Chocolate Con Churros

A young Chinese man walks into the café where I am writing. Everything he is wearing (I am quite sure) is made of acrylic, which stands out stiffly from his deflated frame. When he walks, he makes rapid, high-pitched “hweet hweet” noises from the rubbing together of all of his many acrylic surfaces. In his hands he holds a Madrid guidebook written in Chinese.

The café is full, both at the small, square tables and at the bar. Everyone is Spanish except for me, and now this young man in acrylic. After he passes under the arched entrance, he stands there, stupefied, watching the Spanish customers drinking, smoking, eating, talking. His eyes are opened wide and his lips are slightly parted. It is the same expression I see on the faces of the children watching the puppet shows in the Retiro park. And, like those children, this man seems pleased with the spectacle before him.

Just as his lips begin to curl into an almost imperceptible smile, he is jostled by one of the harried waitresses. She looks at him with annoyance and barks, “que quieres?” He looks at her without answering, so she repeats in English, “what do you want?” From his white acrylic pocket he removes a folded magazine clipping. Carefully opening it, he points to a picture and says, each syllable separated, staccato-like, “cho-co-la-te-con-chu-rros.” As her hands full of dirty dishes and mugs, she points with her chin in the direction of the bar then waddles off quickly and duck-like to the kitchen. The young man follows her with his eyes.

When the chocolate con churros are delivered, he examines them with the great care of a forensic scientist, holding a churro up to the light, turning it slowly to better study it. When he at long last begins to eat, he chews so slowly, and with such satisfied purpose that the rest of the customers at the bar exchange amused and slightly condescending looks. He sees them but doesn’t seem to care and continues to enjoy his snack in all happiness. When finished, he methodically places his coins one by one on the counter in payment, puts on his backpack, and walks out of the café.

My table is by the door. As he walks past, I see the faint smile on his face before he disappears into the crowded street.