"Tungsten & Turmeric," a short story

A routine visit to a Brooklyn cafe during a rainy day takes me through an unexpected encounter with a charming barista who enlightens both my spirit and my taste buds (part one of a series)

Noticings is a 5-part short story collection that captures my practice of embracing those magical moments when everyday encounters transform into something extraordinary. Through these non-fiction tales, I use my writing to cherish those fleeting moments of genuine connection; they're the threads that weave together my understanding of community and belonging.

'Making Coffee, Cap Haitien (1985)' by Philomé Obin

Whenever I fly back home to Brooklyn, I begin charting my escape plan to indulge in my city’s rejuvenation.

Trips from LA were becoming more frequent or dire (my spirit tells me). As soon as I touched down, I looked for third places for reminders that I could always be filled where I needed filling. My heart, long disconnected from the narrow anxiousness LA gave me, was overeager for something exciting to happen to me, even if the stakes were low.

And boy is New York City good for that.

A writer through and through, cafes occupy the top of my list. How can they not? They are built for an active imagination, and it’s a practice of mine to try a new one every week or so to see how we fit. Is it cozy? Charming in decor and architecture? If the lighting is dim, is it romantic? If it’s bright, is it illuminating? Is it the perfect landing space for striking up conversations? How lovely is the barista—

The criteria are long but not impossible. In fact, during my last visit a few months ago, I found one that fit me so well that I returned to it a few times. On this rainy Saturday morning, only 10 hours after landing the night before, I was returning to see if we were still a match.

It's so convenient, this cafe. Right off the 2/5 train stop, a short walk up the block, their doors always open during the warmer months. It has a name so on the nose; you can't confuse it with anything other than a cafe. It sits between a neighborhood hardware store and a pub, with an unassuming awning and the cutest turquoise table set outside.

You walk in, and it's a long, shotgun-style build. An oakwood island table by their windows facing the street. Another island, against the wall by the entrance, for quick reading. And in the back, where I love to sit, a few tables and cozy benches invite you to sit with friends for a chat or work on something; plenty of outlets tell me so.

My favorite spot is against a wall with a large cherry branch decal sprawled across it. I see every person who walks in, hear their orders echo through to the back, and watch the whole place breathe.

In the few instances I came, I built a rhythm: the same two Russian girls manned the cafe, one taking and preparing drink orders and the other cooking the sandwiches, the micro kitchen on display for us to watch. I found my regulars: a turkey sandwich on toasted wheat with the usual fixings and an iced vanilla latte with oat milk.

Regular pop music played over the speakers. People concentrated on their work or had hushed conversations. The sun streamed through the windows, painting everything in familiar strokes. This had become what I considered the usual.

But today was not a day for usuals, though I hadn't thought to expect anything different when I ducked through the rain to get here.

I felt it as soon as I pushed through the door – something was different.

The rain had drawn everyone inside, filling the café with an energy I'd never felt here before. Where sunlight usually poured through the windows, tungsten orbs overhead from lights I never knew were there because they were usually off now caught the gray morning, transforming the space into something more intimate, as if it were holding secrets it would only share on days like this. The yellowish tint made the oak wood island and tables appear more profound and romantic. The usual sharp edges had melted into something warm.

And then, I made my way towards the back to my usual spot, only to stop short – my seat was taken.

I stood there longer than I should have, my laptop bag growing heavy on my shoulder as I looked around, my brain processing just how packed the place was. Rainy days don't keep people home, despite what one might think. I sure don’t know what I was thinking, annoyed that I didn’t consider people would want to leave the house just as I had to enjoy the atmosphere of a great cafe.

I wasn't expecting any of it. Not the crowd, not my claimed space being claimed by someone else…

…and certainly not the person I saw standing behind the register, manning the front.

She was a handsome Black woman with an apron wrapped around her hips.

Her hair was freshly braided in cornrows straight to the back. Her cream skin was deepened by either a beautiful tan or tungsten orbs. She had broad, sturdy shoulders and a soft face behind glasses. She had cute, pouty pink lips. She was maybe an inch or two taller than my 5'5" stature.

She occupied the space as she knew it. As if this cafe was her pride and joy. And it was magnetic. Preparing a green tea and not seeing me just yet, she was not one of the Russian girls I was expecting to make small talk with. She stood out like a welcome disruption to my expectations.

Governed by curiosity, I put my bag down at the nearest available table, walked up to her at the register, and said, "Hi! I have never seen you before."

It's funny when people say New Yorkers are aggressive. This isn't a lie, but it's also not the whole truth. Sometimes, we're just brazen. We say what we're thinking immediately, backed by an emotion that dresses the expression, which can be flirtation, confusion, excitement, or, most notably, aggression.

So when she blinked hard at my response, taken aback by my forwardness, I laughed, remembering who I am: a New Yorker. The laugh softened the moment, giving her permission to bite back.

She smirked, falling in line. "Me? I'm always here. I've never seen you before."

If one is swift, they’d reply to a New Yorker with an invitation to create banter, as she did. I scoffed, impressed by her subtle bite, and leaned in. "To be fair," I began, "I don't live here anymore. But every time I come to visit, it’s usually the two other girls that serve me."

"One's on vacation, the other's out sick." She adjusted her glasses, a small gesture that drew my attention back to those soft features. "I mostly wear my hair in twists, though. Don’t ring a bell?"

She crossed her arms over her chest and posed, getting a smile out of me. I observed her face some more, taking in the way her hair was freshly done; the sheen between the rows said so. She was, indeed, a cute masc darling. That was for sure. "Nope, sorry."

"That’s crazy, I am here every week."

"Since when?"

"Eight months."

"I was here three months ago, twice. Never seen you," I said, playfully interrogating her now. She hung her head, laughing, and the sound of it felt like honey in my chest.

She inched closer, her forearms resting on the counter between us, creating an intimate space in the busy café. "You know what? I believe you. ‘Cuz..." she said, holding out her hand and running a finger over her skin, indicating her Blackness. “You definitely would've been able to remember me if we met before." Her words—part confidence, part shared understanding—made me grin.

Deciding not to hold up the line anymore, though part of me wanted to stay in this moment, I finally decided I should place my order. I needed help deciding since what I wanted to drink was also shaking up my routine: I was taking a break from caffeine for the week due to a new medication and needed a warm, soothing beverage to accompany my writing.

I asked her for her expertise, and she straightened up, excited about the challenge. “Golden milk. You ever have that?” I shook my head. “Turmeric, vanilla, ground ginger, cinnamon, and a dash of black pepper. I like it with oat milk—”

“I love oat,” I affirmed.

“Oh, great. Let’s do that.”

I held my phone out to pay. “That sounds delicious.”

"It’s real good, trust me. You will not miss the coffee," she reassured me as she processed my order. Something in the way she said 'trust me' made me want to do exactly that.

I walked backward, her smile lingering as I turned away, and I could feel her stare following me back to my seat.

Not too far from her station, I casually observed her making the drinks from the orders before mine. She was very precise but had a smooth focus that showed care. I loved the way she ground up the espresso or broke up the matcha to get the clumps out. She wasn't in a rush; she was in a swing. She flowed across her station with finesse, one that told me that maybe she had been here for eight months.

I did my best not to stare too hard, but I was enjoying myself. There’s something sweet about watching someone who knows precisely what they’re doing and takes genuine pleasure doing it. Her hands looked strong, and her lips would purse when she concentrated on getting the drink’s ratios right. Every now and then, she'd catch my eye and flash that smile as if we knew how the day, turning out so differently than I expected, was about to be the best thing that happened to me.

"Warm golden milk?" she eventually called out. I stood up to get my drink, and she stopped me when I reached for my mug.

“Hold on. Try it right here. I wanna know what you think."

At that moment, no one was waiting to take their order, so I did. It was a beautifully made cup—golden, as advertised, dusted with ground ginger and cinnamon on top.

Steam rose between us like another conversation.

I held the edge of the mug to my lips and took a generous sip, aware that she was watching, patient for my reaction. The depth of the taste was penetrating, the warmth spreading through my chest with the mission of lifting it. I couldn't tell if it was the drink or her attention…

...but this shit was good. Bodyful. Savory. Fragrant. It awakened my senses better than coffee could, and I was so pleased with every sip, growing more glad that my series of choices brought me to this beverage.

"Holy shit," was all I had in me to say. She nodded slowly as I sipped some more, satisfaction written across her face.

"Told you. Some people add a shot of espresso, but the combination of spices makes it great just as it is. And perfect for a rainy day—"

"So perfect…" I replied as I took another sip. "Wow."

She chuckled. "Yep."

We grew silent, her staring at me as I stared down at my cup, satisfied. Something about the moment felt complete, a story finding its natural ending. I wanted to say something, anything, just to keep this going. But then, the bell above the door dinged as a small family shuffled in. I took that as my cue. "Thank you for this; it's bringing me a lot of joy."

She smiled sincerely, genuinely happy to have shared something good with me. "No problem. I'm glad you trusted me to bring you that joy."

I relieved her of my attention, walked back to my seat, and pulled my laptop out to begin writing, but I didn't touch the keys for another half hour. Instead, I took everything in and carefully watched her some more.

I might have been crushing a little bit, this felt true. But my curiosity for her and this moment was about the energy of happenstance I desperately needed. It was the magic of Brooklyn that I sought when I came back home. That itch I get, the one that nags me when I’ve done enough hiking, enough farmer’s markets, and house parties with friends in LA, was getting scratched in twenty minutes. It confirms that LA is not where the best of me resides. It doesn’t intrigue me or approach me with warmth and romance, and its challenges don't feel so remarkable. And who I am feels in limbo.

It’s an indication then, when I go looking for myself as if I lost her. I return to the familiar place that still leaves room for so much discovery. I don't have to work so hard to find me; the mirrors are everywhere.

In the corner of my eye, I noticed Masc Darling press over to the shop's tablet and change the song. Until that moment, I hadn't even registered that LL Cool J's "Loungin'" was playing, Total's vocals hovering over her coffee grinding, and the soft conversations happening at the crowded tables. She switched to The Internet's "Go With It," and that's when I noticed the final difference of today’s experience: the music.

In the few instances I came here, I had been used to the soft electronic or Taylor Swift-esque pop music that usually played when the other two girls manned the front. But now, Black ass music laid the foundation for how good everything felt, and it was because of her.

Here she was, scoring the space, each song choice deliberate and knowing. The way she bobbed her head to the bass, its smooth groove matching how she floated between tasks, felt cinematic. That part in the movie where the person you’re eyeing is so in their element that you know a flow state is activated.

It’s incredible how a singular presence can transform the energy of an active room.

Masc Darling was not shy about anything, it felt. She brought something rich to the shop that I’m not sure could be duplicated, deepening my liking for the cafe, even though I had already liked the place. Her charm and how she remade this space felt like it could hold all of us on this beautiful rainy day—our stories, preferences, and ways of being—with a considerate beverage and warm vibe.

I eventually felt inspired enough to open up a story I was working on and began writing, every now and then looking up to observe the new people who had walked in and stayed. I smiled a whole lot, admittedly. The music shifted with the afternoon, now deepening into something jazzy.

As an excuse to talk to her again, I bought a macaroon ("Can I surprise you with a really good one? Crème brûlée. I was skeptical, but this blew my mind," she recommended. And it was, in fact, hella good). I spent a little longer than I wanted to in there because I wasn't ready to leave this version of the café I thought I knew so well. She was very fun. Very attractive.

But after another hour or so of writing and being distracted, I felt antsy. It was time to use the stamina I had built from the interaction's high. I decided to walk, simmering in how good I felt for much longer. I do this when an experience feels too precious to tuck away for later recollection—walking helps it settle into my bones and lets my body remember it as much as my mind. 

By this time, Yazmin Lacey's "From A Lover" was playing, her voice floating sultry and low through the now quiet café. It was the perfect soundtrack for how the day had mellowed into something sweet and contemplative. The rain had finally let up, and most of the crowd had thinned out, leaving behind the peaceful lull that comes after a storm. 

I went to hand her my empty cup, aware that I'd remember this version of my café differently now. "Once again, thanks a lot," I told her, meaning it for all of it – the drink, the music, the way she'd transformed this corner of Brooklyn just by being herself.

"It's my pleasure, for sure. I'm glad you liked everything. Next time, you'll try the birthday cake macaroon. THAT one...? Yo."

I giggled at her enthusiasm. She was already plotting my next experience as if she knew I'd be back, like this rainy day encounter was just the first chapter of something. "Will do," I replied.

I waved and made my exit. Despite stepping into the late, chilly afternoon on Eastern Parkway, my heart was warm—not just from the golden milk or the lingering sweetness of the macaroon but from finding a new kind of light in my old familiar place and a sweetheart who made it so.

Sometimes, coming home means discovering it all over again, through someone else's eyes, through someone else's care.

Love,
Cyn

The art featured in today’s post is by the late, renowned Haitian artist Philomé Obin (b. 1892), whose interpretation of our beloved country marked him a master of the fine artform. Born and raised in the northern Cap-Haïtien, Obin’s pride of his region reigns supreme in his work, rich in color and potent in story.

“The ‘Obin style’ is often described as ‘magical pseudo-realism’. It is characterized by rows of peak-roofed townhouses with protective overhangs, elongated shuttered doors with long iron hooks, and tiny simplified figures in the foreground. Obin saw everything precisely as it was: the mountains behind Cap-Haïtien, the glaring sun in the streets, the coffee-colored Capois elite, the arcades, and the iron balconies. (x)

Generally, people coexist pretty well in Obin’s paintings of Cap-Haïtien. There is little hostility or conflict. Obin is considered one of Haiti’s greatest painters in part because he showed extraordinary range, depicting Haiti’s vibrant and complex history and multilayered spirituality while never losing sight of ordinary moments like this one, when daily life takes center stage. His paintings constitute acts of both documentation and re-creation.” (x)

His eloquent expression brings about a warmth and consideration that illustrates genuine adoration for the subjects he brings to life across his canvas. I love how seen I feel embracing its beauty. The master title is not just earned, but destined.

Thank you for reading, friends!

And if you are new here, thank you for checking out my work. Writing is my life. Who would I be without it? And for every post you enjoy, my purpose is confirmed.

So, once again. Thank you.

If you’d like to read more, here are my most notable pieces:

• An Aesthetic Rapture: Playing with Pigment at the Rose Gallery — Squared away in an artistic compound in Santa Monica, I discovered the journey pigment can travel and a place for art that LA is hiding.

• I Fried Sweet Plantain, and It Reminded Me of Haiti. And That, Yes, I Can Write My Ass Off — Defeated from trying too hard with writing, I made lunch instead. And, as God would have it, the words finally came. (videos included)

• The Beauty of Never Arriving — We treat the journey like something out to get us, all because it’ll be painful. But the journey is not the monster under our beds, the fear is.

And if you’d like to be a paid subscriber, where the proceeds go to me exploring pockets of the art world and expanding my language in the beauty we bypass every day, click here to upgrade. You will NOT regret it.