Small Business Owner (café in Alfama, 7 years)
This week I almost bought a new espresso machine and then didn’t — six months more with the old one
Background
I finished secondary school and then went straight into kitchens. Trained as a pastry chef at a hotel in Cascais, worked the line for twenty years before I opened my own door. No university, no diploma, just hands that know pastel de nata dough better than my own handwriting.
My family were working-class from a village near Faro. My father fished, my mother cleaned houses. She still lives in the Algarve on a small reforma pension and refuses to move north. Money in our house was always counted in coins before notes, and I carry that habit into every till I touch.
The apartment has equity now, maybe a hundred and forty thousand above what I owe, and the SNS means a hospital visit won’t ruin me. That’s not rich, but it’s solid. I know women my age in London or New York who would kill for public healthcare and a deed in their name.
Seasonality is the worst part. August the café is heaving with tourists from every country, November it’s a ghost town and I stare at empty chairs. One bad winter, one broken fridge, one sick month — and my shoulders go up around my ears for weeks.
Money flows like the café — some days good, some days quiet, always in motion. I don’t treat it like a number on a spreadsheet. I treat it like inventory. You watch it, you respect it, you never assume tomorrow looks like today.
I survived 2020 without closing the café. I kept both my baristas on payroll through the worst of it, borrowed from my brother-in-law, drained the depósito, and opened the door every single morning even when only one person came in. I’m proud of that like I’m proud of nothing else.
I signed a thirty-year mortgage in 2019 at a variable rate because the broker said rates would stay low forever. When Euribor climbed in twenty-two and twenty-three my payment went from three-twenty to nearly five hundred and I didn’t sleep properly for a year.
Out the door before sunrise, scooter down Avenida Almirante Reis, cold wind in my face. The commute is fifteen minutes and I know every pothole. Petrol for the week is already in the tank.
Unlocked the shutters, turned on the old espresso machine, set the ovens. Bread from Padaria Portuguesa arrived at six-fifteen. This first hour alone in the café is the only silence I get all day.
Pulled myself a meia-de-leite and a stale pastel de nata from yesterday’s tray. Café stock, no till ring. I eat the leftovers so they don’t go in the bin. Breakfast of the owner.
João arrived for his shift, apron on, already joking about the football. Payroll runs at the end of the month, no cash out today. He ran the bar while I did the pastry.
Drove the little Kangoo van to Mercado for the week’s produce. Tomatoes, oranges, spinach, eggs from the Azores lady, a big tub of requeijão. Eighty-four euros, paid with the café card.
Rolled fresh pastel de nata dough for tomorrow’s tray. Twelve years of muscle memory, no measuring cup needed. I make the filling in the same copper pot my mother used for doce de ovos.
Lunch was a bowl of caldo verde I made at opening, eaten standing at the back counter. Café stock, no charge. Tourists watched me eat it and one asked if it was on the menu. It wasn’t.
Stopped at the Galp near Santa Apolónia on the way back from a supplier. Twelve euros of petrol in the scooter, enough for the week of commutes and errands. Prices keep creeping.
Only six customers between two and four, all Portuguese regulars. The tour groups didn’t come through today, something about a cruise ship schedule. Quiet till, anxious shoulders.
Opened the spreadsheet on the iPad between customers. Last week’s takings were down eight percent on the year-ago week. I stared at the number and then closed it and wiped the counter.
Counted the till, two hundred and eighty-six euros for the day, below target. Mopped the floor myself because João had to leave early for his mother. Locked up at seven-ten.
Husband had made arroz de pato from Sunday leftovers. Ate at the kitchen table in Alvalade with the news on low. We didn’t talk much, both of us tired. That’s also love after twenty years.
Walked around the corner to the neighbour’s café on Rua de Arroios. Meia-de-leite and a torrada, one-eighty. I always pay at other cafés. You respect the trade by putting money across the counter.
Picked up Miguel’s blood pressure prescription at Farmácia Alvalade. Eighteen euros after the SNS comparticipação. Without the state covering the rest it would be closer to fifty. I never forget that.
Drove up to Monsanto with Miguel, walked the pine trail for an hour and a half. No phone signal up there. The only free therapy I trust. Saw a kestrel, didn’t say much, came home quieter.
Stopped at the little market near our apartment for Tuesday lunch ingredients. Monkfish, clams, coriander, potatoes, one lemon. Thirty-four euros on the debit card. Caldeirada supplies.
Spent an hour at the stove making caldeirada slow, the way my mother taught me on holidays in Olhão. No recipe, just smell. Miguel set the table with the good plates for no reason.
Fell asleep on the sofa with the cat on my chest, windows open, tram rumbling past every twelve minutes. A proper Portuguese Tuesday nap, the kind I don’t apologise for anymore at forty-five.
Sent twenty euros via MB WAY to the electrician who fixed our kitchen socket last Thursday, a neighbour’s cousin. Cash economy by phone. I trust him more than any contract I’ve ever signed.
Opened a bottle of Alentejo tinto from the supermarket, six euros, nothing fancy. Drank a glass each on the little balcony watching the laundry dry. Saudade hit me for no reason.
Watched two episodes of a Spanish crime thing with Miguel. Paid the thirteen euros for Netflix at the start of the month, already factored in. The TV is a small luxury I never begrudge.
Rang mãe in the Algarve. She’s seventy-eight, still gardening, still complaining about the neighbours. We talked for thirty-two minutes. I didn’t send money today, will do Wednesday.
Read ten pages of a José Saramago I’ve been stuck in for a year. Fell asleep with it on my face. Miguel took it off and turned out the light. Twenty years of this small mercy.
Same ritual as Monday. Shutters up, machine on, ovens warming. Wednesday mornings the rubbish lorry comes through the cobbles at six-ten and wakes the whole street. Locals are used to it.
Sixty-five euros of pastel de nata trays from the Belém supplier, paid on the café card. We sell them for one-forty each so the margin is decent if we move the tray before it stales.
The walk-in fridge compressor was groaning since Sunday. Pedro from Refrigeração Lisboa came, replaced a relay, charged me a hundred and ten euros cash. I winced and paid immediately.
Tour group of twenty-two Dutch came through on their walking tour of Alfama. Pulled shots for forty minutes straight, João ran the till, sold out of custard tarts by eleven. Till was singing.
Pulled myself an espresso between the rush and the next customer. Café stock, no charge. Drank it standing at the machine watching João clear plates. My third coffee of the day.
Had a pregado sandwich I made from the morning bread and leftover ham. Café stock. Ate it in ninety seconds between a Spanish couple asking for wifi and a regular wanting his second galao.
Transferred two hundred and eighty euros to the Colombian bean roaster in Porto for this month’s coffee. They’re small, family-run, and I’ve used them for four years. The coffee is the reason people come back.
Filed the week’s receipts into the IVA folder for the quarterly declaration in April. No spend, just dread. Self-employed IVA is the tax that never stops gnawing at me. My accountant is worth every cent.
Three French couples came in for meia-de-leite and ginjinha. Tipped well, asked about my story, took a photo of the tiled counter. I still feel strange being looked at like a postcard.
Counted the till, four hundred and twelve euros, a proper Wednesday number. Mopped, wiped, locked up at seven-fifteen. João walked me to the scooter because Alfama gets dark in these alleys.
Sent fifty euros to my mother’s MB WAY. She never asks, I never miss a Wednesday. Her reforma is four hundred and thirty a month and the electricity bill went up again this winter.
Miguel had heated up caldeirada leftovers. Ate on the sofa with the TV muted, both of us too tired for conversation. In bed by ten-thirty, alarm set for five-forty-five.
Unlocked the shutters in a light rain. The cobbles were slick and a tourist slid past the door before we opened. I waved him in and made him a coffee while the machine warmed up.
Meia-de-leite and a slice of bolo de arroz from yesterday’s tray. Café stock. The bolo was a touch dry but perfectly dunkable. Standing breakfast while João set out the pastries.
Senhor Armando, retired, came in for his seven-thirty bica and newspaper like every morning for four years. Two-fifty. The regulars are the keel of this boat, not the tourists, and I know it.
Sat in the back office for an hour with the laptop, sorting invoices for the quarterly IVA return due April tenth. No spending, only dread. I never get used to this part of self-employment.
Tuna salad sandwich I put together from café stock and a glass of water. Ate in three minutes at the back while a school tour of twenty-six kids bought orange juice and croissants.
The rain picked up and the street emptied. Three customers between two and four. I wiped down every shelf and re-ordered the napkin drawer. Slow hours eat at me more than busy ones.
Let João leave at four-thirty to get his daughter from school. Covered the last two and a half hours solo. No till movement to speak of, just one couple sharing a pastel de nata.
Counted the till, two hundred and ninety-eight, a meh number. Mopped, wiped, shutters down. Walked to the scooter through the wet alleys, keys in one hand, pepper spray in the other.
Stopped at the churrasqueira on Avenida Roma for a half frango assado with piri-piri and rice. Fourteen euros, still warm in the bag by the time I climbed the stairs. A Thursday night staple.
Ate the frango on the sofa with the football on low and the cat judging me. Miguel was still out on his shift. The house was quiet and warm and I didn’t have to be anyone for an hour.
Washed up, put the plate away, read five pages, lights out before ten-thirty. Miguel came in at eleven, kissed the top of my head, didn’t turn on the lamp. Good man, every Thursday.
Same morning ritual. The Friday light in Alfama is different, already busier at six because the weekend markets start early. I could feel the energy before the first customer walked in.
Meia-de-leite and a warm pastel de nata straight from the oven, café stock. The first one out the tray is the owner’s tax, my small ritual, never for sale, always for me.
Transferred nine hundred euros from the café account to my personal, my weekly owner draw. Self-employed salary, basically, but I call it paying myself because it keeps me honest about the line.
The monthly Segurança Social auto-debit hit the café account, two hundred and twenty euros. Self-employed contribution for pension and healthcare. I dread this day every month, and I pay it anyway.
BPI pulled the monthly crédito habitação from our joint account, four hundred and eighty euros including the condomínio. The number still makes my shoulders tighten even after seven years of paying it.
Transferred one hundred euros to the PPR pension plan, the first deposit in two months. Not as much as I’d like, but the café had a soft February. Future me will take what present me can manage.
A slice of quiche from the café’s lunch counter, eaten in the back between rushes. Café stock. Fridays I eat whatever isn’t selling, a habit that has saved me hundreds of euros over seven years.
Steady flow of tourists between three and five, mostly German couples doing the Alfama tile route. Ninety-two euros over two hours, tipped in coins and a few folded notes. Decent.
Counted the till, five hundred and sixty euros, a good Friday. Locked up at seven-twenty. João walked me to the scooter, asked if I’d ordered the new espresso machine. I said not yet.
Met Rita, my pastry chef friend from the Cascais hotel days, at a small tasca in Graça. Shared bacalhau à brás and a bottle of vinho verde. My half came to thirty-two euros, worth every cent.
Walked from the tasca to a miradouro above the café and shared a glass of ginjinha with Rita for eight euros. The lights of Alfama below, the Tejo dark and quiet. Friday at its best.
Scooter home, quiet streets, Miguel already asleep. Brushed my teeth in the dark, climbed into bed, my feet ached and my chest felt lighter than it had in a week. Saudade for no particular thing.
Opened fifteen minutes earlier than usual because the first cruise tour was booked for six-thirty. Machine warmed, pastries out, napkins stacked. Saturday mornings Alfama smells of bread and river.
American cruise group of thirty-four came through, guided by a woman I’ve known for three years. She steers them to us every week and we keep her tip jar. Coffees, tarts, orange juices, noise, joy.
A torrada and a galao while the till cooled between tours. Café stock. Ate standing at the window watching a second group come up the cobbles towards us. Saturday rhythm is its own high.
Sofia clocked in at ten to handle the mid-morning rush. Payroll end of month, no cash today. She is twenty-four, faster than me on the machine, and I pay her more than I pay myself some weeks.
Ate a bowl of our lentil soup and half a sandwich at the back counter in seven minutes. Café stock. A French tourist tried to tip me for it because she thought I was a customer. I laughed.
The SIBS card reader froze for fifteen minutes during the second rush. I apologised in three languages and took MB WAY numbers and IOUs on receipts. Lost one sale to a couple who walked out.
Ran out of milk faster than expected. João sprinted to Pingo Doce for an emergency top-up, twenty-eight euros of whole milk. Café card. Saturday shortages are the mark of a good day.
Between five and six the tourists thinned and the light turned gold over the cobbles. I leaned on the door frame with a glass of water and just watched the swifts for ten minutes.
Till count: one thousand two hundred and forty euros. Best Saturday since September. I stood in the back office with the cash bag and felt the week’s anxiety release out of my shoulders.
Sofia and João helped me mop, wipe down, stack the chairs. We closed together at seven-forty. I gave them each a takeaway pastel de nata for the road. Not money, but a kindness.
Miguel insisted on sushi to celebrate the Saturday number. Split a menu at the little Japanese place near our apartment, twenty-four euros on my card. I was asleep in the chair between courses.
Home, feet on the ottoman, ten minutes of Miguel rubbing my calves because they were wrecked from the day. In bed before midnight. Saturdays like this one are why I still open the shutters.
Opened thirty minutes later than the weekday schedule. Sunday mornings Alfama is quieter, just church bells and early mass traffic. I made myself a coffee and started the pastry trays.
Meia-de-leite and a slice of bolo de laê from yesterday’s tray. Café stock. Read three pages of the paper while Sofia opened the till. Sunday breakfast in your own café is a particular small pleasure.
Steady morning, about forty customers between eight and eleven. Mostly families on their Sunday walk before lunch. Till ticking along. I felt no urgency for once, and the day let me have it.
Had the tab open on the Italian espresso machine distributor’s site, twelve hundred euros for the new La Marzocco. Stared at the checkout button for ten minutes. Closed the tab. Six more months.
Half a toasted sandwich and a glass of water, eaten leaning on the counter. Café stock. Mother-in-law’s lunch was at two-thirty and I needed something to carry me through the last rush.
After the last customer I took the old espresso machine apart, descaled the boiler, replaced the group gasket, polished the chrome. Ninety minutes of hands-on love. She has life in her yet.
Counted the till, three hundred and ninety euros, a solid Sunday half-day. Locked up at three-twenty. Scootered home through an unusually empty Avenida Almirante Reis.
Lunch at Miguel’s mother’s in Benfica. Arroz de pato, bread, salad, arroz doce for dessert. She refuses to let me bring anything. I brought flowers anyway, eight euros from the kiosk downstairs.
Stopped at Continente on the way home for the weekly household essentials. Toilet paper, coffee for home, washing powder, a bag of rice, fruit. Forty-eight euros on the debit card.
Sat at the kitchen table with the iPad and closed the week in the spreadsheet. Takings three thousand four hundred and thirty euros, costs two thousand nine hundred something. A margin I can breathe in.
Watched one episode of the Spanish thriller with Miguel, both of us propped up on pillows with the cat between us. Subscription already paid at thirteen a month, no new spend. Asleep halfway through.
Lights out, alarm set for five-forty-five. The café survives another week, the mortgage is paid, mãe is fed, and the old espresso machine hums for six more months. That’s enough. Saudade and gratitude together.