Kya loves a coffee shop. I should clarify – she doesn’t drink coffee. She doesn’t even like hot chocolate most of the time. What Kya loves about a coffee shop is everyone else’s food.
She is, without question, the most committed people-watcher I have ever met. From the moment we sit down, her eyes are on a swivel. Not at faces – at plates. She watches every single thing that comes out of that kitchen like a restaurant critic on a deadline. A toastie goes past? She’s tracking it. A slice of cake lands on the next table? She’s leaning slightly forward, studying it, working out whether it passes inspection. A panini arrives three tables over? She’s already made a judgement.
She’s not being nosy. Well – she is, but it’s not about the people. It’s about the food. She’s gathering information. She needs to see what something looks like in real life before she can decide if she wants it. A menu means nothing to Kya. A photo on a board is helpful but not enough. She needs to see the actual plate, on an actual table, being eaten by an actual person. Then and only then will she make her decision.
It’s brilliant, honestly. It’s her own system and it works perfectly. Sarah and I just sit there with our coffees, letting her scan the room like a little food detective, until something catches her eye and she tugs my sleeve and points.
But the best coffee shop story – the one I will never, ever let her forget – is the jacket potato incident.
We were in our usual place. Kya had done her scan of the room, checked out the specials board, watched a few plates go past. Then she turned to me, completely sure of herself, and said: “Jacket potato.”
Right. Jacket potato. Great choice. I went up to the counter and ordered it. Came back, told her it was on its way. She was happy. Settled. Waiting. Everything was going perfectly.
Then the person at the next table got their food. A jacket potato. A big, steaming, split-open jacket potato with beans and cheese melting down the sides. The real thing, right there, two feet from Kya’s face.
She stared at it. She stared at it for a good ten seconds. Then she turned to me with this look – a look that said everything her words couldn’t – and said, very clearly:
“Cheese sandwich.”
She’d seen the actual jacket potato. In the flesh. Steaming on a real plate. And she’d decided – instantly, totally, irreversibly – that it was not for her. The idea of a jacket potato? Fine. The reality of a jacket potato? Absolutely not. Cheese sandwich, please. No further discussion.
I went back to the counter. “Sorry – can we change that to a cheese sandwich?” The woman behind the till smiled like she’d seen it a hundred times. She probably had.
Kya doesn’t choose food from a menu. She chooses it from the world. And sometimes the world changes her mind – and that’s completely fine.
This is how Kya processes things. She needs to experience them – see them, hear them, sometimes smell them – before she can know how she feels. Abstract descriptions don’t work. “Jacket potato” as words on a menu is just a sound. “Jacket potato” as an actual hot, lumpy, messy thing on a plate is real information. And when the real information arrived, she made a new decision. Quickly. Confidently. No drama. Just: “Cheese sandwich.”
I actually think it’s a better way of choosing. How many times have you ordered something from a menu and been disappointed when it arrived? Kya skips that step entirely. She waits, she watches, she sees what’s real, and then she decides. If anything, the rest of us could learn from her.
We go to coffee shops a lot now. It’s one of our things – like the beach, like the gym ball, like all the little rituals that make our week. Kya has her favourite spot by the window. I have my flat white. She watches the room. I watch her watching the room. And at some point, a tug on the sleeve, a pointed finger, and a single word that tells me everything I need to know.
She’s never ordered a jacket potato again, by the way. I asked her once if she wanted to try one at home, where it was safe and quiet and just us. She looked at me like I’d suggested skydiving.
Cheese sandwich it is, then. Every time.
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