The Infernal Regions: Part 2

Yet again, another quandary, that of the two remaining coffee shops. (There are only 5 shops at this side of the mall, but EBUN doesn't fall under my coffee shop category.) Think, think.

Aside from the quality of coffee, I also take into careful consideration the ambiance of the place. I mulled over the situation, the pros and cons as I stood there under the shade of palm trees in the middle of the piazza, looking like a complete idiot.

Coffee Shop # 1: Café Havana

Pros: I love Cuba. I admire Fidel Castro. And I am a sucker for Latinas, especially when they get into those snuggly-fit, skimpy bikinis. Adrianna Lima! Ooh and, and. Enough!

Cons: The waiters! They looked like those antediluvian Mafia lords from The Godfather trilogy, who resigned from their kingdoms for some career growth, that is of becoming a waiter. Or some lost golfer who couldn’t find their way to the country club.

Coffee Shop # 2: Café Breton

Pros: I am obsessed with France, and everything that’s got to do with the place. I detest Napoleon though, but that’s a different story. The shop’s interior design’s classy, so … err … French! C'est parfait! Nah, not really.

Cons: Man, those red and blue berets! Outta here! The waiters look like displaced Nazi soldiers from centuries back. Those berets! Those berets! Man, they’re so … I’m lost for words!

So there I was, chewing over my plight when I noticed some dork playing with the fountain in the middle of the square. He appears to be a little over 30, was wearing a pair of denim shorts and was clasping a bag in one of his armpits.

I observed him for a couple of seconds; he seemed to enjoy what he’s doing for he was grinning while the water jets splashed unto his hands. What a strange guy, I thought.

Then he became aware that someone’s looking at him. He looked at me with the What-Are-You-Looking-At (!?) look. I responded with the Aren’t-You-A-Bit-Too-Old-To-Be-Playing-With-The-Fountain (?) look. He, then, countered with the So-What (!?) look. He looked away subsequently, I also did the same.

I noticed that the people were looking at me, because I look like a jerk standing there under the blistering heat of the sun looking at the pathetic person who’s looking at the lookie-look. I looked, he looked, and everyone looked! Look look look! Oh look, lots of looks! Where was I, look?

Nah, I'm just testing if you're still with me.

Back to the issue-at-hand: Cuba or France?

After thorough consideration, I picked the Mafia lords over the Nazi soldiers and made my way towards Café Havana. While I despised the garbs of the two aforesaid coffee shops maître d's, I opted for the less laughable one. Those berets were just eyesores. They gotta go!

(to be concluded...)