47. THE OPENING

MERSIHA opened her restaurant, Yummilicious Café & Bakery, on Valentine’s Day 2020.

Mayor Palmieri—in a dark gray suit and tie—showed up; he had won a third term. A local TV crew was there, along with a crush of family, friends, members of the Bosnian community, and longtime customers.

People seemed genuinely delighted: The café was different from any other Utica restaurant.

Strands of white flowers hung from the outside portico, making the building look like a docked boat. Light streamed in from the large front window. One wall was covered with white silk roses. Dark blue velvet love seats were scattered around the large room.

The blackboard above the bar listed Bosnian specialties, including cevapi and alvar—sausages with roasted peppers—but also European-style dishes, and Utican fare: pizza and chicken riggies.

Mersiha in her chef’s smock, her broad face radiant, greeted guests congratulating her: “Thank you! I know, I know—we are so happy!”

Ismar, in his waiter’s apron, stood talking and laughing with friends by the pastry display case. Then something happened that Ismar would mull over for weeks.

The mayor appeared—and held out his hand.

Mersiha had just told him that her eldest son—a junior, with an almost 4.0 average at SUNY Poly—was planning to move to the West Coast.

“What are you doing after graduation?” the mayor asked Ismar.

Taken aback, Ismar said, “I want to design computer games—maybe in Seattle or LA.”

The mayor looked at him, perplexed: “Why go to the West Coast, when Cree is moving to Utica?”

“Cree’s a billion-dollar company,” the mayor added. “You have a strong academic background. If you stay here and work for Cree for a few years, it will be a great investment for you.”

“We really want you here,” the mayor said. He put out his hand. “Are you going to promise me you’ll stay?”

Ismar hesitated, then shook his hand.

This encounter stunned him: “The mayor is a charismatic guy—an outstanding guy!” he said afterward.

“I thought he was going to say, ‘I heard about your dream,’ and encourage me. I didn’t expect him to say, ‘I have a plan.’ ”

“It was a kind of promise,” Ismar said about their handshake. “I still want to go to the West Coast. But maybe I’ll stay here for a while.”

Then he added, “I still want to do something big though, like my parents.”

Mersiha gathered her family together. As the mayor stood by her side, she cut a red ribbon that was strung across the café.

Then the mayor, looking serious, asked if she would like to say a few words.

She took a deep breath. Ismar and Faris both looked dazed. Ajla, in a cranberry sweatshirt, looked down, shyly. As the camera rolled, Elhan broke away and did a wild jig.

Hajrudin—in a black do-rag and chef’s apron—quickly put a restraining hand on his son’s shoulder.

“I would like to thank my husband, kids,” Mersiha said, slowly. She mentioned other family members, close friends, and colleagues. “And the mayor, of course.” She was grateful he had come; she had asked a Bosnian friend at City Hall to do her a favor.

She looked around at the roomful of native Uticans and Bosnian refugees. Many of the Bosnians had arrived as teenagers, just when she did, and now had kids in college. Like her, they had struggled; some had buried parents. At least a dozen had opened small businesses.

With a burst of energy, she said, “Thank you to the city for having us—and giving us the opportunity to give something back to the community.”

“We hope you will love us!”

Three weeks later, Hajrudin stood in the café, cutting out grocery coupons. It was Sunday, their day off. “If we’d waited one more week to open, we’d have been screwed,” he said.

Just before opening, they had run out of cash, having spent $3,000 on food and materials. They owed money on 11 credit cards.

“My sister said if you need any money . . .” Hajrudin’s voice trailed off. “We don’t want to owe anybody.” But he acknowledged they might need to borrow a bit to get through the next few weeks. “We have to be smart.”

But the couple were exhilarated by the customer response: Last night, the café was packed. “Fifteen people came in at once!” Mersiha said.

She made 80 cappuccinos. Her pastries—crème puffs, eclairs, baklava, krempita—were wiped out four times. She had to run into the kitchen to bake an extra cake.

Hajrudin was cautious: “It’s been better than I thought.”

“Much, much!” Mersiha said. Smiling, she read aloud customers’ reviews from her cell phone: “Diverse menu . . . delicious pastries, and down-to-earth owners. The Bosnian coffee is the best I’ve ever had, reminds me of my grandma’s.”

She turned to her husband: “Now we have to work even harder—to keep up the same quality of food, the cleanliness, the service.”

“Chef Ramsaya!” Hajrudin said, referring to Gordon Ramsay, the British chef and TV personality.

“I want everything to be perfect,” Mersiha said. “Look at this!” On her cell phone, she showed me photos of two dessert crepes: The first crepe was light gold, perfectly folded, with a drizzle of Nutella; her face lit up at her handiwork. The other was darker, topped by hazelnut squiggles.

“Who made this one—who?” she asked me, pointing to the second photo.

“I like how I did it!” Hajrudin told me. “She has to have her signature on everything.”

“I’m all about details,” Mersiha said. “I just have a more artistic eye. They say that people born in April are creative.”

“And you believe that?” Hajrudin asked, incredulously.

To answer him, Mersiha looked around the café, painted a cool gray. There were only two paintings—abstractions—on the wall. “I know what I’m doing,” she said. “I like simplicity. I don’t like too much stuff.”

Then the carping evaporated: Hajrudin pored over the local grocery ads for bargains. “What do you think we should do for St. Patrick’s Day?” he asked; the holiday was two weeks away. “I can do Bosnian Pot—it’s like corned beef and cabbage.”

“OK!” Mersiha said. “I’ll make something green for dessert.”

The last few weeks had been an enormous strain. It was not just anxiety about money. The couple and their two eldest boys were working around the clock.

“We’ve all lost weight,” Mersiha said. And it was true: Hajrudin looked almost gaunt. The boys, who relish helping at the café, even as they carry a full load of classes, were also thinner.

But Mersiha was working the hardest—baking most of the night, then running the café with Hajrudin. She was also teaching part time at BOCES.

Her forearms had swollen to twice their normal size. Her hands were puffy. “My fingers are tingling all the time,” she said. “They hurt so much I can’t feel them.”

“They look old,” she said, looking at her hands.

But what bothered her most was being away from her two youngest kids. She, Hajrudin, and the older boys did shifts, running home four or five times a day to be with them.

Mersiha took a nap during one visit. When she awoke, Elhan was sitting on the bed, staring at her. “Mommy, what are you doing home?” he asked.

“Things will be better when we can fix up the apartment upstairs,” she told me. Then they would all be together. Yet Mersiha kept taking on more work.

She had recently catered a baby shower for 80 people. But after the event—a big success—it hit her that she had not made any money.

She provided a dessert table with 10 different kinds of pastries, and also decorations, table settings, and goodie bags that contained homemade candy bars and cookies. “I spent $800 on decorations and materials,” she said. “I charged $1,000.”

Why didn’t she charge more?

She glared at Hajrudin. “Because my husband refuses to charge more. If we do, he thinks people will not order.”

“He freaked out when I charged $4 for Bosnian coffee,” she said, glancing at the café’s blackboard menu. “He said cut it down to $2.50. I refused.”

Hajrudin looked up from the newspaper.

“He’s afraid of what Bosnian people would say,” she said. “The ‘Special Bosnians.’ ”

“Who are the ‘Special Bosnians’?” I asked.

The ‘Special Bosnians’ are the ones who judge everyone, she said. They resent another Bosnian’s success. “Ninety percent of the community are happy for us. They say it’s so good to have a place where they can feel comfortable. They like the prices—very reasonable.”

“But some people are jealous,” she added. “They want to destroy you.”

One of the ‘Special Bosnians’—a big-boned man in his fifties—had recently walked into the café. Looking around skeptically, he said, “Your lights are so bright!”

Then he took a chair—and put it near the bar, which they are using as counter space. He sat down: “I want to be served here!”

“We don’t have a bar,” Mersiha told him.

“Every bar has a bar.”

“This isn’t a bar!” Mersiha knew his son had opened a bar in Utica that failed. “We don’t serve any alcohol.”

“I put my chair here—I will sit here and have my coffee. A macchiato!”

Then he looked at the prices. “Listen to me, your coffee is too expensive.”

“It’s Italian coffee—the best!” Mersiha said. “I’m not changing my coffee!”

That Sunday afternoon was like a thousand others in Utica.

The city is at its sleepiest on Sunday. Most stores and restaurants are closed. Few people are out walking. Even the cars going down Genesee sound hushed. The blocks where the new hospital will rise have been razed and roped off. Several old factory buildings stand, waiting to be renovated.

Some downtown streets, torn apart, are also waiting: A new gateway to the city is being created, with a roundabout and a new street—Liberty Street—which is designed to have park benches, bike racks, and dozens of trees.

As daylight fades, the glow from Mersiha’s café spills onto the empty parking lot on Rutger Street.

Rutger—once one of the most beautiful blocks in Utica—is a kind of crossroads for Ali, Sadia, and Mersiha.

They have all lived or worked there: Ali began his life with Heidi in a studio apartment. Sadia grew up in her grandmother’s big house, then later returned to start her own family. And Mersiha married on Rutger—then came back 20 years later, to gamble everything on a dream.

They have never met. But I have wondered if they ever passed each other—perhaps while walking in Proctor Park, or driving down the broad, leafy street.

Refugees socialize at home. But maybe Mersiha’s café will draw in newcomers. On some sunny afternoon, will Sadia, who lives only blocks away, stop by with her baby?

Heidi has already checked out the café’s website. When Ali returns to Utica, will the couple drive there one evening, sit on a love seat, and order Bosnian coffee and baklava?

On Rutger Street, these newcomers have fallen in love; battled bedbugs; failed math; dreamed big; felt trapped and fought; been broken and healed.

At 5 that afternoon, Mersiha stood up abruptly, “Oh, my God, I have to finish a cake.” Hajrudin finished wiping down the tables, then he too disappeared into the kitchen.

Later, Mersiha came out and sat by herself on a love seat. Her swollen left hand covered her face, which was contorted with pain.

Then Hajrudin came out of the kitchen. She immediately brightened.

“Come here, baby! Let’s relax!” she called to him.

Wearing a striped polo shirt and a cap, he placed a krempita—three inches of vanilla custard in puff pastry—in front of her, then sat down next to her.

Happily, she ate it. “It’s good!”

They discussed the week ahead, her arm around his thin shoulders. Then getting up, she headed toward the kitchen to get a pizza for their kids. Hajrudin said quietly, “I don’t know how you handle all this.”