“Do you have anything gluten-free? So, no milk?”

“You mean lactose-free?”

“I’d prefer vegan.”

“Well, we have a fruit salad or some of our sandwiches can be made vegan. There’s also a bagel with…”

“I’ll take the scrambled eggs.”

“Ah. Okay. I thought you wanted something vegan?”

“No, just gluten-free. I always say vegan for that.”

“Alright, so we’ll leave out the toast with the scrambled eggs to keep it gluten-free?”

“No, that’s not necessary. Toast is fine.”

Anyone thinking this conversation is made up couldn’t be more wrong.

The late nineties had faded into the past and the enthusiasm of the new millennium was beginning to wane.

I had graduated from the Technical University of Munich as an architect and decided to stash my Buffalo platforms along with the low-rise jeans in the attic.

But slipping into the black turtleneck of the architecture guild in my late twenties didn’t quite feel right.

The creative spark of my studies had fizzled out in the dusty routine of office life, bogged down by liability clauses and dull government regulations.

I couldn’t muster much excitement for the idea of arguing with the building authority.

So my husband and I surprised our parents with the plan to open a café  with a concept store.