The Coffee

In Estoril, ever since we were kids, we used to stop by the Deck. It was where we'd arrange to meet, where our parents would drop us off, or where they'd pick us up. In a time before cell phones, we'd call the Deck itself, sending messages, trying to call this person or that person, explaining that we were running late—a less common practice at the time, it should be noted—or simply asking for something or leaving a message for someone we knew would stop by sooner or later. Besides being a meeting point, the Deck was also a hub for exchanging information, a phone number we all memorized or kept in our wallets, and where, almost every day, we could be reached. Calling back was also possible, but cheaper. At the arcades, right at the beginning, near the Marginal tunnels, there was a phone booth that, for 10 escudos every 30 seconds, helped us out on many occasions. In fact, sometimes it was even free because, even without credit, the machine would make the call until it was answered, which allowed you to know, for example, if someone was at home just by listening for that brief second in which someone answered.

These days, things are very different. Not only are there many more kids, but everyone's wallets are bigger. At the same time, foreigners swarm every corner, both because tourism in Portugal, and in Cascais in particular, has reached levels unimaginable 30 or 40 years ago, and because the foreign community that chose Estoril to live has also grown significantly. Today, the terraces are full, as are the countless restaurants, not to mention that the area itself, particularly the coast, with many more buildings, houses, and hotels, has changed significantly. Back then, in the 1990s, everything was more familiar. A smaller environment, where practically everyone knew each other, at least by sight. And the Deck, especially during the year, when tourism was minimal, with its large terraces empty during the week, was, above all, the usual haunt of a large group of kids who attended Salesianos, the school still located at the entrance to the Marginal, just past the gas station.

So, in the morning, during the 10 a.m. break for coffee or cake, at lunchtime for steak, in the afternoon, after school, for toast, and, of course, on Fridays and Saturdays, as a launching pad for the nightlife, we were the ones who brought life and business to the establishment. In other words, when, already in high school, more independent, we'd go out at night, things would usually start at Deck. Then, we'd see what happened. If staying in Estoril, we'd probably pop over to Ruína to play table football in the basement, all the while refining the art of rigging the tables with cards on the goalposts to keep the balls from going into the machine—how many games did each 50 escudo coin get?—and then, after midnight, go dancing at the Louvre, the nightclub at the Hotel Paris. Older and more composed, the alternative was to walk along the Marginal to the Bauhaus, always keeping an eye on the girls in the group, or anyone we passed, who could be paired up to get in. To end the night, late into the night, a classic was Tiny's woodpecker, right there on Rua da Polícia. And, of course, all this with the ever-present backdrop of Tamariz, Poça, and Azarujinha beaches nearby—indeed, we were lucky enough to experience wonderful days without even realizing it.

One day in the mid-1990s, our plans, for some reason, probably financial, included some cans of beer bought at the old Mobil. Then, confident that there would be more than twenty of us having lunch every day of the week at Deck, we indulged ourselves by going to the end of the terrace, under a large tree that's still there—I don't know the type or name, but it drops some hard, sticky acorns. The idea wasn't new, and Mr. Vítor, the Deck's owner, had always tolerated it. After all, twenty or so kids guaranteed to have lunch four days a week—on Mondays, Deck was closed—was convenient, and the terrace was large and rarely crowded.

However, that day, perhaps irritated by something else, Mr. Vítor decided to tell us no, that it couldn't be like that. The messenger was Quim, the youngest employee at Deck and the natural link with the kids. A little older than us, as if to prove our age connection, he usually had a joke on his tongue, sometimes a risqué one, which he always told with gusto, while elbowing us and winking. Accustomed to this, we found it strange that, that night, he appeared to us glum, if not downright slumped. Uncomfortable, somewhat stammering, he finally explained that Mr. Vítor had told us that we couldn't be there drinking beers purchased elsewhere; he asked us to order something. There were about ten of us, maybe not that many, I don't remember exactly, but I know we were waiting a while for the rest of the group to arrive. Unprepared, we stared at Quim, clearly surprised by the sudden demotion and consequent loss of a privilege we took for granted. After a few seconds of silence, one of the liveliest members of the group, slouched in his chair and full of lazy insolence, responded that if he had to ask for anything, he'd like a coffee. No one else wanted anything else.

Quim didn't respond. He turned his back on us, now stiffer, probably relieved of the task, and went, we imagined, to get the coffee. As for the group, given the low cost of the sudden taxation of our acquired rights, though surprising and, in our opinion, unfair, we let it pass as a small, inexpensive jolt to a routine that, until that day, had never been particularly affected, not even on Mr. Vítor's worst days of bad mood. Nevertheless, the unease set in. Then, a few minutes passed, and still no coffee. Finally, with our full attention and curiosity, as if spectators in a film in which we were simultaneously characters, Quim reappears to come over to us, but he doesn't bring the coffee. "Look, look…" and the tension rose as Quim, now appearing a good few centimeters shorter, shrunken, approached. Unable to bear the suspense, the boy was still three or four meters away, and someone was already asking him about the coffee. Well, to everyone's shock, he replied: "Mr. Vítor wants to tell you to go get the coffee where you got the beers." And, turning his back on us, he left.

The message fell like a bombshell. Unprepared, we all stirred, outraged at the infamy inflicted upon us. "So," one of us said, "we come here every day, there are who knows how many of us always here for lunch, we leave all our money here for breakfast, lunch, and snacks, and now this is it?" General agreement. "If we're supposed to get our coffee somewhere else, then let's all go," urged another. Unanimous agreement. "What a disgrace, the man must be crazy, treating his best customers like this, as if we were some random barefoot people showing up here for the first time..." another voice exclaimed—in short, widespread outrage.

And so it was that, with the appropriate meaning for moments of great historical significance, we stood up and, deeply offended, swung our legs over the iron railing that separated the Deck from its neighboring competitor, the Yate, to exchange the yellow chairs and white tables of the terrace on one side for the white tables and blue chairs on the other. We were warmly welcomed, if not greeted, by Mr. Rodrigues, an elderly Galician who spoke perfect Portuguese, who immediately came to ask us if we wanted anything. If the devil had his way, we immediately ordered the very same coffee that had been refused, which Mr. Rodrigues readily accepted without further demands. Before leaving, before a silent group, he still had time to check that the cans we had with us were full, taking the empty ones with him to the trash. Naturally, the silence gave way to general enchantment; now that was service! Meanwhile, a few more people joined the group, and, as you might imagine, there was no other topic of conversation, not even to explain where we were sitting. So, as soon as someone arrived, the same story would happen again—and, like everyone else, the newcomer would soon become indignant.

The conflict, though cold and silent, grew as the minutes passed. Mr. Vítor, arms crossed and grim-faced, watched from afar, leaning against the Deck's doorjamb. From the other side of the fence, at Yate's, we watched, watched, and, in low voices, in a small committee, conspired. Action, revenge, and compensation were demanded. The immediate solution proposed was the obvious one: lunch would now be at Yate's. The catch, and someone immediately pointed out, was that Yate's steak cost 800 escudos, 100 more than Deck's, which, after a week, and out of sheer spite, still represented a significant commitment. However, another countered, the 100 escudos was well worth it because Yate's steak was beef, unlike Deck's pork. And there were more fries, someone added. Besides, as we all knew, the sauce was better too. And so, within minutes, it was decided that we would move lock, stock, and barrel to Yate, changing, with a snap of the fingers, in a flash, a decades-old tradition at the Salesianos do Estoril. So it was decided, so it happened, and not even on Wednesday, the day Yate closed, did we give in—from then on, we always stayed at Yate, and on Wednesdays, we took advantage of the day off to go eat pizza at Don Formaggio.

And so a few years passed. Along the way, other moments worthy of note emerged, such as the day when it was still raining heavily on the Deck when it wasn't at the Yate anymore. As far as I can remember, it was the only time I saw the rain stop, and it was an epic moment of great joy right there on that blue-painted iron partition—the gods were proving us right in our dispute with Mr. Vítor. On another occasion, a source of pride for me, I broke, or rather, set, with everyone's approval, the record for longest stay on the Yate's terrace—even though we still called it "Deck"—arriving after dinner and leaving only after lunch the next day. And I was never alone; my company simply varied. In truth, despite the controversy, nothing really changed in our routines, except for the terrace and the restaurant where we requested service. Over time, Mr. Rodrigues, Mr. Fernando and the great Silva, the Yate staff, became permanent, faithful figures, always accompanying the kids who, having known them since they were 14 or 15, they watched grow up, then go to university, start working, appear with their respective boyfriends and girlfriends, until, after some time, with their own children — many of whom are now also students at the Salesianos do Estoril.

But let's go back to the rebellion against Deck. The truth is, it didn't stop there, just in our group and our year. At school, the academic years passed, and because it's normal for younger students to follow older students, not only did the decision stick, at least for a while, but the narrative of the events itself, for some reason, earned the status of a historical event, at least in that corner of the little world where we grew up. In this regard, there's one episode that, at least for my part, deserves to be highlighted. I believe it was somewhere around 1998 that, accompanying a girlfriend, I went to a birthday dinner for a friend of hers where I knew absolutely no one else. I sat next to a nice guy who, like me, and as was immediately explained to me, "was from Cascais." "Oh, really?" I asked, "So, where are you from?" I asked. He was from São João. And me? I was from Estoril, and then the usual reference to the Salesians came up, “ah, you were in the Salesians?”, he asks, “yes, I was”, I reply, and he immediately tells me that, if I had been in the Salesians, then that meant I used to go to Deck.

Right on target , I thought, and immediately told him yes, that was it, hours and hours spent at Deck, only to, given the whole story told here, quickly correct myself, "I mean, Deck, Deck, not that, we'd stop at Yate, which is next door." The interlocutor, I believe he'd already introduced himself as Miguel, was curious, "Why not Deck?" And, there you go, satisfied to have a topic of conversation at an event where I didn't know anyone, I told him the whole café story, sparing no detail, and ending, proudly, with the moral of the story: "I don't know how much Mr. Vítor lost in lunches by sending us to get the coffee where we'd gone to get the beers." As if, at the narrative's climax, I'd noticed some gesture or expression on his face that I couldn't quite decipher and that wasn't at all usual, I asked him if he knew the Arcades well. To which he replies, "Yes, yes, I know Deck very well. You know, Mr. Vítor is my father."

That day, obviously, I was the one who learned my lesson: the world is a chamber pot, and with strangers, it's best to keep your stories to yourself. Lucky me, in the end, because the whole thing only served to make us laugh a bit. Speaking of laughter, as we know, he who laughs last, always laughs best, and a few years ago, Mr. Vítor ended up buying Yate and celebrated his final victory by transforming his eternal direct competitor into the Deck-Beer beer garden. The terrace is now all one, the iron fence gone, unlike Silva, who continues to make fun of the young crowd, serving steaks, pregos, and bifanas, only now he's also knowledgeable and knowledgeable about beer. And it's precisely Miguel, an impeccable guy who, over the years, has become perfectly recognizable as the spitting image of his father, who expanded the business and produces the craft beer now sold there.

Not everything is perfect, however. Much to the dismay of this small microcosm in which, for so many years, he played such an iconic role, Mr. Vítor left us in 2023. When I heard the news, unfortunately somewhat late, I couldn't help but fondly recall our disagreement—a childhood thing, but a story left to tell, perhaps this chronicle to write. It was sad news, a cause for grief and longing for all those years when, whether at Deck or at Yate, we made our home in the arcades of Estoril. To this grief, I admit, I added some relief that, in all these years, almost thirty, I still had the opportunity, on many and varied occasions, to visit Deck, the original, and exchange, now as a man and an adult, a few words with him.

A few days ago, while passing through Estoril, I went to Deck with some friends. Quim served us our beers, still there in the same uniform and with the same jovial air, now adorned with a few wrinkles. I arrived first, and only a few minutes after sitting down did my insolent friend, who that night, with his bold request, had ended up setting off this whole story, appear. As soon as he arrived, I asked him if he wanted a beer. He, who was in a hurry, sat down, put his latest-generation cell phone on the table, and, wearing a leather jacket, suede lace-up shoes, and looking perfectly at ease, he traced his leg, said hello to Quim, and explained that, yes, he would like a beer, but if he wouldn't mind, he could bring him a coffee first.