of pure white cream dance in the thick coffee. The aria from Madame Butterfly came on the jukebox, Un bel dé vedremo, Maria Calas, perfection. We came to look, just to take a peek, but we stayed for another round, and felt safe, protected, happy on the leather banquettes. The owner (operator) put her feet up, and then came back out of the office to begin a game of solitaire on the expansive bar. The italian woman watched me walk past her, I smiled, and she parted her lips. I wanted to ask her to dance.
Funny how powerful the little things in life can be. Breathtaking how perfectly right they can set things in the flick of a match. Being told yes in a world which says no all the time. All is right in the world, and I know where I’m going to be next sunday.
6 Comments
sounds like an oasis to me, even though i don’t smoke.
next time you’re in San Francisco we’ll have to go there together on a sunday.
i’ll have to make my visit fall on a sunday
Tosca is actually one of my favorite places in all of San Francisco! It is a very old place, formally a speakeasy and has a great jukebox full of opera and swing tunes. I love the large wooden bar, the giant copper cappucino machines, the bar man in a white jacket…it evokes an ideal that I have of 1940s hangouts from the films. I’ll join you there any Sunday!
Allonz y!
I loved Tosca! All that red – it was like being a smoky, coffee-scented womb! I could have sat there all day and all night……..