“It’s not about the ___ [insert object here], it’s about the relationship.”
I have recently found that our Improv professor’s quote stretches its wing to every aspect of my life.
Improv classes, career fairs, or right here in a USC cafe shop.
The official name is Cafe Dulce. But we call it “Dulcé” with a flair of exotic accent on the “E.” To this day, I still have no idea how to pronounce it after hearing three different versions from friends. Its origin is unknown. And I was too lazy to find out so I guessed French only because of the imaginary accent I placed in the end, but someone told me that it could be German as well.
The quote manifested itself last Monday when I embarrassed myself majorly by dropping half of a breakfast avocado sandwich onto the floor while FaceTiming with my faraway father in China.
I fumbled with somewhat a curse word and an apology while frantically scanning for neighbors’ reactions, hoping no one had noticed this little “incident.” My father sounded apologetic in my AirPods, but it’s really not his fault; It was me trying to multi-task, juggling several tasks like a circus clown. As I tried to pick up the sandwich’s dismantled body from the floor, another guest had already dropped a pile of napkins onto my desk.
I didn’t recognize him, but I appreciated his kindness. However, the attempt to locate him the following week failed because I only registered male sex, blue eyes (or is it hazel?), and blonde hair as the search keywords.
The next person was the manager, who almost looked too young and too hip to be in the management position already, walked over and asked me if I was O.K. I apologized again and he took the sandwich’s “body” that I “bandaged” together and walked into the kitchen.
I know him. I’ve actually exchanged emails with him before, asking him to sponsor my club’s fundraiser. In the same way, I know there’s a pair of twins, who both possess lively green emerald eyes, except I was especially familiar with one because she gave me compliments whenever I wanted to feel good. In the same way, I wanted to thank the cute Asian guy who remembered my name but, every time I ended up losing that two words in his eyes.
The manager doesn’t know me, and neither do other hostesses. But that didn’t stop him from asking the kitchen staff to re-make my sandwich and deliver it to me personally.
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Sure, they may recognize my preference — the girl who always asks for a tea latte with zero sugar even if the whole point about tea lattes is their overwhelming sweetness to mediate the bitterness of a student’s life. Or the girl who always sits on the tall chair and occupies way too much space by spilling every piece of study equipment on the table — notebooks, pencil case, a fiction or a non-fiction novel with her computer and iPhone propped up.
But I am an insignificant part of this cafe. Why, or how could they remember me with guests from all over the U.S. (this may be an exaggeration, but there’s a crowd for sure) grab and go?
I am captured in snapshots at the cafe, a montage. Maybe, it’s on a Monday at 8 am, I had leggings and a sports bra on after the F-45 class at the gym, eager to gobble down something that could satiate my empty stomach. Maybe, it’s a Thursday morning before my 10 am Improv class, and I had a cute “New Jeans” style beanie on as my character. Or maybe, it was that one day when a boy approached me (I had a pink Beret and peach sweater on) and started telling me about his work in Artificial Intelligence.
It doesn’t matter that none of them knew me as a snapshot or a girl who has weird preferences for her drink. As I’d like to put it, the beauty of a cafe shop lies in its anonymity.
The seasons, the outfit, the guests, or even the hostess (I refuse to call them waiters. Are friends too much? Are we that close yet? No? Oh, gosh, I am flattered) change. Hell, even I will be graduating this August.
The only constant is the cafe, more specifically, the matcha latte, its style, and the lively music radiating throughout the space. Somehow, it’s just the right amount of crowdedness (my point of view) with its narrow canal linking the register and where you received the order.
There’s another Dulcé in Little Tokyo. I’d never been inside and never will. Even the simple act of going inside seems like a betrayal on my part, although that’s the whole purpose of chain stores. There’s just something different about this one.
Our past, present, and future, people from different walks of life… all converge at this point. At this cafe shop right here.
Perhaps that’s the other reason why I love Cafe Shop — the desire to pass through people’s lives: a pair of religious girls who said “Amen” after exchanging prayers, a networking coffee chat between an alumni and a current student about initiating his start-up, a cute cafe date with two athletes where both parties can exit gracefully in under 20 minutes and still achieve the purpose of figuring out whether they want a second date.
I might not know you. But at some point, we’ve crossed paths sharing the same space, excited by the same dopamine from the drink, and vibing with the same electrifying music.
It’s not about the coffee, it’s about the connection.
Maybe that’s why there’s a long line in front of the store every time, whether it’s sunny, rainy, or just Cali.
