By Bradley Lau
Some mornings arrive on velvet paws. Others, like percussion. Today was the latter. Rain drummed the roof in a fit of catharsis, then slipped away, leaving the city rinsed of Saharan dust. I stepped into temps in the 70s – rare Houston weather, neither hot nor humid, a momentary truce with the sky. Time to take advantage of it while the day is young and before the thermometer hits 90+.
I unlock the park gate, a ritual, not obligation. Summer break means the kids will show up later, pockets full of sidewalk chalk. For now, the neighborhood belonged to the quiet.
I coast out of First Montrose Commons on my vintage city bike; 80s steel, index shifters on the down tube, no sensors, just breath, muscle, and movement. Down Stanford, past morning joggers and dog walkers. I pass Siphon Coffee, where my neighbor stands outside, cradling her cup like it was a newborn. She nods. We ware tuned to the same station.
Through the Avalon neighborhood and under the Spur to Midtown. Un Café was already humming with customers lined up. Un, the Korean owner, was mid-ceremony, roasting, weighing, blooming. He doesn’t brew coffee. He conjures and evokes it. But the benches were full, and I continued gliding past.
A custodian sweeps the sidewalk outside the MATCH performance center. At the Main Street Metro stop, where students with headphones in, wait for the UofH train and Med Center employees in scrubs wait for the train going in the other direction.
Across from the church, a short line had already formed, folks waiting for their daily brown bag meal. On the sidewalk, a young man is sitting behind a card table with a handwritten sign taped to it: “I HAVE HOPE. ASK ME WHY” No time today unfortunately, but I’ll consider it next time.
On the other side of the HCC campus is Retrospect, a repurposed 1920s gas station turned open-air coffee altar. The old pump islands are now bar-height counters with stools. A canopy shades picnic tables. Cyclists lean frames against the rack. students tap out essays over crepes and pastries. Neighborhood dogs wait leashed to chairs, tongues lolling out. The whole place hums with unhurried energy.
I racked my bike and rolled up to the walk-up window. The barista looked up from her paperback ‘If I Die in a Combat Zone, Box Me Up and Mail Me Home’. I’m impressed college kids still read Vietnam era counter culture. I nod in the direction of the book. She smiles. She knew I got it. And I knew she knew I got it. That’s how it works.
Espresso. Sparkling water. Nico & The Velvet Underground competing with the sounds of the texture of life: sweeping brooms, clinking cups.
I know. I could make coffee at home. It’d be cheaper. But this ritual isn’t about caffeine. It’s about contact. Place. The morning liturgy of a neighborhood that still believes in humans. My cycling friends tease me on the group rides: “There’s a shop, Bradley, need to stop?” Usually, yes but in a pace line trying to knock out 35 to 50 miles, not so much. Cafe stops are for quiet and reflective mornings.. I’m not just sipping coffee, I’m checking in with the world. I’m acknowledging the tattooed barista reading O’Brien in the morning. I’m honoring the architect of my espresso shot. I’m setting the tone, the intention, the rhythm of my day with heat, ritual, and presence.
These places matter. They are third spaces in a world that keeps trying to collapse us into firsts (home) and seconds (work). Without them, the city is just buildings. With them, it breathes. So no apologies. This is my morning worship. The gospel of bean and bicycle. Of recognizing your barista and being recognized back. The sacrament of shared air, reclaimed space, and the knowing nod of a stranger who’s also here, on purpose.
Yesterday, it was Koffeteria. Tomorrow will probably be Merchantile. But today? Today was a great start to the day.
Postscript: Montrose Third Space Map (Volume I)
A working map of sanctuaries (no corporate chains), no soulless lobbies. Just spirit, steam, and story.
- Agora – Two-story Greek café with shadows, books, and nighttime debates
- Black Hole – Tattooed grit and creative inertia; favored by poets and punks
- Brazil – Artist refuge meets political salon; espresso strong enough to stage a coup
- Empire Café – Brick-walled brunch cathedral; cake slices as architecture
- Siphon Coffee – Coffee theater with a side of slow-brew ceremony
- Un Café – Minimalist Korean craftsmanship and silent reverence
- Retrospect Coffee Bar – Former gas station, now a third-space oasis; crepes, bikes, open sky
- Campesino Coffee House – Latin heartbeat, vintage couches, political posters, and cortados
- Blacksmith – Precision-driven, deeply local, where the city’s chefs and thinkers get their fix
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