At 11 am they had already taken their places around the large round coffee table. The cards in the deck change quickly and no one can remember the cards they have passed, which is a sign that they are skilled. Around the four facing the announcer, another six watch the others play, waiting for their turn or the first meze of the day. “The best one wins in this game,” someone says, and the person next to him hurries to complete it: “And the most thief!” “I don’t want there to be tension,” says a third, perhaps trying to add dynamism to the relaxed atmosphere of the hall, created by meek men of retirement age.

The chatter they carry starts with the game, fatally leads to the score of the league’s final game or prediction of the results of the first election Sunday to the nearest decimal place, and returns to the playing cards that slide across the table as the points of this round are counted. The paper where they write down the score shows slight discrepancies. They redistribute. “When we first opened, we didn’t have chairs. We sat on boxes and played pretenders,” recalls Christos. A former cafe owner, today he remains a regular and one of the best experts on the secrets of table sports.

“About Kolios and Saltamuris”

When Mr. Christos’s family settled in Ilioupolis in 1965, there were only two cars on the streets. “Kolios and Saltamoris” – remember the forefathers of motoring around the cafe. The image of the city block still replicated the countryside, which the wave of internal immigrants of that time left in search of work and better life prospects in the capital.

Cafe Nikiforos which was discovered by his brother 1969, brought Mr. Christos over the coffee shop counter until 2004, when he changed hands. It remains open to this day, with the same internal organization of the primitive coffee houses that are now becoming rarer in Athens, and in some cases with the same clientele. “Then there were two felt tables and more gambling. They were playing with money,” says Giorgos, 82. “I once lost a million drachmas at this table,” he now recalls with more nostalgia than pain.

Small “Parliament” of the district

With fixed locations, cafe patrons form groups of political affinity. “However, one company manages another,” says the current owner, describing several times when the discussion about politics flared up a bit. “They’re big kids too, their blood doesn’t boil as much anymore.”

In some decade of the last century, when there were more coffee houses, the preferences of each party could be different. The old cafe “Nikiforos” is described by its former owner as “predominantly pastoral”. “He passed here… and who didn’t,” he recalls aloud. “They passed by and said that tomorrow we would come to a cafe, and people gathered and listened to them. Geithonas, Verelis, Rokofillos… Today the daughter of Rokofillos is falling with the New Democracy,” says Mr. Christos, who maintains the same ties to politics but left the party of his youth. “Especially in this coffee shop (everyone) with PASOK,” says one of a large group of like-minded politicians who, without fitting around the table, sit in a circle as if in a meeting. “PASOK is everywhere,” says another. “But he votes for SYRIZA.”

“Young people are ahead,” some sociologists say, but as party names get mixed up, important information gets lost. It does not become clear who ended up in front of a young audience, which for the generation of coffee houses seems to be a decisive factor in the result. “If they get 150, it’s over.” “Mitsotakis will win the first Sunday with 36%”. “We don’t believe in the gallop.” The pattern is being repeated at sidewalk tables favored by smaller groups and those still taking coronavirus precautions. On the one hand, pensioners are talking to each other. “Most of the patrons in the coffee shop today are right-wing,” says a younger patron with connections to the entire political spectrum of the coffee shop. “Right and Olympians,” he adds.

“So you won’t vote for a Cretan?” someone from Crete asks loudly, so that the intention to support localism is clear.

“The other one is also a critic!” he replies in a mocking tone.

Describing the cafe as “a small district parliament” “that solves all problems,” Mr. Nikos, a former teacher, paraphrases the words of Georgios Papandreou, who found “the second and freest parliament in the country” in the Zaharato cafe on Syntagma Square.

On March 19, 1963, Cathimerini announced the closure of the historic coffee house, which since 1888 had set the stage for the political ferment of the time in a place of uplifting and entertainment. “Recommend it to everyone to go to the cafe next door. It is therapy, especially for the elderly,” says Mr. Nikos, who receives precious socialization from there every day from 11.30 to 13.30, which often becomes difficult over the years. In turn, it offers not only space, but also sustainability in this sense of the “old coffee house”. The paths of the two seem to be interdependent.

Another ten minutes

Older than the rest of the visitors, Mr. Nikos, Antonis, Fanios and Dimitris recall the times of their youth with more warmth. At that time, pigeon owners gave them rolled-up newspapers to keep their political affiliations from being revealed.

Democratic people who haven’t privatized – and the coffee shop helps – maintain a global outlook on contemporary issues. “Today we are concerned about the accuracy of power and energy. We are concerned about the issue of public health. We also want a better education,” says Mr. Nikos, who is also called the “president” because he tries to give the floor to everyone in turn, although not always successfully, as he admits. “I don’t like the police at the universities. It is a suppressive agent. Education and religion do not want the police. They need good priests and good teachers. To teach love, solidarity and respect for one’s neighbor. Science is separate from virtue, and art is separate,” he says, probably recalling some of the glory days of schooling.

With discussions about what is wrong with the state, with public opinion polls, with the abolition of meritocracy in the state and the appeal of politicians who once moderated, time passes. Some ask for payment. “The old cafe has a different taste. But young people don’t like it,” they say. “We grew up on this Turkish coffee,” Mr. Fanios will say, trying to remember modern coffee drinks, but he does not succeed. “Why do you call it “Turkish”?” Mr. Nikos corrects him: “He’s Greek. From Brazil, of course.

Mr. Nikos prepares to leave. “You still have 10 minutes to sit down,” says Mr. Fanios. But he has to bury the eyes of his wife with cataracts, and he resolutely gets up.

The women have disappeared from the cafe. They only exist in male stories when someone came early to pick up her husband who forgot to play cards with the ice cream vendor and both became objects of her wrath. They exist in the realm of the home, which in the era of traditional coffee houses was not intertwined with the realm of the municipality. Or they are no more. “Antonis and I are unaccompanied,” Mr. Fanios reports of their wives, who left early. “But you are a journalist, not a matchmaker trying to marry single people,” she says sweetly.

And here he sits in a cafe for a while. Tsipura and meze have long since replaced coffee, and new visitors are added to them. No one expects Mr. Fanio at home, but everyone knows him at the coffee shop next door.