Twenty Years Ago, I Wrote ...

     This post is not just a selection of journal entries from twenty years ago; more specifically, it is an homage to a little café in Houston called Epicure. I frequented Epicure during my many years living in Houston, always finding it to be, as the Germans say, a most gemütlich retreat with good food and coffee. It's on West Gray in River Oaks, a street that twenty years ago was one of the most charming commercial streets in the city; I believe it's changed a bit since.

     Epicure Café began rather humbly, as a true konditorei run by a certified Konditormeister; now, looking at its website, it seems to have evolved into a full-fledged café. If I ever visit Houston again, Epicure will definitely be on my list of places to go.

 

19 September 1993

     I'm having breakfast before a long day of chorus rehearsals. Epicure serves their coffee with hot milk, as it should be served, and their ham and cheese croissant is very substantial and comes with nice fresh fruit.

     The most beautiful child just came in—can't tell whether it's a boy or girl; I think boy—a Botticelli cherub crowned with copper curls. The parents are foreign, but I don't recognize the accent. She's very striking, strong dark features in a small face. The child is having gelato for breakfast, and his older brother is entertaining him by rolling his red toy convertible across the table. The cherub shrieks with delight, little pink mouth covered with vanilla gelato.

     I do love watching children, especially babies and toddlers.

     Epicure has retained the European way of not issuing bills—when you finish eating, you simply remind them of what you had.

     It's starting to get busy in here. Late-rising single women, older ladies just come from church, middle-aged bespectacled gentlemen reading the paper while their breakfast cools. Above it all, the white ceiling fans whir away, the soft lights casting small rainbows on their blur of blades. Sunday morning, a time of quiet recovery from the bustle of the week and the gaiety of Saturday night.

     The cherub is wandering around on his little unsteady feet, flourishing a menu. Maybe when he grows up he'll be a maître d'.

     And now, off to work and the stark, sterile surroundings of the opera house.

 

1 October 1993

     What a wonderful place this is. In the mid-afternoon, the bookish and artistic come in and read, or in my case write, with a pot of coffee. Just like Europe. A middle-aged couple has come in, obviously friends of the owner, speaking German. I wish I could really understand; I can catch a word here and there but can't put anything together. They always have good music playing; today it's Strauss waltzes. Sunday morning it's usually Mozart. Breakfast with Wolfie. I think I'll make it a custom to come here every Sunday, a mini-retreat of sorts.

 

26 October 1993

     There are two people that are almost always here when I am: a middle-aged woman with carrot-colored hair and matching glasses, and a young man who reminds me of James Stephens in The Paper Chase television series. Like me, they each sit at the same table every time. There's something very comforting about that. It's good to know that other people need these little rituals too. Both of them are writing something, too.

     The Paper Chase guy speaks French and Spanish. The other day, he spoke to the owner in French; now he's speaking to a companion in Spanish.

James Stephens

 

 

31 October 1993

     A quick sweet and a pot of coffee before going to Butterfly second cast piano dress. Saw, at the table behind me, someone writing in a cloth-bound blank book. A fellow journalizer.

     It gets dark so much earlier now. I much prefer it to stay bright as long as possible. This way, the day has such an early death.

     The street lights have just turned on. The sky is an iron gray, a strange transition from the brilliant blue it was an hour ago. West Gray is a fun street—all the buildings have been restored and done in stark white with black trim. Most of the street is lined on both sides with tall palm trees which are lit up at Christmas with tiny white bulbs. The shops are mostly of the "yuppie" type, upscale but not too; and of course there is the inevitable Pier 1 Imports. Two types of bookstores—one chain discount (Crown Books) and one independent (River Oaks Bookstore). Two types of movie theaters—one multi-screen mainstream, and one artsy-fartsy (the latter is still showing Like Water for Chocolate). The restaurants range from Black-Eyed Pea at one end to Café Express at the other, with a moderately priced seafood kitchen and moderately priced southwestern eatery in between. There is a pizza joint, a Chili's, and a grocery store. You can buy futons and antiques, coffee beans (at the wonderful Café Maison) and apple strudel, wilderness equipment and gently worn evening gowns. Or you can do as I do: hole up in Epicure three or four times a week and write in your journal. West Gray is probably my very favorite street in Houston.