Sangha Cafe
A Bed and Breakfast

"You will notice, as you flit through these reminiscences of mine, that from time to time the scene of action is laid in and around the city of New York; and it is just possible that this many occasion the puzzled look and the start surprise. 'What,' it is possible that you ask yourselves, 'is Bertram doing so far from his beloved native land.' – PG Wodehouse, from "The Artistic Career of Corky"





Much preparation still had to be done. A morning may begin slow like this, with a long look to the river to see if portions had frozen over or if it was still open at the mouth, and whether the ducks were flopping up against the sides of the crusted ice, perhaps a good fifteen minutes sitting to get rid of the electricity in the mind of worries and plans and all the little things that could, of course, go wrong; by the end of these two stages, enhanced by just enough coffee to keep him bright but not ecstatic, it now time to get ready for the daily kitchen and go through the reservation list and begin to match the menu to the wishes of the visitors. The Sangha Cafe was still in its prototype stage, there was really little doubt about that, although there had been many small successes, and so he gave himself the luxury of creating virtually every stage of the preparation as he went along, no real rules, just an inherent conscientiousness for what was to come; in how many places had he been in his lifetime in which the so called 'service' was either overbearing or negligent; the falsity of overwrought service would be one of the very quickest ways to ensure that he would never return to your diligent property; and yet, even recently, he had also been restaurants in which he might very well be completely forgotten at a table in the back corner despite an emphatic attempt at making eye contact with the lingering server. His would be, as he liked to call it, a service of perceived benevolence. He began to wash over what that would be exactly and concluded that would be quite similar to raising children well – there was always the inherent care, of course, otherwise why in the world get into such a racket (parenting or the bed and breakfast), and it would be present but not clingy. There would be offerings that were available but not forced. My god! Had he been overthinking already! He fingered through his notes on sweet appetizers that would sitting out onto the granite counter on arrival. There would be good coffee, decaf and regular, plus a quality cream; this was the first impression, was it not? The coffee and French cookie as the newcomers were able to just peer through the hallway through the dining room and out the living room windows to see that same very sight that he had just witnessed, a calm river moving past, and suddenly, the stressors of the drive they had just completed would hopefully flit away like a morning bird and then he would quickly show them to their rooms, assure all was well for the rest of the day, and then offer a tour of any number of options. Could he help himself, he thought, now as he had begun the flour, sugar and egg base for his madelines, that he was tickled to be conceiving of such a fine day! He was fifty now. It had taken him five decades on this very earth to get the physical space and the mental pace figured out. As he rolled out the flour and looked at the relatively blasé photo of what he was about to create, the simple French cookie, he looked up into the courtyard and the magic of the sun mural on the backside of the garage. And there, later, he would offer to lead a short session of Chinese poetry. Oh my oh my. The tickle. The sun. The home had risen and took off like a very pleasant ship and began to float down the river along the waves that felt like clouds and the rest of the world, it was true, floated away.