” We are open seven days a week, from 6 am to 9pm, ” the waiter, Jonathan, reminds me in perfect English.
I order an omelet, toast, and black coffee.
The Cafe de Arte is on a side street in the Historical District and traffic is thin on a Sunday morning around seven.
There is a bookcase near a corner of the dining area where browsers find books to go with their eggs. Displayed art, done by local folks, portray agrarian scenes and stylized portraits of life in Nicaragua. A Trip Adviser sticker on a merchandising case tells me I am not the first to patronize this eatery.
A couple enter after I have been here ten minutes, and then another older gentleman shuffles in and takes a chair with a view out the front door.
In this place where horse drawn carriages clatter on the streets outside, couples to do what they normally like to do. The old gentleman looks at his phone and connects to wifi. He has seen changes in his lifetime and one of the worst is not being able to walk without fear of falling.
Home bases and food are the first two things I settle on in a new place, and this cafe is a place I feel safe with. If I have a good home base and have a good place to eat, I am most of the way to nirvana. Even though I have an apartment with a frig and stove and plates and saucers and pots and pans, I spend most of my time out of the kitchen.
I don’t travel to cook..
My Denver omelet in Granada, it turns out,tastes the same as it does in Denver.