The Café
Built around the quiet hours between sips.
We wanted somewhere you could sit for three hours over one cup, and nobody minds.
A single espresso machine, a wall of borrowed books, and a pair of mismatched chairs from the sidewalk. The chairs are still mismatched on purpose, and the books still get borrowed.
The beans come from two doors down, roasted small-batch by the same hands that pull your shot. The pastry is from the bakery on the corner. The records are whatever the morning shift felt like playing.
Sit by the window. Stay as long as you like.
Window seat, Tuesday afternoon
