Sol Café

We asked about this restaurant further down the hill and were not given encouraging reviews.

Oh no, not there, a woman said. Maybe for lunch, but not for dinner.

From the sneer on her face and her knowing glance at Trudy, we thought her advice might not suit our preferences. Frankly, the store didn't, either. There was far more space that there was merchandise, and the merchandise was century-old Native American artefacts sold with far too many digits next to the dollar signs. So we took it as no surprise that her taste in dining might miss our mark.

When we finally made it further up the hill and saw two restaurants next to each other, we each chose one to check out. I took the Sol Café, and Trudy took the fancy tablecloth-and-napkin place next door. (This may be an unfair description on my part. In the end, I never saw the place.) My heart sank as I approached the door, for the place seemed empty and the inside dark.

I pushed close enough to peer in thru the panes of glass on the door. It seemed dark, but lights were on. It was empty, but someone waved back from behind the counter on the other side of the room.

Are you open? I asked as I cracked open the door.

She said they were, so I went inside to look around and glance at the menu. Frankly, glance was all I did, because this was the sort of place I was hoping for, and I needed no more information. I turned to get Trudy, who was coming up the steps.

This is it, I said.

Good! she said. I don't think she otherwise reported on her reconnoiter, but then I didn't otherwise ask.

The place really was empty. We were the only ones there. So we chose a seat by the window in the corner in the back and put our aching feet up on the chairs (for this was the kind of place where you might do that, at least when it was as empty as this), and we studied the menus for quite some time. After we ordered, we gazed out the window and watched evening settle on Santa Fe.

It had been a cloudy day. From time to time a bit of blue had opened up, but it was mostly gray, the wind just stiff enough to make us wish we had dressed more warmly. So we sat behind the window, happy to be inside, and watched the clouds glide past the tops of the leafless trees.

There's not really much more to tell about that place. Our dinner came and it was good, but to tell you the truth I don't remember what I ordered. (A situation I find myself in more and more as the days wear on.) There's not too much more to say.

Except this.

As we were gazing out the window waiting for our food, a patch of sky opened up in the west. The setting sun broke thru, and its rays streamed across the treetops and onto the hills in the east.

The barren tips of the trees across the street turned orange. The hillside burst into golden-red. And a house on the hilltop burst into pinkish-golden-orange, its western walls and windows reflecting the light of the setting sun.

Most of the city was bathed in dusk, the storefronts and parking lots and adobe walls and chimneys, but the glowing treetops and the light on the distant hills made us stop.

Look, I said.

I see it, Trudy said.

The waitress on the other side of the room stopped what she was doing, walked to the window and stared, her jaw as open as ours.

I've never seen anything like that, she said.

Moments later is was gone.

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dinner at Sol Café
Santa Fe, NM

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