“Dear, Take Urban has closed down since last Sunday.” I heard my husband said.

I looped the hair tie over my daughter’s hair one last round and looked out of the car window. The café in the distinctive cheese grater like building was pitch-dark. My eyes lingered momentarily at a particular circle in the exterior wall while our car drove away when the traffic lights changed its colours.

“I love their ice-cream!” My elder son proclaimed from the front seat. I smiled at his words and said, “You just love ice-cream.”

“Can I have some ice-cream later?” He asked excitedly.

Before I could say anything, his ever-indulging father responded, “Sure, we will go for ice-cream after your Taekwondo class, little buddy.”

“Not until you have finished your lunch first,” I protested from the back seat.

My boy replied unenthusiastically in a little sulky voice, “Yes, Mummy.”

“I want some pink ice-cream too.” My girl looked at me with her pair of puppy eyes and a pout.

I cocked my head to one side and looked at her questioningly. She finally uttered, “But I have no Taekwondo class.”

Letting out a soft chuckle, I held her arm and replied, “But you have lunch too.” In return, I received a beaming smile. “Kids are indeed innocent,” I thought.

The news of Take Urban’s closing down reached us a couple of months back. Since then, my husband and I had brought the kids to the café for a few times, mainly for desserts. They loved the ice-cream and cakes while I enjoyed my all-time favourite citrus sorbet. Thereby, new memories of this café were made for me.

With our children, we preferred to sit in the interior front of the café as it was more convenient for us to manoeuvre and the air-conditioning helped to keep our temper cool. The passing traffic was something that could catch and keep my son’s attention, providing us with some moments of peace while we had our food. And my daughter was fascinated with the tall trees in the alfresco section of the café. “Why do these trees grow in the restaurant?” she would ask each time she was there and her father would patiently explain to her.

My husband was like the Vietnamese coffee which he favoured. It takes time to brew that coffee, watching it drip drop by drop from the filter to the cup before you can eventually savour it. He was a man who won my heart little by little. And I finally basked in the concoction of his practical bitterness and his family-oriented sweetness.

Near its entrance glass doors, the third table from the right along the front glass windows had a clear view of the traffic lights outside the café. My eyes would subconsciously glance in that direction whenever I was there.

“I can see you crossing the road to come to me from this seat.” He used to say to me.

Take Urban wasn’t our favourite haunt when we were courting. We came here once in a while when we happened to be in the area. But my husband knew that I liked this place so whenever we were in the area we would definitely come here. Our favourite table was the one in a corner at the back.

My photograph with him sharing a slice of cheese cake and his Caramel Macchiato used to hang from the ceiling a few tables away from the coffee ordering counter.  The picture at that spot had since changed several times over the years. And our copy of that Kodak moment had been sent into trash can years ago in my fit of anger.

I ever glanced at that same spot and wondered if he had brought his family to Take Urban just like I did. I had heard from our mutual friends that he had gotten married and had a son a few years back. His son was one year older than my girl.

This café was by no means comparable to Take Urban in the taste of food and interior design but it had a homely feel. It was a cosy place to sit back and relax while waiting for my son to finish his Taekwondo class. After my husband had placed our daughter into the high chair, he gave her a peck on the cheek – something that he would do when my son was not around. Although I knew it was not a good habit, I passed her my tablet so that she could watch her Pocoyo or Pororo while we took a break.

“The usual?” I asked my husband and he passed me his wallet with a nod.

Staring at the menu, a nostalgic feeling rushed over me and I was tempted to order his Caramel Macchiato. Indeed he was like the Caramel Macchiato. His sweetness and romantic gestures bowled me over during our early days together. But in all the sweetness, I could not taste the grounding of the bitter coffee. The foamy milk and the golden caramel syrup were attractive and interesting to me but not me.

If we had met later, would we have stood a chance? Using his present degree of dependability and my current willingness to accommodate, will our relationship work out? Perhaps we had met at the wrong timing. Perhaps we just weren’t compatible.

With a wistful smile and a soft sigh, I placed my order for a daily brewed coffee for my husband and an apple juice for myself. I was Americano person then and now. I liked my coffee as coffee was but without the intensity of the espresso. But I had since switched to juices so that I could share my drinks with my children. I am a mother now.

Indeed Caramel Macchiato is not my cup of coffee.

Looking at the father-and-daughter pair, I know where my heart is now.

My feelings for him may have faded. The place may be gone. But the memories of him reside in me.

(21.03.2014)