Sugarlump is not a café for talking. It is probably one of the coziest cafés I’ve been in, with its black pleather furniture, barstools and soft rock playing in the background. On a Friday afternoon there are nine people inside, most of them sipping coffee and silently surfing the web on their MacBooks and smartphones.
I take a deep whiff of the sweet smell of pastries and coffee. I haven’t bought a single cup of coffee or pastry in several months, due to a combination of poverty and laziness.
At 2 p.m., the pastry case is almost empty. Only a few bagels, cookies, cinnamon buns and croissants are left. I order a caramel macchiato with whipped cream and an almond croissant. I smile when I notice the size of the café’s croissants; they are almost as large as Costco’s.
The female barista is friendly, with her smile and her sweet attempt to make small talk. “Beautiful weather we’re having today,” she says.
“I know, I should have worn shorts,” I tell her.
My eyes widen when she hands me my macchiato in a teacup and my croissant on a plate. Both are made of glass. With my clumsy nature, I can see disaster about to happen. I ask the barista to pour my coffee into a paper cup with a lid and straw on it.
“Afraid to break something, huh?” she says with a giggle. More small talk!
I slowly make my way to one of the pleather chairs right next to the chimney. Although the chimney isn’t real, it still adds to café’s casual-cozy feel. The almond croissant is delicious, perfectly soft and buttery. The coffee isn’t half bad either. The mix of the croissant’s buttery taste and the caramel from the macchiato is my idea of heaven.
A woman walks in. She looks amazing — bleached blond hair, cheetah print leggings, small purple shorts and a gray lacy top. She has a small dog with her that looks like a strange cross between a Pomeranian and a Siberian husky. She grabs one of the bagels from a basket on top of the pastry case and orders an organic coffee while the dog goes off exploring in the cafe.
The woman’s dog walks by my table, sniffing at my plate. I reach to pet it and it licks my hand, searching for traces of croissant butter. The lady walks by my table with her coffee and bagel in hand. “I’m sorry,” she says. “Was my dog bothering you?”
“No!” I reply, still petting the mutt. “She’s adorable. What’s her name?”
“Her name is Chiquita! Well, we have to get going! I gotta be at work in a few minutes! Have nice day,” the blond says, rushing to the door.
Between the musty air, enormous plush chair and lack of sleep, my eyelids begin to flutter.
The urge to take a nap vanishes when I hear a loud crash near the barstools.
The floor is covered in coffee and pieces of glass. “Oh, crap!” a woman says, rushing toward the mess, picking up some of the glass shards. Thank whatever instincts led me to ask for the paper cup.
The barista comes by with a mop and plastic bag. “I’m so sorry,” the woman says, with an apologetic look.
The barista grins. “Not to worry. Believe it or not, it happens a lot in here.”