By Shelley Budd
Next month will be hectic, yet delightful – the message inside my fortune cookie, received after a meal at the Roundel Café. (2465 East Hastings St.) I bought it, this time more so than after an order-in Chinese feast. It was something about the Café itself; it was unexpected.

I’m smack in the middle of East Hastings and Nanaimo crossroads in search of a reputable vintage boutique, called Tiger, Tiger. A man carting newspapers compliments my smile, which I didn’t think I had on. It’s sunny outside, for the first time all day.

You can imagine my disappointment in traveling out to this parched commercial strip to find the store boarded up and closed for good. Alas, I roll with the punches and decide to take a seat in the café next door, whose sign stands out like a sore thumb amongst the run-down Lotto store (a room where 3 unassociated, unkempt men idly watch television), a Discount Butcher Shop with a window full of meat and pies, and other lackluster establishments.

Sliding doors at the front of the Roundel Café open to the street and I take note of the skinny, tattooed dude and his pretty girlfriend enjoying a chat by a window table. A screeching, “Come on in!” is directed to me. Behind the bar, about 5 and half feet and round, with a nearly shaved head, the server waves, and you could say, smiles. It’s more of a squinting of the eyes coupled with her movement towards me, but it seems the intention was to give something of an impression of a smile. She gives the bar-top a whack as she maneuvers out from alongside it, and my attention is diverted to the 3, goofy, unshaven men, sipping from longnecks on stools, giving me little nods and glances, stupid from the afternoon drink. They seem nice enough.

While seating me, my server explains the place isn’t usually this quiet, that Thursdays and Friday nights are busy for the cheap beer & burgers combo: $10 on Thursdays cause it’s beef, and $11 on Fridays for Tofu – they make the best Tofu burgers in town – the beers local, R&B Brewing, Red Devil, and Monday’s like an industry day so it’s always busy then, but Tuesdays – quiet. A sigh. A life-long server always has plenty to say, even on a slow day. I order a Chai Milkshake.

Huge Lori Sokoluk paintings line the wall above chrome booths, and I wonder if it’s our server who painted them. They’re really nice, pastels and even-richer desert tones, washed-out landscapes with a calm, dreamy quality; a nice distraction from some of the unfinished details inside, like the raw, unfinished wood lodged between the sliding doors, or the random curtains covering who knows what on an opposite wall, turning these into endearing character. The milkshake is sweet and cold and tasty. It comes direct out of the mixer in its frosted silver sleeve.

Another couple enters the Café, apt time-travelers from the late ’50’s, she with a sprained ankle, which is promptly given refuge by the server under one of their vintage-as-fuck chairs, as she explains that she guesses they’re here for lunch, not breakfast, but there’s pancakes on special if that’s of interest. I decide she is not Lori, the painter.

They make their own ketchup here. And other stuff too – everything’s made in house, of course. And they use free-range eggs, organic produce, the works. The ketchup is really, really good – I have some with the potatoes accompanying my chicken, apple and brie wrap, which is served without the frills and I like it. Barebones whole-wheat wrap, a little sweetness from the apple, and a lot of creaminess from the brie, some lettuce, all of it very lightly grilled. It’s just like the whole place, the café: a little sweet, pretty warm, nothing fancy about it. A server who’s weird enough to make you wonder what’s in the ketchup, but it’s so good for it not to matter at all. Someone else enters, she could be a prostitute coming off from a shift, or someone whose husband beats her. She’s here, among the blue-collar drinkers at the little bar, and hipsters dining coupled, or quickly and alone, and everyone fits in perfectly.

The server approaches the woman and asks if she’ll have anything, mentioning too that unfortunately it’s no longer the Florentine soup, because that was delicious, but she thinks zucchini, a vegetarian soup. Suddenly I’m aware of the way I might be perceived by patrons at the Café where I work, often as quiet as this one today, and I feel relieved that I’ve just put in my two weeks notice.

The bill comes with a fortune cookie. I’m satisfied, in a very settling way, with my experience on East Hastings. I think I’ll go back some time, and try another plate, if only for the feeling of being inside the Roundel Café.