Greek South African comedian Irene Stephanou reminisces about growing up in a caf
Usually, having a caf on the corner meant having a relationship with the family on the corner. Well, that’s what it felt like. Every day, including Sunday, every night, there you were behind the counter. Saturday afternoons were my worst – hot days when you had to serve people on their way out. People on their way out to picnics and braais who came to stock up for the day: cigarettes, chips and a couple of litres of Coke and off they were, on their way to fun while the counter waited for more people to come in and out.
At least if you could read behind the counter – Sister Louise, pickled onion chips and a tin of Coke seemed like paradise, but you had to watch out for people stealing. The mirrors behind the chip stand didn’t seem to make too much difference. You didn’t have to police, just seem as though you were on the alert to deter possible thieves. When they did steal, they were so good you didn’t notice them anyway. Once, one guy was examining Louis l’Amour and Mills and Boon on the circular bookstand. Suddenly he left and my cousin’s footsteps thundered after him. He’d packed the books in his shirt as he turned the bookstand. Well, that was scary and exciting, I thought, as my cousin returned with the pile of books. I was glad he hadn’t taken The Ice-Cream Headache and Other True Secrets, because I’d always wanted to read that.
Going through adolescence behind the counter was particularly excruciating. Blushing as you served a good-looking customer seemed particularly shameful, as your shaking hand couldn’t find the Rothmans from the Benson and Hedges and then you had to give him change after you’d taken his money – hopefully you’d rung it up correctly on the till and managed to breathe all the while. My sister seemed to run into good fortune as someone responded well to the pretty girl behind the counter until she answered the phone and spoke Greek. “Sy’s Grieks!” he said in disgust to his friends, and left with his Gunston.
Later, on Saturday evening, God’s “beautiful people” arrived, also on their way out. Made-up and dressed with their aftershave and perfumes pervading the counter, they made you dream of your father just getting rid of the bloody shop.
On the odd occasion that the family were to go out, the fuss and hassle hardly seemed worth it. Different members of the family went home and took turns to bath and change in shifts – all waiting for nine o’clock when the shop would be closed and the family could leave together to go to the Cyprus Club. Inevitably, just as we were getting into the car, an eager customer arrived saying, “Are you closed?”
Well, if they needed candles or paraffin “maybe …”, but if Gerrie needed more biltong and Coke; what a pleasure it would be to drive off.
Driving off into fantasy always helped anyway. In reality I reminded myself that it wasn’t so bad – at least it wasn’t a fish and chips shop.