There is something very 1980s about parting a beaded curtain to enter a bar. It stirs a nostalgia of places I wasn’t supposed to go as a boy: hair salons and bars. Salons, because I wasn’t a girl.
Bars, because that’s where the devil lived. (I come from a strong Christian home. I know—it doesn’t show.)
So Que Pasa feels like forbidden fruit. A place you glance over your shoulder before slipping in.
I was 11 when I first crossed into such a place. My mother was at the salon on a Sunday, getting her hair done, and a visitor sent me to fetch her.
An aunt, I think. I lingered outside, hoping she’d see me, but she didn’t. So I parted the beaded curtain which made a lot of noise and I stepped in.
I recall the smell of burning hair because they used hot combs in the 80s. I recall the loud chatter, the laughter, the gossip.
My eyes settled on a woman perched on a low stool with a client between her legs, her leso parted, thighs exposed. She was a large woman, which means her thighs were even bigger. I froze. I was ready to turn back and run home when across the room I heard my mother call, “What is it, Biko?” and the spell broke.
Every time I go to Que Pasa, I tell whoever I am with this story. Maybe because the place makes me feel both grown-up and illicit. I usually almost always sit at the counter. In July, it’s cold there, but the music carries you.
After a few whiskies, I always order their pizza—which is probably the only time I ever eat pizza. If you are going to eat pizza then you’d rather eat great pizza.
Que Pasa is an ode to time passed. To the thrill of crossing thresholds. To the secret sweetness of the illicit. Like a beaded curtain, it parts, and you step through.
