I’m a
Regular Mister
One of the things I like to do, when
I'm not at work at The American University in Cairo, is frequent a place called
The Green Mill, a cafe-restaurant located in my neighborhood, a suburban district
called Maadi, which is located several miles to the south of the city's loud
and chaotic downtown. Because I spend so
much time at The Green Mill, I have earned the right to be called a
"regular."
The Green Mill doesn't sound Middle
Eastern or Egyptian. Sometimes, though,
when the many nearby mosques start up with the call to prayer and the Muezzins'
voices are bouncing off of everything outside, creating an echo chamber effect,
I'm reminded where I am. I'm situated
once again.
All The Green Mill servers here are
pleasant Egyptian men who ride bicycles to work. I sometimes see them peddling down the
street. To a man, they always sit on
their seats with straight backs, looking very dignified and with their legs
pumping, but slowly. I nod and show them
my smile, and they say, in passing, "Hi, Mister." For some reason, it's always "Hi
Mister" even though they all know my name.
The eatery has a TV mounted high on
one of its walls. Sometimes it's turned
on, sometimes not. Often, at night
especially, when there's a football game on (we Americans would say soccer) the
waiters spend an inordinate amount of time in its vicinity. When there's a score, some of the fellows
celebrate and others turn their backs and walk away in disgust. On such evenings, I always feel a little
guilty asking for a second cappuccino or whatever.
The Green Mill management decided a
while back to put in wireless, so I often bring my computer. I'm always amazed at how I can sit in a cafe
in Cairo, and bring up the Austin-American
Statesmen (I'm from Texas) with just a few clicks.
Because Maadi is a very
international district, people from every nook and cranny of the planet
frequent The Green Mill. I know it's
always risky to make generalizations, but I'll go ahead and take the risk
anyway. When the Egyptians come, they
drink Turkish coffee and smoke cigarettes.
When the Europeans come, they order vegetarian meals and hold their
eating utensils a certain way, fork in one hand and the knife in the
other. When the Americans come, they
order the "Green Mill Burger" and talk loudly, often about very
personal things, things the Europeans (and others) would keep secret. When the Canadians come, they act like
Americans but they are quieter and a touch less confessional. When the Japanese come, they order soup and
lean toward one another and speak in near whispers.
One of the beautiful things about
coming to this little cafe, is that I can learn about the world and its peoples
over a steaming cup of tea or while dipping Arabic bread into a bowl of delicious
foul.
***
Epilogue
I wrote this piece a year or so
ago. I intended to try and publish it
with NPR, one of their “All Things Considered” pieces, but never got around to
it. I might still try to do that.
I discovered it recently when I was
going back through a bunch of old folders that were crammed with unpublished
writings.
It’s a bitter-sweet piece now. That’s because Green Mill closed a few months
ago. Today, when I thought about
publishing this piece on my blog, I walked over to the old place, now in
shambles, and took a couple of photos, which aren’t that impressive. (I guess pics of this sort would tend not to
be.)
I’ve included them here. I took one through the plate glass window,
which turned out to be saddest.
I guess eateries are just like
people—both seem to come and go in our lives.
