Remember Kroch's and Brentano's? It was the venerable bookstore chain that eventually succumbed to the new breed of bookseller, the Barnes & Noble, the Borders, the bookstore as entertainment venue.
I loved Kroch's and Brentano's. The employees were book smart, and many hours of my life were spent traipsing the linoleum floors, and browsing the utilitarian shelves. I wanted them to succeed, to hang on, to outlast. But, I couldn't get a decaf while I leafed through a book. And, I couldn't sit and leaf through the book. And, I couldn't bring the book to a table. And, well, I wasn't the only one who wanted a table, a chair, and a decaf. Goodbye Kroch's.
These days, I go out a lot to cafes. The kind of place that serves coffees, teas, and pastries, along with a limited menu of light sandwiches or soups or salads. Y'know, a scoop of tuna and a toasted bagel, or a slice of chocolate cake and a café latte. It used to be that you had your coffee or your cookie or your chicken salad, and you left, to continue your day.
Now, the food is peripheral to the entertainment, and your visit can turn into a stay of several hours. One of my favorite cafe spots is off limits three times a week, due to the entertainment, a rotating group of overtly sentimental folk singers, amped up, and played at conversation unfriendly decibels. They wear their hearts (bloody and trod upon by their moms or sisters or teachers) on their sleeves. I tried to stay once, to be open minded, and support local artists. But, my friends and I couldn't talk. Instead, we learned a lot about the singer's anorexia and her cat, Mabel. Or Maybelle. Whatever.
Tonight, I'm enjoying the great weather, outside sipping an iced tea. I remembered to ask for extra lemon, and the cookie I got is satisfying my sweet tooth. Best of all, the neighboring tables are providing tonight's entertainment.
OK, I'll describe the scene, and you guess the event. About 10 guys, all white, in their early 30s. Two have tangled ponytails, and one is wearing shorts that are really faded patterned boxer shorts. They talk excitedly, and share laptops. No, it's not a bunch of Lord of the Rings fans swapping computer-generated artwork depicting scenes form the Shire. They're the Windy City Linux Users Group. A great bunch of guys, I'm sure, but maybe I'm better off moving tables, away from the computer talk. ...
Now, it's quieter, as the knitting club makes small talk and catches up on gossip just next to me. The more interesting talk of a problematic on-again, off-again boyfriend is at the far end of the table, and mostly out of earshot. Instead, I get to hear the more mundane stuff.
It seems one of the women is going through a new training class, where she works at the library, and some exciting opportunities might develop from it. That's nice.
Another is trying out a new broker. She is stressing the importance of this event. Apparently, having a good broker is imperative. I believe the importance of this event is growing as the night wears on, and her consumption of caffeine increases. Her enthusiasm is alarming, and her knitting needles are a blur of activity. I keep her in the corner of my vision, on my guard against needles that might fly out of her hands.
Three of the women are concentrating on their knitting with furrowed brows, and not talking at all. My favorites.
No one is looking for the banjo-playing balladeer, singing about apple trees and ex girlfriends. No need for an open mic, and poetry about the lonely bird in the rainforest. Everyone here has brought their own entertainment instead.
Looking around, there isn't one table, of groups or solos, who are simply eating and talking—like you used to do in restaurants. Several laptops dot the tables, taking advantage of the free wireless. One table is intently playing Scrabble. Very serious over there. Far off, some other group has gotten together to—what? They're either getting ready to participate in a political rally, or they're rehearsing a play. Either way, they're being overly dramatic.
And me? Yes, I know. Just like my longing for the good old days of Kroch's and Brentano's, my bellyaching about restaurants where you just eat are moot, as I sit here, typing away on my wireless keypad. Without it, I'd be, well, just sitting here. I'd eat my cookie and I'd leave.
I miss those old days, but I don't want to go back.
