Over Coffee

I glance up from my coffee at the guy sitting next to the window. He is bald (the shaved kind), dressed all in black, with round black goggles hanging from a strap around his neck. The comic book villain look is in this year.
I’m at the Cafe Rose Nicaud on Frenchman Street in New Orleans, it’s Sunday afternoon, my last day in town and I can’t help but look at the place and think what a great pizzeria it would make...ovens over there, a big top over there, do it right, as fresh and as local as can be, do it the old way. This is the perfect building, beautiful windows and doors, high ceilings, a great neighborhood. Unfortunately, the view through the antique windows and doors is of one of the ugliest modern buildings I’ve ever seen. Always somethin’. Then I wonder if I’ll still have it in me in seven years, or ten, will I still want to work this hard? As long as I still smile while cooking, still care about the food, then the answer is yes, I will.
An old man enters, gets something to eat and sits nearby. He’s wearing a brass button and gold braid bedecked drum major’s coat and a battered black top hat, his hair and beard are long and white, his eyes are bright blue. He chews his food slowly his head rocking back and forth as he scans the paper and he smells of bar soap.