Tonight I took an unexpected trip down Memory Lane (oddly, this is the name of the street my parents live on, but in this story it is a metaphor, so bear with me.) I had intended to eat dinner, get drinks, and read at Cafe Beaudelaire while Drea was at an event on campus, but after she dropped me off on the corner of Welch Ave. and Lincoln Way, I discovered that Beaudelaire closes at 4 on Sundays. My dreams of an iron vegetarian were shattered. Instead, I went across Welch to an old standby, Cocost.
This place is a goldmine of stories. I once had to inform a girl I knew that the Muzak they played for several years was not even remotely Chinese. In fact, it was mostly horrible instrumental versions of Beatles songs. Mike and Sean used to make up new words to the unrecognizable melodies with such memorable titles as “Hot Monkey Love.” When they switched to 104.1, I kept going on a regular basis because no matter how much Delilah makes me want to shoot myself (seriously, she is awful,) the food was cheap and the tea was free. In 1999, you could get a plate of sesame chicken for $3.99 plus tax, which always came to $4.23. That was almost cheaper than the ISU meal plan.
The menu basically consisted of a choice of beef, pork, or chicken with some kind of interchangeable sauce. In 1999, the food was served still boiling on a fajita plate with Chinese vegetables and a separate plate of white rice. There have been several subtle changes over time, generally not greeted as improvements by old-guard customers, but in general the restaurant has not changed much. Once upon a time, the vegetables included sliced carrot, but now it is all Napa cabbage. The fajita plate and still-boiling presentation have been replaced with a more ordinary white plate. By the time I graduated, the price had been adjusted carefully to ring up to five dollars including tax.
I took Drea here after we moved in together, and it was kind of a shock. There were some new menu items, and a few tables had been replaced with much nicer booths. I was anxious in that particular way that happens when you try to share a deeply nostalgic experience. I could not be sure that Drea would fall in love with the curry chicken or that she would like the tea as much as I did. If the cheap little chopstick skewers gave her splinters, how would I explain the fondness with which I remembered splinters of my own nearly ten years ago? In my preoccupation, I did not notice a lot of the changes.
Tonight, though, I could tell that some time has passed. There were a lot of new dishes available. Most of the entrees are six dollars including tax, still a great value. The tea is still free, and still delicious. I think they just brew Lipton’s, but it tastes especially good. The biggest change is the one most characteristic of a college town: I didn’t recognize a single person working there. In college, I was the kind of regular that the owners knew by face even though they didn’t know my name. When I took Drea, I passed the counter without getting a flicker of recognition. I’ve gotten older, gained weight, grown a beard. Tonight, none of the people I remember were even there. There was a different old guy lounging at the round table closest to the counter, and Mexican music was drifting out of the kitchen.
The sesame pork was exactly the same. The meat was perfectly cooked, the sauce was the same simple mix of vinegar and sugar, the rice held together for my chopsticks without being wet. I was still warm from the tea when I walked back out into the snow. It’s a feeling my roommate used to call “rice happy.”
