There’s a lot to miss as we all wade through this crisis. The people, the places, the daily routines. I miss the old, beer-soaked dive and the swank, polished marble cocktail bar. I miss the rattle of the cup and saucer as a perfectly poured cappuccino is escorted my way by a caring server. The clink of coup glasses ushering in another weekend. The bartenders. The baristas. The smiles. “Anything else?” they ask. And although I’m a regular enough customer that they probably know the answer, it’s part of the ritual. 

I miss saddling up at the bar or snagging a two-top. Elbow to elbow, drink to drink. The aromas or the steady hum of noises, the community of employees and patrons who fill the space, swirling in one another’s presence. I miss the nuances of those small nothings—that now, as we reflect, we realize actually meant so much. But mostly, I miss the intimacy of strangers. It’s a primal craving I have, for the most New York City of feelings: a sense of belonging through anonymity.   

For all those reasons and more, I especially miss East One Coffee Roasters in Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn. I don’t know if it’s the giant windows pouring in beams of light or the staff’s relentless cheerfulness, but walking into East One, even under these new circumstances, a sense of calm washes over me. 

I still go in for my cappuccino and croissant—but to-go these days, of course. I wait eagerly at the door, counting the number of people inside as to not overcrowd the once happily bustling space. A table up front is lined with bottles of wine, homemade granola, banana bread, and beer. A small rack on the side has branded t-shirts and toilet paper that are for sale as well. Anything to keep the doors open. To give us a dose of normalcy along with our shot of espresso. To ensure all the neighborhood regulars and I are happily caffeinated, and more importantly, to keep the staff employed. 

I take in the smell of fresh-roasted beans and the warm butter of baking bread. I scan the baked goods delicately perched in the glass display, just as they were “before.” I already know what will be there, and I already know what I want. But I pause for a moment, before casually pointing to the pastry of choice. A pair of gloved hands delicately removes my croissant with the care of someone removing an egg from a nest to inspect it. It’s placed into a small paper bag, then slid across the counter. 

I look up in gratitude. Behind a surgical mask is a smile. I know it’s there because I get the same feeling I would get while sitting there mere months ago with my cappuccino and saucer. When all seemed so utterly normal, so incredibly perfect. I can’t wait to sit in East One again. To sit there doing nothing, just sipping side by side with strangers.