A . part. mental Chocolatier
68  Neofit Rilski Str.
Tel: 986 3270
Open: Daily 10am - 2am

There's something about secrets that truly feeds the ego.  When one becomes a player or even mute participant in sometimes sordid, always private details - anything from a pregnancy to a pirated operation - the human head expands to allow the size of such privilege and trust. I had been looking for this place called "candlebar" since we arrived in Sofia, having heard endless stories about the mysterious knock-requirement and sign-less entrance.  So, while browsing at a friendly boutique on Chesti Septemvri, I finally just asked a native.  And conversations with friendly bilingual Bulgarians usually go something like this: Andrea speaks Bulgarian. Bulgarian stranger answers in Bulgarian so fast that Andrea can't understand. Andrea displays confused face.  Stranger goes back to English. Andrea, still up for the challenge, attempts Bulgarian again.  Bulgarian stranger, hopeful in his new acquaintance, goes back to Bulgarian, slower, but not slow enough.  Andrea once again, is forced to confess her lack of comprehension.  But eventually we got directions, although, we would find out later, not to "candlebar".

We reach the small five corners, head past Ugo, look left, go through the grand gate and there we were, name plates, skin-soiled brass buttons and all.  It immediately felt strange, just how it was supposed to feel.  There was a tiny sign:  A. par. .mental Chocolatier.  Huh?   Well. . .what could my friends and I do but press the buzzer?  There was a sound, we emitted a push and there was a candlelit, iron-encased stairway with an invitation.  Greeting us on the landing was a wall-size nude, its canvas swaying slightly with the breeze our entrance created, a cat at her playboy-posed side. At the stairway's peak, set against wallpaper that looked like we discovered beneath the walls of our turn-of-the-century American home last year during renovations, is more art:  Adam and Eve in all their nakedness.  She has pigtails.  He holds no leaf between his legs.  This is getting good.

Like a youngster's house party, there is no hostess, no waitress and no fuss.  Just a pink smile through a curtain of long brown hair and a barely audible daberden.  It's a smoky blend of spokoino and Western customer service.  Whether we're in a cafe, a bar or a library, the staff seemed to welcome our wandering. 

If we need something - a bottle of Becks, a cup of Himalayan chai, or a fancy glass of sangria, kiwi juice or mango nectar - we're supposed to "find" the kitchen.  When I looked for a snack later, hummus and homemade organic mousse (both of the melt-in-your-mouth variety) are a pleasant surprise.  That said, you do have to pay, but you don't have to get it yourself.  It's not your usual chai prices, but not your usual chai taste, either.  Everything else is reasonable.  The spacious and clean bathroom, by the way, has this gothic, but often empty, toilet paper dispenser. Mental note: carry tissue.

We crept curiously from room to room, each interrupted squatter, necker, drinker, smoker and disc spinner's eyes darting up as though we might be Tom Cruise in Eyes Wide Shut.  The rooms are like planets, with independent textures, sounds, life forms and light, but part of one smooth system. I realise that each one provides a remedy for the body (furniture) mind (free internet) and soul (music).  Through one particularly tall doorway, I found couches and coffee tables sighing with the normalcy of my parent's Midwest home.  Other areas have cushioned walls, rock gardens and hardwood floors.  The film room, complete with a bamboo-lined screen and pink polka dotted walls, is cool and dark, just as it should be, a balcony beckoning visitors for post-view conversations. Last week's highlights included Oliver Twist and What the Bleep Do We Know (existential film - if you' haven't seen it, stop reading this and rent it now).  Throughout, white flowers pop from the ceiling's plaster, attaching their vines to vintage chandeliers.  Without exception, each room features a painting by independent artist Svetlana Todorova, her gargantuan pieces creating a palpable human, and often erotic, presence.  Velvet curtains, loosely implying the potential for privacy, often swish me from one miasto to the next. 

We finally settled on an enchanting Asian-flavoured room.  Here, the walls were scarlet and the paper lamps dim.  Sideways bookshelves with vertical wooden slats, enabled one low row of mostly hardbacks to sit while invisible thoughts from the past seemed to rise from their dusty pages.  There was a humidifier that managed to look like a fridge from the 50s.  A table painted with a checkerboard.  A moon room packed waist to ankle with cushions allowed outside light in bits and pieces through the handmade bamboo shade.  My friend, Bill, grabbed a guitar, I chose a photography book on Madagascar and my husband went off in search of refreshments.  Later, a wood-carved Chinese dragon peered down at me as I sipped tea from a bonnet-topped mug, inhaled the incense and listened to the crackle of my clove.

Can you smoke here?  Of course you can smoke here.  Curl up with a book, open your laptop, surf wikipedia, see a film, turn up some tunes, feast on your favourite dessert, stare into space, whatever.. Don't let the trendiness turn you around - any age person can relax here.  A-part-mental is open to you if you're open to it  They even serve absinthe,  that highly potent licorice-tasting liquid, famous for its hallucinogenic effects on Van Gogh and appearance in the works of Picasso and a palette of other playwrights, artists and philosophers in 19th century France.  (OK, so that particular ingredient was outlawed decades ago, but you get the point.)
The owner, a soft-spoken young guy with an intense coffee-craving, yet a calm countenance, insists he does not have clients or customers, but guests, and aims to bring people of different nationalities and ethnicities together.  Jazz drifts from a small nearby speaker as he explains how the decor came from friend's unwanted furniture, independent artists and second hand stores.  There is no phone.  Film schedules are distributed through SMS.

"A-part-mental is in the spirit of ayurveda (pronounced eye-yer-vay-duh) which means `knowledge of life,'" explains Plamen, his 15-year-old dog, Celia, at his feet. "Ayurvedic living occurs when you recognise your basic nature and live according to this true self."
Already offering exhibition opportunities for Sofia's artists, he plans to provide free courses as well, turning A-part-mental into an NGO.  Michael Palin, famous British comedian and television presenter, arrives in August to feature this unique space in an upcoming BBC documentary.

Like any loosely led establishment, you'll find an occasional snag in A-part-mental's hand-woven rug.  When I asked for hummus, for example, a girl ran, right then, to a nearby bakery to get my pita bread.  If this sort of thing bothers you, don't bother going. But when I'm resting on a red cushion, listening to the rhythmic blend of English, Bulgarian, German and Greek voices, these things matter less.  And if you're looking for a destination between cosmopolitan and coffee house - a home away from your claustrophobic flat, be sure to say hi when you see me.