The Blue Fig’s Hidden Patio

by

001 The Blue Figs Hidden Patio * heycheri sherilynn macale

If you find yourself at the Blue Fig cafe in San Francisco’s Mission District, make your way to the rear where a hidden backdoor patio in a small enclosed courtyard awaits for quiet dining, reading, or tea sipping with delightful company. The community here is friendly and laid back, so feel free to join in on conversations with strangers as eavesdropping in this area is unavoidable. And if you’d rather hole yourself into a corner with your book or laptop  hoping to keep to yourself, don’t sweat it; you’ll blend right in.

Blue Fig: 8/10

It Feels So F*cking Good to Write Again

by
writing

I can be a bit eccentric when it comes to my writing.

Some days, without realizing it, I’ll find myself pacing barefoot back and forth across my apartment, twisting this ring I constantly wear round and round, up and down, absent-mindedly jerking off my finger, perhaps believing it might ejaculate a great idea. This I do completely by reflex. Whether I’m vacuuming, in the middle of mixing spices for a meaty marinade, listening to my MP3 player while carrying off laundry to the washer, or even deeply engaged in conversation, when inspiration hits me I drop absolutely everything I’m doing and run off like a crazed person to get my thoughts down before they escape me.

If I’m out and about when creativity decides to come a-knockin’, I’ll whip out my notebook, my tablet, or some random crumpled pocket receipt and subject it to my deranged visualizations. No blank surface escapes me. Whatever media I can get my hands on to solidify the barest threads of a concept intended to be used later for a full story I take and viciously impregnate with my thoughts.

All writers are a bit mad that way, I think. As we’re finally typing out our ideas and adding flesh to the bones of a great piece, the best of us laugh full laughs at our own jokes and find ourselves exclaiming aloud to the empty room around us, “This is the greatest idea ever!” … Only to quickly lose interest in our own work as we progress, second-guessing ourselves and face palming through, sure that this piece, this out of the many we’ve already written will be the laughing stock of, oh, I don’t know, whoever is bored enough to read this terrible thing that’s managed to jizz from our fingers and onto a page.

Such is the life of a writer.

Writing again feels like I’ve released this burning thing inside of me that’s been aching to get out. It’s difficult to describe the delight of it, this wonderful feeling of pure inspiration fueling my every thought. It’s this weird sort of high, like I couldn’t stop myself if I tried.

Friends of mine who write, from those who’ve published books to those who only peck away at short stories, they seem to “get it”. They understand the weird zone writers get into when in the middle of churning inspiration into something palatable.

“Cheri, care to grab some tea?” A Facebook message pops up on my mobile, revealing a charming and published acquaintance of mine.
“Sure, in a bit,” I type back, keeping it brief but polite.
“Are you busy today? Head ringing?” He asks.
“Sort of. Just writing,” I reply.
“Ah. I’ll leave you to it. I know what that headspace is like.”

This short conversation stands out in my mind because, deep inside, there is a very lonely little part of me that cries out gratefully, “You too?” This piece of me longs to be understood. It feels weird, shamed by the fact that it loves to write, carrying the baggage of its past, afraid to move forward, and afraid to progress. But to be reassured, acknowledged, and supported in a passion that drives me from my core — there is no greater feeling. I can’t believe I stopped writing. I can’t believe I let someone stop me. I can’t believe how weak I was, and how, in those moments of fear, I forgot the strength I found through it.

“I’m glad you’re writing,” another charming friend said recently, and I remember feeling my heart warm. After months and months of being punished for writing by someone who absolutely did not have my best interests in mind, that sentiment alone from a friendly face flooded me with indescribable pleasure.

“@heycheri It’s so good to see you writing again!” Now inundated by swarms of tweets, emails, and private messages from wonderful followers and long-time readers, it’s all I can do to keep the corners of my lips from turning up into a smile.

It’s as if by writing again I’ve unlocked some door that’s been in plain view this entire time. As if I’ve stepped into a paradisiacal world full of amazingly cognitive people. A world I was once forbidden from entering. A world where it shocks me to meet others with respect for the written form. A collection of sapiosexuals, brilliant thought leaders, enchanting entrepreneurs — all of them just a little bit crazy because, like me, they love to write. Is this where these people, my people, have been hiding? Can you understand how foolish I feel to know that the key to this door has been within my grasp this entire time?

“Once writing has become your major vice and greatest pleasure only death can stop it.”
- Ernest Hemingway

For a while there, I was dead.
I was living, going through the motions, but missing something.
I couldn’t tell what it was because I was so convinced that writing was bad for me. I was brainwashed into believing it was something I should abandon entirely as it would ruin my life.

I was so stupid.
Jesus, I was so stupid.
I can’t let that happen to me again.

When inspiration knocks now, determined to be seen in writing, I welcome it like a familiar old friend. “So good to see you!” I exclaim, letting it through the door. Then, panicked with my inadequacy, I overplay the gracious host. “God, I’ve missed you! Would you like some tea? What can I get you? I have lovely biscuits from this organic food market around the corner — here, let me take your coat!”

But inspiration, wonderfully warm and gracious as it is, fails to hold a grudge. It doesn’t care that I once pushed it from my life. It doesn’t care that I once refused to acknowledge it. Instead, it visits me as often as it did before, as if nothing’s changed, and as if the past few horrible months of my life never happened.

So here we are again.

Cheri

“The Salmon Salad” – Off the Menu at Beachside Coffee Bar and Kitchen

by

Grilled cheese with tomato basil soup? No. I can’t have that, I found myself thinking. How could a health-conscious person justify eating such a thing, all those dead carbs with spoonfuls of sodium? And those huge snicker doodles piled high in the warmed display case, or that enormous frosting-covered cake, or the chocolate eclairs nearby bursting with cream — get me out of this horribly tasty venue before I lose my self-control!

“Do you have any salads here?” I heard myself saying, dragging my eyes away from the freshly baked pear pie being slid into display. The cashier wore a faded red shirt, hair perfectly coiffed, small eyes peering at me from behind a pair of stylishly thick plastic frames. Welcome to San Francisco.
“Yeah.” He sounded young, his expression dead and void of emotion. Not unamused, not bored — dead. I remember wondering if this was part of the cafe’s charm, some sort of character the employees were trained to enact.
“Do you have any salads with salmon on it?” I continued, humorously pantomiming rubbing my fingers together over an imaginary salad as if to sprinkle fish onto a bed of leaves.
“No.” Not even a smile. Alright then.
“Do you even have salmon here?” I tried again, leading towards a more inventive approach.
“Yeah.” There’s a start.
“Can you just get me something that has salmon on it, but throw all the other stuff away, then put that salmon on top of a salad?” I smiled, hoping to sound pleasant rather than annoyingly picky. I could see the gears in his head turning to process my request, and all the while, I thought to myself, I really hope I’m not the first annoying customer he’s had today. Please don’t spit in my food.
“… I’m pretty sure we can do that. Let me check with the kitchen.” Phew, I thought, watching as he turned, took a few steps, and leaned around the kitchen wall to confer with the chefs. He’s actually asking for me. This is awesome. And when he returned, “Yeah, we can do that.” Sweet. “I recommend the tofu salad.” He tilted his head up at an angle, this serving as his emotionless cue for me to respond.
“Uh, sure. That sounds good.” I nodded along agreeably, eager to move the order along and unable to shake a lingering confusion brought on by his strange personality. “And one of these … What is this?” The tip of my finger trailed down a list of beverages atop the counter. “Ber-guh-moe tea? Is that how you say that?”
“Ber-guh-mott,” he amended.
“Ber-guh-mott,” I repeated, feeling stupid but pleased to discover the phonetic use of a word I’d been writing and reading for weeks without knowing how to pronounce. “I’ll take one of those.”

I tipped the man $3 for his trouble, slipping the bills into the glass tip jar beside the register. Then he handed me my table number, and I slunk off to the coffee bar to sit and read, promptly forgetting about the strange service. But by the time my bergamot tea arrived, I was filled with new dreads. What if they really do spit in my food? Why do I have to be so picky and order some weird off-the-menu item? And what’s taking them so long — salmon salad should be easy to make. What is going on in that kitchen?!

Intent on remaining calm, I tugged my fedora down over my face and pushed the anxieties from my mind, resigned to poking at the silk sachet of tea settled at the bottom of my cup, watching while clouds of richly-infused flavor burst from its sad, swollen lump. Ah, distractions.

Then, the salad arrived.

DSC04002 The Salmon Salad Off the Menu at Beachside Coffee Bar and Kitchen * heycheri sherilynn macale

omgmm The Salmon Salad Off the Menu at Beachside Coffee Bar and Kitchen * heycheri sherilynn macale

Holy shit.
That’s a lot of salmon.

I could hear the surprised gasps from the folks waiting in line to reach the cafe counter, sure they were eyeing my food. I felt suddenly superior when a chorus of pleasant voices cried out with, “Sweetie, look how good that looks!” Followed by equally excited, “We should get salads, right?” Then accompanied by deeper grumbles of, “I’m getting the pie and a coffee.”

Carefully spearing just the right amount of salmon and salad, I examined the mouthful I was about to take. As I turned the fork this way and that, part of me felt excited — would you look at all that practically-raw salmon? The caveman in me was howling in delight. But another more reserved part of me, a part that sometimes believes people are inherently evil, this part of me dreaded being poisoned by the chefs for being a difficult patron.

I took the bite hesitantly. Then, chewing, it was all I could do to keep from moaning aloud, the salmon falling apart and melting on my tongue, the salad adding the perfect healthy crunch, the zest of the dressing not too overbearing, everything just right. Now this is food, I thought.

While I continued to shovel more of the dish into my mouth, I imagined just how tasty it might be to add a few sliced strawberries or a little mandarin orange, perhaps some feta cheese for a tangy burst of flavor or a little flax seed for the crunch and texture (okay, so I eat a lot of salad). But even without the additional toppings, I was already mentally tipping my hat to the chefs. For an off-the-menu dish with a difficult customer, this wasn’t bad for a first try.

I ended up enjoying my salad so much that I stayed to have dinner and desert, my mouthfuls chewed while reading or writing in my silent corner by the window, delighting in the flavors, swallowing everything down with throat-fulls of bergamot tea, watching surfers and happy hipsters with pretty dogs stroll across my view while I later gobbled my way through a grilled chicken sandwich and a slice of pear pie, everything equally delicious.

As I was finally leaving, cool cashier guy surprised me by asking, “How was the salad?”
And in my hurry to engage this mysterious creature in conversation, “So good, thank you! I’m really surprised. I think I’ll have it agai–”
“That’s great. Have a nice day. Thanks for coming.”

Well alright then.
At least they didn’t spit in my food.
… I think.

Beachside Coffee Bar and Kitchen: 9/10