Beneath the muted glow of the expensive Time Warner Center, I headed south on Columbus Circle to a solitary figure standing on the corner where the Cosmic Coffee Shop went dark. My friend Melissa, who I had asked to meet me there, was waiting outside, not sure if she had the right place.
Apparently the proprietors of the coffee shop have relocated to 8th Ave., fleeing the exorbitant rent that could not be sustained by two eggs scrambled, hash browns, bacon, rye toast and a piping hot cup of industrial strength java.
Back when I worked nearby, I would often go to the Cosmic Coffee Shop for lunch. Once I sat at the counter beside Philip Seymour Hoffman and a gentleman, who was wearing a neatly pressed blue suit. I ordered my usual fare and paid them no mind until Hoffman excused himself, presumably to use the restroom.
The check was delivered in his absence. Hoffman's acquaintance seemed a bit befuddled before paying it and leaving a tip. Just then, Hoffman returned and thanked him for picking up the tab before hastily gathering up his coat and newspaper on his way out.
I thought of Hoffman and all the checks he must have stuck on unsuspecting people when he didn't have steady work.
The Cosmic Coffee Shop was the second corner joint I've lost to inflation. The other being Joe's Pizza on Carmine and Bleecker, which moved just a few doors down, relinquishing the convenience (and expense) of its original address.
I was there the last night it was open, sometime after 3:00 a.m., and bought the remaining two slices that were available on the counter. Then a black Town Car pulled up and Owen Wilson got out, wearing a L.A. Dodgers baseball cap and a black suit. He had to wait for a new pie while a late night crowd congregated.
While it seems that running into celebrities is common fodder for N.Y. conversation, the nostalgia of locales, come and gone, is greeted with as much intrigue as the weather. But when a place you've come to lean on is no longer where you remember, its memories become surreal, and the bummer lingers a bit longer than an ordinary rain out.
Apparently the proprietors of the coffee shop have relocated to 8th Ave., fleeing the exorbitant rent that could not be sustained by two eggs scrambled, hash browns, bacon, rye toast and a piping hot cup of industrial strength java.
Back when I worked nearby, I would often go to the Cosmic Coffee Shop for lunch. Once I sat at the counter beside Philip Seymour Hoffman and a gentleman, who was wearing a neatly pressed blue suit. I ordered my usual fare and paid them no mind until Hoffman excused himself, presumably to use the restroom.
The check was delivered in his absence. Hoffman's acquaintance seemed a bit befuddled before paying it and leaving a tip. Just then, Hoffman returned and thanked him for picking up the tab before hastily gathering up his coat and newspaper on his way out.
I thought of Hoffman and all the checks he must have stuck on unsuspecting people when he didn't have steady work.
The Cosmic Coffee Shop was the second corner joint I've lost to inflation. The other being Joe's Pizza on Carmine and Bleecker, which moved just a few doors down, relinquishing the convenience (and expense) of its original address.
I was there the last night it was open, sometime after 3:00 a.m., and bought the remaining two slices that were available on the counter. Then a black Town Car pulled up and Owen Wilson got out, wearing a L.A. Dodgers baseball cap and a black suit. He had to wait for a new pie while a late night crowd congregated.
While it seems that running into celebrities is common fodder for N.Y. conversation, the nostalgia of locales, come and gone, is greeted with as much intrigue as the weather. But when a place you've come to lean on is no longer where you remember, its memories become surreal, and the bummer lingers a bit longer than an ordinary rain out.
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| Cosmic Coffee Shop, New York City. |