The Blue Phoenix Café

It is the slight rise in your chest as you look out across a lake on a moonless night at the flicker of distant city lights. The melody of a softly strummed guitar and fingers dancing gracefully across a piano as stories of home are sung along. Gazing out over the grass fields belonging to the ghost town that you once called home.

It is foreign, yet feels so comfortable and safe.

One winter morning, just after I had opened the café for the day, I spotted a cat sitting outside in the gently falling snow. Thick black and brown fur that seemed to catch no snow, narrow yellow eyes that seemed so wise and weary, and a face littered with old scars. 

I had never seen this cat before, yet as it looked up and our gazes met I couldn’t help but feel that I knew it from somewhere. I felt the slight rise in my chest. The foreign familiarity...

I looked away as I turned to enter the kitchen, getting the idea to try and invite it in with a bit of deli turkey. However, when I returned and opened the door to set out the bowl, the cat was nowhere in sight. Hoping it would come back, I set the bowl out before returning inside. As the day went on and I served the usual customers and some newcomers, the cat did not return. I stalled while waiting to lock up for the night, but it did not return.

The next day, it had returned. It was sitting on the counter despite the front and back doors being securely locked. I fed it a bit of turkey from the kitchen and checked for any holes it might have crawled through, but there were none that lead outside. I let it stay in the café for the day, all the while wondering who this cat was, why the look in those eyes were so familiar and why I recognized the crossing patterns of the scars on its nose.

To this day, the cat stays in the café. It refuses to leave. I’m fine with it, and the vast majority of customers welcome its presence. Even now, every time I look at it, I still get that sense of familiarity, that strange nostalgia...

Two in the afternoon on Wednesdays. The silver bell above the café door always rings as soon as the clock on the wall hits the exact minute on that specific day, and in will walk five beings donning navy blue cloaks lined with white fur. I use the term ‘walk’ loosely. They barely move when the five of them make their way to the empty booth in the corner, next to which a painting of a beautiful, cloudy mountain peak hangs on the wall.

They never seem to speak to one another. They sit in silence, hoods down and too-long sleeves hiding their folded hands in their laps. The only times I ever hear one of them speak is when one orders for the table, and it’s always the same one, ordering the same thing for everyone. I’m not sure if it’s male, female, or somewhere in between. The one who orders speaks with a harsh, voiceless rasp, and it always asks for “sugared milk with a spoonful of honey, one for each of us, please”. A strange order, but one that is fulfilled nonetheless. The only time I have ever seen one of their faces is when that one orders. Even then, I was barely able to see anything because of how much the hood overshadowed its face. I only caught a glimpse of a wide mouth filled with jagged, broken teeth, along with very long pointed ears that hung down and curled under its chin. It was hard to tell, but its speckled skin looked to be a greyish blue in color, similar to the midday sky in the midst of a storm. Those are the only times I see their faces or hear them speak.

However, there was one time that was different.

It was in mid-April that I found them all gazing up at the painting of the cloud-covered mountain peak. When I came to take their order, the one that speaks said nothing. I stayed there, wondering what to do. I was about to ask if I should give them a few more minutes when the one spoke.

“The clouds… remind us of our home.”

I tore my gaze from the painting to face it, only to find that it was looking up at me. For the first time, I could see more than just the mouth and ears. Bright blue irises and milky white pupils gleamed from the shadows of the hood, heavy with sorrow and longing. It opened its mouth to say something more, hesitated, then lowered its head.

How the Café Got Its Name

Cafés earn their names in many ways. For some, it was a heat of the moment decision in which the owner decided to just choose something that sounded interesting, while others have a story behind the name. This is one of those places. 

The Phoenix is one of the more famous mythical creatures that are known to mankind. To almost all who know of it, the great firebird is nothing more than a myth. However, the only myths to this legend are that Phoenixes sport an orange flame and that they immediately rise from the ashes after they burn out at death. In truth, the Phoenix burns with a blue flame, which only turns orange at death. Upon dying, their ashes seep into the earth below and lie dormant for three centuries. Only after those three centuries have passed is the Phoenix reborn again. The Blue Phoenix Café is named after these magnificent creatures because it was built over the buried ashes of one of them. The owner of this place had no idea, of course, she never would have built it here if she had. Originally, this place was going to be called Marin’s Café - a bit of a bland name if you ask me, just don’t tell her I said that - but she quickly changed her mind just before the café was fully built. 

The café took four months to build, and it was almost fully finished. All that needed to be done was for the walls to be painted and appliances set up. It was just around eleven in the morning as Marin was trying to decide on a color for the walls when it happened. There was a loud cracking sound coming from the kitchen, only moments before something very loudly exploded. Marin rushed into the kitchen to see what had happened only to find the entire back half of the building had been blown off and was now on fire. There, in the center of it all, was a very dazed looking bright blue bird with feathers that rippled and flickered like flames. It resembled a peacock in shape, but had the massive wings of an eagle. It gave her one confused look before letting out a squawk and taking off, flapping its enormous wings before disappearing into the sky. Never before had Marin seen such a sight, nor did she have much time to marvel over it before she realized that she should call the fire department before what was left of the café burned to the ground. Luckily, the rest of it was able to be saved, and the blown off half was rebuilt in a little under two months. 

The café life is a simple one. People come in, have coffee and maybe a bite to eat, then leave. Some return every now and then, soon becoming frequent customers, while others visit once and are never seen again.

I’ve been brewing coffee in this old place for as long as I can remember. I’ve never had any other job, nor would I ever want another. The pay is decent and I get free coffee in the morning as a perk. However, the reason I stay is for one that most people would not expect; I stay for the stories. One can meet some very interesting folk while working in a café, but this place has had far more than its fair share of fascinating people. The people that come through here have told me tales of things I could never imagine happening in even my wildest dreams.

Do you see that young man in the corner? The one with the messy black hair and buck teeth? He dove to the deepest depths of the ocean and swam with dragons. That shiny amulet around his neck is a scale that one of them shed. That middle-aged woman by the window with a dreamy look on her face? Her husband passed away ten years ago - the day after they were married. She’ll never fall in love again, but the memories of her late husband no longer hurt. Rather, they bring her immense happiness. That little girl with the burn scars on the palms of her hands? She got those from petting the very bird this place was named after. Most people think that everyone who passes through here has a few screws loose, but I believe each and every one of their stories. They really don’t have any reason to lie. Just because nobody else saw it, it doesn’t mean it never happened. Instead, it makes it all the more enticing, all the more magical.

One way or another, everyone with a story to tell eventually ends up at the Blue Phoenix Café. Some may stay, while others never return. I’ve heard so many stories throughout my years of working here, and each one of them is truly a treasure that deserves to be remembered by all who hear it. I would never trade this job or this place for anything in the world.