Working for the Elite.

I’ve had all sorts of jobs: summer, badly paid, physically straining and mentally draining, amongst other kinds of jobs. From organizing files in a tax office at 14 to bartending at 19, these kinds of jobs come and go. None of them fascinated and bored me more than my job at Café Mozart.

For anyone who hasn’t experienced the thrill that is Café Mozart, it is a swanky, mostly upper-class or tourist cafe. The decorum is slightly outdated, but appeals to an audience of Mozart-obsessed tourists that “ooh” and “ahh” at every Mozart glass, spoon, and tray.  Don’t get me wrong, the café is popular for reasons that are justified, but working behind the scenes has the ability to deglamorize places for you.

In the peak of Salzburg’s summer, the people take to the river with their ice creams and bottled beers, to relax in company of good friends. But there is a different kind of people who stay far away from the rays of the sunlight, keeping to the cool breeze that makes its way up and down Getreidegasse.  I’m joking, there is no breeze, we’re all slowly melting indoors.

Standing behind the bar of the café, I would walk up and down, reorganizing glasses, polishing spoons, anything to make the time go by. Hearing the laughs and conversations out on the street was torturous as the pace of life in the café came to a standstill. On dry days the only customers that made their way in were the regulars. Like I said, I’ve worked bars before
.
. I know what regulars look like. But the regulars of Café Mozart were unlike any other I’d ever seen.

Decked out in strings ofpearls and matching earrings, the women wore a sense of superiority and old grace. Of the three regular females, twohad signature hairstyles and outfits that only changed in shade or color. The third was my favorite, purely for her eccentricity. I’ve never seen a woman her age dressed in colors so vibrant or colors worn in that particular arrangement. She had her own style and I loved it. We’ll call her “Frau Blaufränkisch”.

           

Each of the women sat on their own, reading or joking with the staff whilst eating or enjoying their coffee. I have to admit that the women were far more interesting to watch; the men stayed in the smoking sections, playing chess and keeping to themselves.

Frau Blaufränkisch was as regular as a regular could get. Every evening, at some point after 6pm, she would make her way in, greeting all the staff first. After that she would head to every newspaper stand in the café, working through the stacks, pulling out anything that caught her attention. With a wink and a laugh she would head to one of the window seats and order her regular drink.

1/8 Blaufränkisch, 4 chocolates, and a tall glass of medium-cold water. Did I forget to say specific?

She made my day, every day. She was theonly customer who really engaged in conversation on a daily basis. But the truly great thing about her is that she had some amazing stories to tell. As an added bonus, she spoke multiple languages: so I nearly cried out with glee the first time she addressed me in English. It was a long day, what can I say?

She talked of Paris, the Americas, history and current events, fashion, and teenage obsessions. Most of the staff called her crazy, but she soon turned into my daily sitcom.

The other two women were a bit more difficult to serve or, rather, more difficult to name. Frau Tomatensaft and Frau Bee-Hive are both as descriptive and as creative as I could get.

The only thing I really can say about Frau Bee-Hive was that she had a mass of hair. It didn’t look healthy, the damage that the dyes had caused toher hair were irreversible, so she did what any sane woman of power would do, she teased it. And she teased it a lot. It wasn’t the sort of teasing you saw in the 80’s, but more “Hi, I’m here to take over your universe.”

Frau Tomatensaft, on the other hand, had nothing spectacular in appearance. She was as bland as the color of her pearls, but she had a peculiar relationship with her dog. I cannot remember the name of her pup, but we may as call him Pepper, the thing she always wanted to be added to her drink.

Pepper and Frau Tomato Juice were the two most astounding things in the café, even more so than the other two women. It could be because in my culture, keeping dogs indoors was unorthodox- and feeding them from your own spoon was considered insane. Calling a dog"Schatzi" and catering to itas if it was a human baby would be considered lunacy. Pepper adored every moment as much as Frau Tomato Juice did. Maybe this was why I could never openly express my disgust.

The regulars were what kept hot days indoors bearable. For a Californian, skipping out on sunshine was close to sin, but the few quirks of Mozart Café do make for excellent writing material.

Signed, Bored Worker