There is a charming Greek coffeeshop on Ninth Avenue just north of 44th Street. It’s named Poseidon, and according to the behind-the-counter-lady, has been at that location for 88 years. That makes it, by my calculation, the oldest Greek coffeeshop on the block.
The decor, as you might expect from someplace I’m writing about, is negligible. The only chair is in the window display case, in front of a small table covered in flowers—the owner’s idea of what vegetarians eat for lunch. The owner fixes the coffee herself, leaving room, if you like, for milk or cream, which you must find for yourself in the massive fridge that sits beside the front door. She seems to sell nothing but coffee and various things wrapped in filo dough.
(Phyllo? Filo? I don’t know which I prefer. Phyllo is obviously more fun but a bit pretentious. After all, I had to look it up to know how to spell it—it’s not like I have some kind of ancient Greek ancestry that demands I spell Greek things correctly. I’m just an intermittently hungry guy.)
The pastries aren’t bad. Yesterday I purchased an apricot-in-phyllo-or-filo-wrap. The owner asked if I wanted powdered sugar. In a fit of fancydom, I nodded. On taking the first bite, powdered sugar rained down on my pants like cake flour raining down on a pair of long shorts. The sugar was a mistake, but the pastry was not. Flaky, intelligent, dignified—it was all a pastry should hope to be.
Poseidon isn’t astonishing, and that’s the point. It’s a homey place with tasty pastries and a modicum of charm, but if I had my way it wouldn’t be worth remarking on. Were I given the go ahead to remake the city, I would do it in Poseidon’s image. Hole in the wall coffeeshops would line our streets, their lunch counters packed, their greastraps full to overflowing. It’s a shame that I’m writing about Poseidon. If the city’s restaurants had character, I wouldn’t have to.
