When I was a kid, my family would go to a 1950’s-style diner in Grand Rapids called Pal’s. The diner itself was a renovated mobile home set in the far back corner of a grocery store parking lot, where a small kitchen had been constructed onto the back. The dining room was the narrow body of an Airstream with booths on one side and a bar with fat high-top stools on the other. Old-fashioned appliances and funny-shaped cookie jars sat on shelves behind the counter, pictures of famous guests snapped with a Polaroid hung on the walls, and a real jukebox that played everything from Elvis to Ella Fitzgerald sat by the front door. But the thing that made Pal’s so iconic was that everything—from the booth cushions, to the floor tiles, to the neon sign in the window—was colored a bubble-gum pink. 

I remember sipping on a milkshake while my elbows were barely able to reach over the side of the table, knowing that I wanted to work there. I wanted to do it all: greet customers, bring them greasy diner food (the finest cuisine in the eyes of an eight-year-old), serve up coffee and milkshakes, wipe my hands on the apron wrapped around my waist, tie my curly hair up with a bandana… The aesthetic of the small-town, hard-working girl felt like it was my destiny, like I could be in the beginning of some kind of adventure story. 

I could see myself, as if in a movie, wiping the counter as a mysterious stranger walked through the door, taking a seat at the booth in the far corner. It would definitely be dark outside. He would eye me until I went to take his order, and then finally explain to me that there was a war brewing overseas between the wizards and the elves and only we could stop the conflict. Then, after succumbing to fate and reluctantly throwing my apron on the counter, I would begrudgingly help this handsome stranger with his impossible, magical task, facing trials and challenges I never could have imagined, just to return to the diner like Bilbo Baggins returning to Hobbiton. Not a thing would have changed in the pink Airstream, but I would come back a changed woman, telling my tales to the customers and wooing them with my whimsical and fantastical stories. Being a server at a cafe always seemed like the place where I could have the time to drift off and dream in my wild imagination while simultaneously blending an extra-thick chocolate milkshake. And, obviously, waiting for someone to walk in the door and change my life as I know it. 

When I was a kid, I had a vision of a cafe that I would open someday. It was a warm place, a place that looked like autumn but felt like summer. There would be a smoldering fireplace, and the seating would be a variety of comfy armchairs, cozy couches, and mismatched dining chairs around antiquated tables. As you sat there, you’d feel like you were back at home on the farm, sitting around your family’s heirloom dinner table that your grandfather built from the applewood down the lane—and though that isn’t really your life, sitting in my cafe would make you recall those scenes from perhaps a long-lost dream in your imagination; igniting a feeling of belonging in this safe little corner of a chaotic world. 

I would know all the names of my regulars. We’d spend the early mornings yawning and chatting over hot, fresh pastries, and then go late into the night squeezing onto the couches, laughing, telling stories, all while ordering more slices of pie and more pints of beer because we just wouldn’t want to go home. Outside, the parking lot would give up and get dark but we would not go so easily; we would fight our falling sleepiness with all the passion in our hearts, holding out for the stories the night might still have in store, begging the booths to hold us for “just one more.” 

There would be bookshelves lining the walls for people to browse and enjoy. I’d have a small stage in the corner to accommodate play readings, open-mic nights, and jam sessions. I’d have baskets of extra art supplies to help people get inspired, create beauty, and work together. My cafe would be a meeting place for all people; for truth-seekers, artists, and strangers of all kinds to come heal through my healthy, tasty, home-cooked meals. They’d be replenished and rejuvenated to take-on their independently crazy lives that I can’t control, but that I would at least be a small part of, a small help in. 

In the last few years, I’ve served at a restaurant on the Chicago Riverwalk, a New Orleans–themed jazz bar, a Southern Cajun food restaurant, a classic Chicago deep-dish-style pizzeria, a French cafe, and a comedy club. I love the interesting customers I get to meet, the incredible people I get to work with, and all the stories that come out of the simple task of bringing people their food and drinks while communing over the table. 

Today, I don’t own my own cafe. I didn’t go to culinary school, and I don’t bake as much as I did when I was younger. Sometimes, in my crazy life, I remember the dream of my cafe, where the pace of life is defined by the care I have for people, allowing me to march to the beat of my own hospitality. Sometimes I realize that I could still achieve that dream. However, I know that opening my cafe would require me to put down roots, and I don’t feel ready for that just yet—I believe I’ll be a waitress at a few more interesting places before I lay my own table.

Sophia Medawar

Sophia (‘19) double-majored in theatre and religion and insists that her life is a “storybook.” She lives in an apartment above a flower shop in downtown Chicago and has multiple roles working across the arts in comedy, music, theatre, film, and visual art—though her greatest passion is writing. Her work includes stage plays, screenplays, and articles, focusing mostly on cultural trends, comedy, reviews, and religious satire. She loves road trips, visiting her family in Grand Rapids, hunting for the perfect latte, and rescuing plants from the flower shop’s dumpster.