Croissant d'Or (Memoir - a building that's important)

I place my hand on the window of the ancient, peeling, wooden door and push. A brass bell jingles and a whiff of espresso and buttery, sugared pastries greets me as I enter the French Quarter coffeehouse. The left side of the space is filled with a charming array of mismatched tables and chairs, and to the right is a massive oak counter and pastry case, every surface covered with jars of cookies, bags of coffee beans, mixed with fliers for this weekend’s hot concerts. Our friendly barista greets us with a grin, smiling through pierced lips and tongue. My friends and I place our orders and chat over the roar of the espresso machine. Coffees in hand, we make our way to the courtyard out back.

Floor-to-ceiling French doors lead the way outside, and we step into tropical splendor. Ferns hang from balconies, palm trees arch over the tiny tables, and ivy covers the weather-worn brick walls. We choose a table in a corner, near a bubbling fountain, and settle in for some writing and relaxing.

Three other people are in the courtyard, each in their own private silence.

A businessman, on a mid-morning break from the glass walls of his office building, I would guess, sits at the center table. He is tap-tap-tapping furiously on his laptop, ending each burst with a decisive whack on the keyboard. As he does this, he is fiddling with his ear. He looks nervous, and it’s a tic that seems totally out-of-character with his put-together, in-control aura. Part of me wants to ask what’s wrong, but I hear my mother in my head telling me I know better.

The corner table diagonal from us is occupied by a rumpled, academic sort. The cobblestones beneath him are littered with pastry wrappers, crumpled sheets of looseleaf, and dog-eared paperbacks that I recognize from my college lit classes. The telltale white cords extend from his ears, and he occasionally bursts into action, drumming a rhythm on the table. He refills his ceramic mug at least three times, and I have a feeling the caffeine is fueling what will be an all-day study session.

There is a table almost hidden by palm fronds, and this is the resting place for the third person out here. I see a pair of calf-high, black patent Doc Martens at the end of a pair of stretched-out legs. Red-and-black striped tights lead up to a black miniskirt held closed by a few dozen safety pins. A vintage Kinks t-shirt tops off the outfit, and her hair is streaked red and black to match.

I know I’m supposed to be writing, because technically that’s the mission for the morning, but this motley crew is too fun to resist. I lean back in my wrought-iron chair and wonder how an eclectic group like this has come together. We’re not at the Starbucks on the main road. Croissant d’Or is off the beaten path and could easily be mistaken for someone’s house if you don’t know what you’re looking for. It’s the kind of place a person seeks out deliberately, and I love that we’re all strangers sharing the companionable silence.