Niko’s Café - Calle 50

Appealing workplaces are to be avoided. One wants a room with no view, so imagination can meet memory in the dark.
Annie Dillard

From what I’ve observed, writers are particular, almost neurotically so, about their workspace. At home, my wife has set up a small office where I can invoke the muses in absolute silence while I suffer through the agony of sluggishly producing the first draft of a novel. I also require perfect stillness during the early stages of revision, when I trudge through six or seven drafts of each chapter on my computer screen. Finally, when I start playing cartwheels with the changes, I print up a hardcopy of the chapter.

Then comes the fun part—early the next morning, I head toward Niko’s Café, on Calle 50.

Decades ago, a Greek immigrant started selling gyros from a cart; from there he went on to create what has become one of Panamá’s most vital culinary institutions. At present, Niko’s Café is a prosperous business, with five locations. And I, as you can guess, frequent the one on Calle 50.

As soon as I arrive I claim ownership of one my favorite tables—any of the two that are located halfway along the row of huge picture windows that face the banking district. From there, during the idle moments, I discreetly observe the comings and goings of customers. I leave my backpack on an unoccupied table, indicating possession in the name of literary creativity, and then make my way down the cafeteria line to get my usual order—the first of several cups of coffee, and oatmeal. (If my favorite spots are taken, I’ll sit at a nearby table and wait—all the time glowering like a vulture—until one becomes vacant).

Many Panamanians favor Niko’s as a place to conduct business. At times, the restaurant acquires the feel of an informal conference room. (During my observations and, I confess, eavesdropping, I’ve discovered that the types of enterprises represented at Niko’s range from the lucrative and visionary, to the unquestionably flaky. And as far as illegal trade goes, shortly after I arrived in Panamá, a large number of pre-Columbian gold artifacts, that had been housed in the Museo Antropológico, were stolen. Soon after that, the media happily reported that several of the culprits, in a sting operation, were arrested at Niko’s Café-Calle 50 to the applause and cheers of the customers while attempting to fence the items to undercover police. In spite of this precedent, I can honestly state that I’ve not witnessed any law-breaking transactions taking place at Niko’s.)

And then there are the regular customers, average citizens whose daily, familiar presence gives me great comfort as it assures me that even the simplest of routines, when practiced with devotion, become rituals.

I can’t explain why my powers of concentration are at their sharpest when I work at Niko’s. I’ve tried revising in other places—local restaurants and coffee shops—but Niko’s, by far, inspires me the most. I estimate that, while there, I can accomplish in three hours what would take me six at home.

What is it about Niko’s Café that brings out the best in me during the revision stage? Is it the smell of the hojaldres and the salchichas guisadas? Is it the muffled conversations? Is it the occasional bursts of laughter as friends joke or greet each other? Is it the cooled light that shines through the picture windows? Is it the muted chimes of silverware and glasses? Is it the anonymity in which I am allowed to work: a place where I'm surrounded by gracious people but not obliged to greet them?

What I do know is that at Niko’s I can, for a few hours, squelch the inherent loneliness of being a writer.

During the height of the revision process, I average two or three visits to Niko’s per week. This is especially exciting because it means that a novel is nearing completion.

If I should ever leave Panamá, I’m sure to find another place that helps alleviate the demanding, lonesome, and yet singularly rewarding task of writing. Nevertheless, wherever I end up, there will always be a special place for Niko’s Café in my catalog of memories.