One of the things you will read about Puerto Rico before going there is that the pace is much slower than what many of us are used to, particularly here in New England.  We tend to be very time-bound, rushingrushingrushing from place to place, activity to activity, trying to squeeze as much in during the course of a day as possible.  We expect fast service in restaurants and stores, because we have such busy lives to get back to.  Slowing down the pace on your vacation is not a bad thing, as long as you know ahead of time what to expect to minimize frustration.  Case in point:  My first breakfast in San Juan was a leisurely affair, but I knew going into it that it probably would be.

On my first morning in the city, I walked from my hotel, El Convento, down to Calle San Francisco in search of La Bombanera, a very well-known diner that serves mallorcas.  Mallorcas are sweet and savory pastries, dusted with powdered sugar much like a beignet, only stuffed with ham and cheese (or whatever you choose).  It sounded a little disgusting and not in the least bit healthy,  but I still wanted to try it so I could say I did.  Somehow, while I was distracted by a labor union demonstration on the street, I missed La Bombanera and found myself in front of Cafeteria Mallorca instead.  I was hungry, and it didn’t matter to me where I had breakfast, so I went ahead in.

It was a typical diner, bustling, loud, and crowded, the hubbub of dozens of conversations and the clatter of silverware and plates serving as background music.  I claimed an empty stool at the end of the counter which allowed me a clear sight line behind the counter and around most of the restaurant, with the exception of the cash register by the door, which was behind me.  I sat elbow-to-elbow with the people on either side of me, which left no room for notebook and pen or camera.  I was lucky there was room for me.

photo by Alex Barth

The first thing that struck me was that every person working behind the counter was a man.  Not young men, either.  Where I come from, because waiting tables does not pay well, there are two kinds of waitstaff:  College and post-college age young people and older women.  The older women tend to work in diners.  The only places I’d ever seen older men serve as waiters were high-end, expensive restaurants.  So I was intrigued by this little diner with so many older men serving as waitstaff.  They were dressed in an old-fashioned diner uniform, with short-sleeved, button up shirts, black vests and bow ties, peaked black caps, and black slacks.  I felt like I had stepped back through time.

The men behind the counter spoke English about as well as I speak Spanish, so I felt a little thrill that I could try some of my Spanish out on them.  I felt pleased with myself when I placed my order for a “mallorca de jamon y queso y cafe con leche” (ham and cheese mallorca and coffee with milk).  That lasted all of two seconds before my waiter replied, “No mallorcas today.” I stared at him dumbly.  He offered to get me bread instead.  Rallying, I shook my head and perused the menu again and finally ordered eggs and chorizo sausage (“huevos y chorizo”).  While he sauntered off to kill the pig and coax the chicken into laying a couple of eggs, I pondered the irony of a restaurant named Cafeteria Mallorca that runs out of mallorcas by ten a.m.

I sat at the counter sipping my cafe con leche (which was very good) and listening as customer after customer tried to order mallorcas and received the same grim message:  “No mallorcas today.”  They offered an explanation in Spanish, but I couldn’t follow  it.  The San Juan natives, who were clearly just stopping in for a bite on their way to work, seemed satisfied with bread as a substitute (probably because they knew how long it would take if they ordered anything else).

While I waited for my breakfast to arrive, I chatted with a nice tourist couple sitting to my left at the counter.  They finished their coffee and headed off to find breakfast somewhere that actually had mallorcas that day, while I ate my fried eggs and chorizo sausage, which had finally arrived in front of me.  It wasn’t anything to write home about, but it was fuel, and cheap fuel at that:  My total breakfast tab was $4 something before tip.  I paid at the cash register and headed out on foot to see the city.  The day was already half over and I hadn’t even started sightseeing.  But I was okay with that.  Sometimes, you have to slow down and smell the cafe con leche, even if you can’t have a mallorca.

Photo credit:  Cafe Mallorca San Juan by Alex Barth.