Memories of Pangrati

There is a Japanese novel called Before the Coffee Gets Cold which tells the story of a cafe in Tokyo where customers can travel back in time. Most visit wanting to return to their greatest regret of the past—perhaps to act differently, say something else, or just spend one more moment with someone they love.

As the title hints at, there’s a catch. You can only stay in the past until your coffee in the cafe gets cold. You'd better act fast. If you don’t do or say what you plan to quickly, you might miss the moment.

Through the page, I can hear some readers asking, “By traveling back in time, can the customers change their present?” I won’t give you the answer to that; you’ll have to read the novel yourself to find out.

“Scott!” Monica’s voice cuts through the sizzle of the flattop grill I’m standing in front of. She’s leaning into the kitchen, arms crossed, a mix of exhaustion and exasperation on her face. “Table two keeps looking over at you.”

I have tattoos from my fingers to my neckline. I often get stared at like a piece of LA street art.

Without looking up from cooking the hundredth pancake of the morning, I say. “Busy. Bring them a menu. Refill their coffee.” As the restaurant manager, it's okay to tell my wife what to do during work hours.

When she returns, she glares at me. “British accent. Tourists, probably,” she snorts. “They probably think you’re some aspiring artist who has ended up slinging breakfast.”

“British?” I manage a half-smile. “Here for a bit of this and that…” I say in my British accent, admittedly not a very good one.

Monica rolls her eyes. “If you’re about to go on about your time in Europe again, spare me.” She can tell me what not to do at work to make things even. “And stop wiping your nose with the hand that’s cooking our customers' food.”

“I wasn’t—” I start, but she’s already gone, carrying a plate of chorizo frittata like a peace offering to a waiting couple.

I take a sip of the iced coffee I keep strategically placed next to the grill.

Monica doesn't want to hear my story about Europe again, but maybe you do.

In 1995, I opened the first American pizza restaurant in Athens, Greece. Greece, not the state of Georgia, as I often need to explain to people.

The idea of opening a restaurant started while I was doing a homestay with the Kaznatkis family. One night, I was listening to them complain after dinner about the empty restaurant space downstairs. A few ouzos later, I blurted out that I make a fine pizza. Mr Kaznatkis lit up like I’d handed him a winning lottery ticket. Looking back, as a lifetime bureaucrat at the Agriculture Ministry, he was probably hoping to live vicariously through my rash youthful optimism.

Classes ended at NTUA in May and I dropped everything to make my startup business real. Told everyone I ran into about my plan and asked for their advice. A guy in my Greek language class, Paul, from northern England, said he knew someone who might be able to help.

The next week, he walked in with Nicola. She immediately spun around in the middle of the empty restaurant space and took in the high ceiling, dusty windows, and chipped counters that hadn't seen a customer in years, “Blimey, this place is in a right state isn’t it? But look at the bones. I could make it sing.”

I blinked. “A right state?”

She laughed, a laugh so bright and quick her enthusiasm bounced off the walls and made the grime fade into the background. “A gem, love. Needs a scrub, fairy lights, the works. Once we’ve tarted it up, people will queue for your pizza.”

I was already in love with the way she talked, the challenges of the world could be overcome with her charm.

“Tarted?” I asked.

She ignored me and walked over to the far wall, tracing a finger along a crack in the plaster. “We could stick the ovens here, yeah? Keep the front open for tables—make it feel buzzy. I’m going to help you start ordering supplies.”

“Already?” I asked. “You’re wild.”

“Mad brilliant is right,” she corrected. “Now, where’s the broom?”

And just like that, with her strange, wonderful words bouncing off the bare walls, I was in.

I borrowed money from my parents, hired Nicola and got busy opening Long Beach Pizza.

We scrubbed, painted, cooked, and laughed until our sides hurt. Locals came first, then word spread—Greek papers I couldn’t even read showed pictures of my place. Lines stretched out the door. I learned both Greek curse words and British slang daily.

One night she pointed at the garbage cans. “You take out the dustbins, I’ll clean the fryer.”

“Dustbins?”

She rolled her eyes. “Garbage cans, you American.”

“Dustbins!” I parroted, amused. I wanted these conversations forever.

A few weeks after opening, drinking a bottle of wine after close, she proposed I visit her apartment.

Soon, I stopped going back to sleep at the Kaznatkis often; Mr. Kaznatkis just patted my back every time he saw me, grinning like he’d engineered all of my success.

Mondays being off, we’d ferry to islands, lie on beaches, talk about nothing and everything. I raised her salary. We spent like we were invincible.

Then the boom fizzled.

The American tourists wanted gyros and chicken souvlaki.

The Greeks wanted Italian pizza.

The Italians wanted sushi.

No one wanted American pizza in Athens any longer. The cash in the drawer thinned.

Nicola said, gently, “I don’t think you can afford me anymore.”

I froze. “What?”

“That came out wrong,” she laughed, then said softly, “My salary’s killing the bottom line. Hire cheaper.”

I wanted to say I need you. But instead I said, “Makes sense.”

She took a job in a cafe downtown. I worked nights, she worked mornings. I started drinking alone. She started sleeping with other people.

By year’s end, I was late at opening, and missing rent. The threats from Kaznatkis to pay became serious. Over a reluctantly poured ouzo from Mr. Kaznatkis, I admitted defeat, face burning. It’s impossible to make rent.

“Eklise to magazi,” he said, resigned. Close the shop.

I sold everything for peanuts. Vowed never to touch a restaurant again. Flew back to L.A. and moved back in with my parents.

They soon got tired of hearing my stories about Greece. I found other people to talk to about it.

In the LA restaurant, I refill Monica’s iced tea while she groans at me telling her about Greece one more time. “You always want to feel special.”

“I’m not saying that—”

“Look around.” She gestures at the families, the clatter of plates. “Everyone here is special.”

I glance at table two. The woman there has a British accent, Monica said.

Studying her, I see the same tilt to her head, same way she tucks her hair behind her ear. Twenty years later, but she’s unmistakable.

My heart does a hopeful skip.

I walk over, wiping my hands on my apron. “Nicola?”

She looks up. “Do I know you?”

“It’s me. Scott.”

Her expression doesn’t change. “Sorry, love. You must have me confused with someone else.”

I hold her gaze again but the expression of confusion doesn’t change.

I nod and back away. Back to the grill. Back to another pancake. Another sip of iced coffee.

Maybe some things you can’t fix, even if you have all the knowledge and experience in the world.

Maybe the point isn’t changing the past, it’s letting go.