Panache: Finding a Home at "The Coffee House"

I don’t know exactly what it is about initial visits to coffee houses that turn me into such an apprehensive, stumbling, wreck. As I walk into Panache, I shove my hands into my sundress’ deep cotton pockets, trying to look a little less eager and a bit more nonchalant. I step up to the counter to order, nervously and unnecessarily explaining that I’m not quite sure what I want yet. The clerk—a slim, energetic boy with cropped hair and black studs in his earlobes—humors me and points me in the direction of a small sandwich selection. I opt for a roast beef, veggie, and provolone, and slide the cool glass door to retrieve it and a granny smith apple. I place it on the counter and brazenly order a 20 oz. non-fat iced chai latte (the only order I’ve perfected like a true café connoisseur).

I fumble around in my backpack for my wallet, and look up to see that the clerk had walked to the other end of the counter to ring up my total. No wonder, there is no cash register in front of the spot I’m standing. I smile awkwardly, slide down a few feet, and pay for my items. All the while the clerk is having a playful argument with another employee. He attempts a resolution from me.

“Would you rather have twenty-five thousand dollars or one million dollars?”

“Well that depends on the means of getting the money,” I reply, warming. “No one wants a shitty job, even if it pays well.”

“If you won it from the lottery.”

“Well then, one million dollars.”

“But what would you do with all of it?”

“Invest, put it in savings for future generations,” he gives me a raised eyebrow, “and do a bit of shopping, I suppose.”

“But see, there is no way you could spend it all,” the clerk directs toward his friend. The corner of my mouth turns upward; I take my things and turn to the maze of tables that make up the hub of the coffee house.

I grab a non-descript table against the far wall. As I squeeze haphazardly between chairs, a fairly attractive boy looks up at me from his mountain of notebooks and folders. Another eyes me as he takes a swig from his coffee mug. I blush, but walk a little taller, feeling my self-confidence reaffirmed. I spread my bag and papers across the checkerboard-printed tabletop, place my plate and cup in front of my seat, crack the spine of my composition book, and plop down onto the hard wooden frame of my chair.

Sun beats in through the large storefront window, bouncing off of a huge gilded mirror, and shimmering on the tops of peoples’ heads. I bite timidly into my sandwich and subtly glance around at my fellow coffee-shop goers. For a Wednesday afternoon, there is an excess amount of energy percolating amongst the tables. A chatty girl with bleach blonde bangs is speaking loudly to an older woman who is wearing those thick, I-am-a-big-deal frames that are so popular right now. She speaks with an urgency that falls somewhere between passionately explaining a dilemma to your boss and sharing friendship frustrations with your mother; her white teeth flashing with each new word.

A young man sits at the table next to her—the stereotypical scruffy, college-student type—buried in a book about Islam. He has an expression of studied concentration; he seems to be either very absorbed in his subject or very annoyed with the chatter coming from his right. There is elegance about his coarseness; he prides himself in appearing pained.

One of the aforementioned “fairly attractive college boys” and his friend are seated right across from me, studying some sort of mathematics course that comes complete with huge textbooks and wrinkled brows. The other is now involved in a phone conversation with a significant other but occasionally flicks imaginary specs from his table and smiles at me.

On one of the sofas, which face a large storefront window laden with newspapers, crates, and an old-fashioned bicycle, a cheery couple laughs over a YouTube video. She has tawny skin and raven hair. His complexion is flaxen and light. Their grins are identical. They are young.

I curl my legs under me and sit hunched over my writing. Every few minutes I lean back, sip my chai and take the whole place in. Brick, mortar, and stained-glass stare back at me; the soft blow of the ceiling fans tickles the back of my neck. Bulletin boards boast announcements of indie concerts, anti-war vigils, and secular bible studies; a two-dimensional woman in a turban sips her cup elegantly above me. The lazy, low-fi sounds of strumming guitars bloom in my ears. I bite into my sandwich and start again, the lamp at my table casting my pencil’s shadow across my paper.

Several other customers filter in and out, creating a constant pulse and breathing life into the shop. Three Technicolor hippie girls in flowing skirts chat wildly while waiting in line; the owner of Rialto floats calmly through the crowd in a vintage military-style coat; an androgynous athlete snatches some joe on the go; two hipster girls in cuffed jeans peruse Panache’s array of sodas; a balding man strolls his bald baby around chairs; a woman stops at the condiments bar and flails along with the café’s music.

I sit in my wooden chair at my checkerboard table for a good hour, any insecurity lost in the café’s rhythm. The ebb and flow of customers refuses to cease. Here differences are embraced, being un-normal is the norm. Each new person brings their own spice to the air about the café; each one as colorful as the ingredients in their meals; each one equally important and eccentric, each one embodying the true meaning of Panache. Each person brings only themselves, but eventually, a give-and-take society, an ever-changing concoction, has formed.

When you step into Panache, you bring with you your similarities, your shared interests, and find yourself leaving with new thoughts, new impressions, new identity. Everything has its impact; the soft music, the vibrant artwork, the varied chatter, the fresh-roast aroma wafting above your head. But it’s the people that inspire and create change within you; the news junkies, the scholars, the free spirits, the business people, the chain smokers, the hat wearers, the happy couples dispersed amongst groups and individuals. Not a word needs to be spoken; simply coming in contact with this community leaves you changed, feeling more complete, more enriched than when you entered.

Only oat-speckled crusts and a fleshy white apple core are left on my plate. A glance at the time breaks Panache’s spell. I gather my things and attempt to discretely scan the room for a trashcan. I see one and, blushing, throw out my garbage; silently thanking God I did not have to actually ask where it was located.

In a final fit of bravery, I purchase an Izze Sparkling Blackberry Juice for the road. I step out onto the pavement and the sun hits my back, feeling a fraction warmer than it did at the beginning of my afternoon. My eyes adjust to the light; everything glows brighter. A strange and beautiful September breeze picks up, rippling the waves in my hair and making my dress dance around my knees. For a moment, I struggle with the bottle cap and then, with a delicate hand, I lift the glass lip to my own and swig. The blackberry juice sweetly stings my tongue, and as I lower the bottle, a new-found vitality stirs inside me.

I exit the parking garage, weaving my way through downtown, windows down, hair blowing. At a red light, I carefully select a CD that will embed intrigue into passersby; I try to recreate the indescribable feeling of Panache with warm, sweet-smelling wind and mellow melodies. As the tingle of carbonation lingers on my teeth, I try to keep that feeling of community (of confidence, of creativity, of love!), that is living ephemerally in my heart, afloat.