cafe – and so she thinks

Nude

admin — Sun, 03 Mar 2013 19:28:38 +0000

She walks in to Nude, tripping with an air of cultivated nonchalance, her excitement fizzing under the layer of cool. Her eyes can not widen enough to take in all the options that are available as standard in Italian coffee shops. At home and the cafe around the corner Dad has tea, Mum has instant, and she has squash. She once went into a Starbucks, but sees nothing here suggesting of sugar and sweetness. Now she has come to join the sophisticated set. Those who drink coffee not just to quench a thirst or hold a warm beverage, but to observe and be observed, passing the time in small sips and understanding the world through coffee granules.
Startled, she realises that the man behind the counter has asked her three times what she would like. Barista David his badge says. What is a barista? Is it like a Mr? Or a master? This boy can’t be old enough. One flashed smile later and she suddenly feels very self conscious, so hurriedly points at the first thing on the menu. The ordeal of ordering seems not to be over, and Barista David asks her some more questions, to all of which she answers yes.
Mum squeezes her hand. ‘Go and sit down love.’ The girl smiles, before realising that Mum has just held her hand in public and to regain composure she must swing her thumb through her jean belt loops and saunter to the nearest table.
Her mother arrives at the table, bearing two cups of coffee and two slices of cake. The girl takes a forkful of the light, lemony layers, letting the fork rest upon her lips, before pulling the glistening chocolate creation towards her, its stickiness too enticing.
Then her eyes wince. She has taken that first sip. Bitter, rich, moisture zapping. Strangely captivating, but sharp.
I go back to my book.
When I look up next the words are in free flow, conversation of boys and school and problems and dreams tumbling. Mother and daughter. Friends. They will be here next week.

The Society Book Club

admin — Sun, 03 Mar 2013 19:12:27 +0000

With a name like The Society Club, I expected something rather fine, a little eccentric, and somewhat individual. Turning off from the hubbub of Carnaby Street, around the corner from Pret and the like, I walk into what seems to be rather fine although higgledy-piggledy sitting room.
Books adorn the walls and shelves, piles of new books, first editions, rare copies and magazines all around. Although billing itself as a bookshop cum gallery, the venue/shop/café (what is the correct noun for a space as eclectic as this?) also stocks London honey, Laundress Cleaning Products, vintage hotel ashtrays, Constance Spry vases and a selection of delicious and retro Tunnock’s treats. ‘Gosh, it’s like my ideal living room.’ I exclaim.
Perched next to the Tunnock’s biscuits that are trustingly and simply in the centre of the long communal table, is one of the hand-written menus – scraps of paper clipped together, revealing a fondness for coffee and cocktails created with flavour in mind. I order an Americano which is buzzingly brewed in the corner, and my friend and I sat down to discuss the event we hope to organise. The close proximity of everyone means that conversations are not private, and we soon have people tapping our shoulders with advice and ideas, which we are only too thrilled to receive. The ambience of the place means that we’re pretty sure that people in here are people like us.
Just then we are asked if we could be quiet for a few minutes. A book reading is taking place this evening, and they would like to film and interview with one of the authors. Just five minutes they promised, and as my fascination of all things wordy was in full pelt this afternoon, I am only too happy to hear secrets of the craft. We listen, we learn. The fifth time this happens, my curiosity is starting to wane as my deadline and need to talk looms. I am still captivated by the tales of those who have suffered for their art, but practical measures need to be taken, and so we do the unthinkable – we retreat to Pret. I will berate myself for this for days to come. But to offset the guilt, I first scribble the next five events taking place into my diary, and look forward to the poetry readings, story slams, and exhibitions that await.
See the original post at Jammatology.

Athens, grittily getting on

admin — Sun, 24 Feb 2013 12:40:43 +0000

Pelts of heavy rain hit my highly permeable clothing, as I amble between cars and puddles, trying to avoid them both, all the while ducking trees and keeping an eye out for a place of refuge – a café.
The hen do hasn’t gone quite to plan. Our beautiful spacious apartment is indeed beautiful and spacious, but also miles from civilisation. Ironic, given we are in the nation that invented it. Suburbia Athens style, public transport is sparce, and the Acropolis truly a pilgrimage. Add to this the torrential rain and gloomy skies, and it is fair to say that the reality is a little different from our images of a sun drenched sophisticated city break.
But this is an opportunity to discover Athens through the eyes of the Athenians. Not the ancients, Zeus and his cronies, where deities an devotions ruled sway, but Athens in 2012, perpetually teetering on the edge of the economic lifeline of a tumble to the abyss of financial desolation.
As in any Eastern European of Mediterranean city, the café I sit writing this in is not full of the yummy mummys that frequent such places in leafy west London, but men at least twenty years past being ‘of a certain age,’ sipping their thimbles of coffee, stroking their balding heads, and waving their hands animatedly as they debate their manifestos for the way the world should be. Greek is a difficult language, and one I am unable to fathom, but one gets the feeling that the tirades of emotion or delicately and deliberately stated points, as well as the headlines on newspapers that line the walls of the shops where windows once were, are not concerned with the latest plastic celebrity gossip.The ‘chatter’ I find myself next to the plane warns me to watch my bags and to be wary of pickpockets. ‘ Like any city, I say?’ Living in London, I know the perils of leaving my valuables, or even non valuables, on show for all to grab at. ‘No, not like any city’ he says ‘the people are hungry.’ Everywhere we go in the suburb of Mardisoi, the suburb in which we are staying, we are met with bafflement as to why we are in Athens, and the joke is not lost on us that it’s not for the weather.
Everyone we meet is friendly, to the point at which it is alarming that the fact that it strikes us, shows how rare it must be to see seven girls in their mid twenties here on holiday, and interested in their surroundings. Harried shoppers not only painstakingly explain the directions to our destination, but even lead us there. The complexities of a Greek menu are drawn in pictures, and the owner of our apartment even pops round one evening with the most decadent chocolate cake this side of Belgium, in celebration of my friend’s impending nuptials.
Despite the bleak economy, bleak weather, and bleak crumbling buildings, there is a sense of stiff upper lip, although obviously administered with Mediterranean pizazz. Athens is a place obsessed with the perfect form. From the ancient Doric columns, elegantly tapering to the top, the dedication to the goddess of everything, to the intricate attention that is given to pouring the perfect cup of coffee.
The milk is thick, my coffee bitter, my feet wet, and my eyes tired. I won’t be sad to go home. But I do hope to return to Athens when it is in a good mood, as even this dampened Athens is one of welcome.

A novel tea

admin — Mon, 19 Nov 2012 21:43:48 +0000

It is 4pm. I get cranky if I don’t have a cup of tea by this time in the afternoon. My boyfriend knows this and so he drags me to the nearest shop to indulge me in my favourite brew. We are very lucky as the nearest shop turns out to be The Fourteas, a 1940s themed tea shop. Despite being just 25 (literally just; we are away in Shakespeareland to celebrate my birthday) I am hit with waves of nostalgia, more than likely fabricated memories and feelings that I have built up with the aid of tales from my grandparents and grainy television footage and photos of the war.
The lady in her headscarf comes over to take our order. A list of more than twenty teas is a little dizzying for me, and her and her husband help us out. Basically I want something that will go well with that scrumptious looking carrot cake over there. The frosting glistens and calls to me, and the smell of nutmeg wafts temptation.
She brings a big slice, two forks, and a pot of tea. Period crockery that I last saw on the Antiques Roadshow is laid on the table. I don’t really know what to do with tea when it’s not in a bag. We manage. It tastes good. I read wartime recipe books and study the ration cards around the room. I peer out the daintily clad windows, grateful that I am in here out of choice and will not have to leave to escape an air raid. I see the smiles of people in newspaper cuttings, enjoying VE day celebrations. I listen to a scratchy Vera Lynn on the wireless. And I remember what a treat afternoon tea is, when you make it matter.
You can read the original article on the wonderful Jammatology.

Cafe correspondence

admin — Sun, 14 Oct 2012 11:51:59 +0000

Jammatology – The Society Book Club

Sarajevo – coffee and roses

admin — Tue, 31 May 2011 19:09:07 +0000

My favourite cafe ever in possibly my favourite city ever…
If only I sat in Zlatna Ribica now, not my rainy West London Starbucks. The pavements of Sarajevo are awash with cafes and bars inviting regulars and visitors in to sample their refreshments and Bosnian hospitality in equal measures.
We discovered Zlatna Ribica on our first afternoon, wandering in search of the famous coffee that would shock and stimulate us. In the end the serotonin levels were flushed with strawberry tea in small ceramic pots, mismatching cups and saucers, melting ginger biscuits served on a shell, all sweetened by heart shaped sugar cubes. The decor was a shambolic and coincidental mash of…everything. Imagine if Marie Antoinette had fallen down a rabbit hole and taken tea with the Mad Hatter and Lawrence Llewellyn Bowen. Clocks tick in every corner, jewellery dangles from every spot not filled with sewing machines and vases and fountains. Such variegated beauty is an attribute of Sarajevo.
On leaving the cafe, we pass friends, smoking cigarettes, laughing together. With some kind of beautiful horrible synchronicity I realise what they saw as children, whilst I played nurses and my brother played armies. If someone had told the child me watching Newsround that Sarajevo could be such a beautiful, fun, soulful city, I would have dismissed them. Buildings continue to teeter on the verge of collapse, shell fire is evident, but the city still bristles with excess energy and a sense of flirtatiousness.
Occasionally in the pavement we step on a Sarajevo rose, the indents of shells filled with red paint – blood, love, life, war, memories. We make our way to the history museum – what remains of it. A war exhibition is even more powerful in a damaged building where shell fire holes litter the floor. I am struck by human tenacity. School children risking their lives to learn. Men huddling, away from the sniper fire – but it’s ok, they have cigarettes! Sarajevo was Capital of Culture in 1994 – hunger cannot kill emotion and creativity.
A self walking tour, guided by a grammatically dubious leaflet supplied by the Tourist Information Office, takes us past the spot where Archduke Franz Ferdinand was shot, until the 1990s Sarajevo’s claim to fame.
We reach the market, stomachs rumbling as the smoke from deep pizza ovens and burek shops floods our nostrils. We settle for a kebab and sit on the hill looking down, the Turkish Quarter Basacasarlija covered in the long twilight shadow. Subtly mesmeric, the tap of the coppersmiths is interspersed only by church bells ringing and the calming reassuring call to prayer. As well as minarets and cathedral towers punctuating the skyline and sharing the airwaves, the Franciscan cathedral of St Anthony is used by Catholics, Orthodox, and Muslims. Who believe Sarajevo could be a lesson on harmonious relations?
Sarajevo is like a jaunty yet heart wrenching song, the dark chords cloaked and covered by the living melody. Drowning in dimensions, it is a city I will return to. It will always be changing, because it will always be living.