Cafe Katja

hailo
Jun 10
5 min read

It's May. One of those balmy days, quite warm with raindrops speckled throughout the day. I'm walking down Orchard St, coming up from Grand and I see him, sitting outside. Erwin, with his strong, kind face, looking down at his phone.

So I sneak up really quiet and drop into the chair in front of him.

"Hello!" I say. He laughs. I laugh...

"You know, I always remember you," he says, taking off his phone case to reveal a Hot Literati sticker.

We grow up in a lot of places. If we want to get technical, then we are always growing up. This is the story of how I grew up in and above Cafe Katja, one of a handful of Austrian restaurants in New York, and a very good one I'll add.

A few months after I turned 22, I moved into an apartment on Orchard St. As things go in New York, I almost lived with a girl who was niche Internet famous as well, who I met in a Facebook group, but I would not have had a window so we split, but she referred me to the agent who showed me the many-floor-walk-up that would become what some have called my "Iconic" Lower East Side apartment, directly above Cafe Katja.

The first time I actually ate there was for work. I did marketing in Restaurant tech and was supposed to test out "restaurant insider skills" like saying that you'll only be there for thirty minutes or sitting at the bar or asking what the bartender recommends.

I was in a bit of a rush because, in true hailo fashion, I'm pretty sure I had a date after. I wore bootcut DKNY jeans and a navy Chloe blouse. My hair was very long and I still wore eye makeup at that point in my life.

So I walk in, say my hellos and meet the bartender, Ming. I introduce myself and mention that I live upstairs. That I'm in a rush and I say I'll have "something light."

He looks at me, smiling, holding a glass.

"You should do the red cabbage salad."

And I did, which started my deep deep love of red cabbage in many different forms.

Erwin comes over at some point and I mention that I live upstairs. And he grins, going on about how much they love neighbors. There's a warmth and a something else I hadn't felt since Kansas.

And I go to my date which is with a musician I met. This was the first night a man called me an angel, but that is a different story for a different place.

The simple story is that I kept going back. To Katja.

Like a neural network or a groove in a dirt road, when you do the same thing over and over and over again, you become familiar. And I became extremely familiar with Cafe Katja, coming down in my pajamas even at times, to have tea and to work. I met the other regulars and still wave at them across the street. I drank with the tattoo artists from No Idols and at one point conducted interviews for interns there. It became like a living room to me, as Erwin would happily coin whenever I came down in the Juicy Couture slippers my brother got me for a birthday once.

another regular showing me her Gatsby Eyes tattoo

Andrew, the other owner, is also extremely kind. He says my name, "Hailey," In a very pleasant way and would listen to me fumble around explaining Hot Literati as I figured out what Hot Literati was.

"Are you making any money?" he would ask, which is what people ask when they actually really care.

And the compassion of Cafe Katja is all over it, in its people, its food, and in how it contributes to the community.

Like if I had to rush to a meeting, I could sometimes take the plate upstairs to my apartment.

Or, during my baking phase during the sexiest summer of my life (when else would I bring cookies to a man I had just broken up with?) I had the most beautiful community in Cafe Katja.

Like once I needed an egg to bake, so I popped in and asked staff member Fernando, who disappeared and minutes later placed a raw egg in my palm.

Or once I left the apartment and popped in to ask Felipe, the bartender if they had any chocolate chips. He gave me an initial no, but after a moment said "Come back in thirty minutes."

I did, and he hands me a quart container of freshly made chocolate chips. An hour or so later, I brought them back down to share in the form of homemade cookies. The same Felipe learned how to make a Bees Knees with fresh honey syrup just for me, even though we called it a "honeybee."

I celebrated my 23rd birthday at the big table in the center with all of my friends, a big birthday the way you have it during your first year in New York. Or maybe everyone keeps this up and I just have the bad habit of leaving town on mine now and not telling anyone. They brought out chocolate cake and at the end rang the big birthday bell.

I brought one ex, only one because it felt like bringing someone home to my family. He sat at my little spot at the bar and I kissed his cheek before running around the corner to the laundromat to turn over my laundry. I was fifty cents short and Katja gave me the quarters.

I could go on and on. I have so many stories and am afraid simultaneously of forgetting them and never putting them down or putting them all down and having them out there. I like the food, of course. The schnitzel, and soup which my best friend Sean and I had a real phase with. I love the beets and their tea and all of the desserts and that one sandwich on the menu that's really really big.

But restaurants are never really about food the same way a book isn't about its words. It's all stories and people, people and stories, collections of memories and things to remember.

I love Cafe Katja. Like the time I sat at the bar the morning after Halloween in 2023 crying over eggs and my first Bloody Mary because I had a really bad night.

"The second one, you'll feel better" Fernando told me.

He was right.

When my parents visited in July one summer, we sat at an outside table as Erwin came over and met them. They were relieved to find that I'd truly found family in the neighborhood.

And if you don't have a neighborhood restaurant, you should get one.

And if you're ever on the Lower East Side, you can borrow mine. My heart is still there.