Cups of Clouds

"I waited in an unpretentious café at the corner of Dean Street and Old Compton Street called Torinos, which had been run for fourteen years by Mr and Mrs Minella from Italy and their son. It was pleasantly old-fashioned with tall, arched windows... It had wrought iron tables with marble tops, cups of proper coffee... you could talk for hours over a small cup of coffee and the Minellas did not mind. They were so anxious to keep their customers happy they kept their prices low and were rash enough to allow credit... The goodwill was reciprocated and the tables were usually crowded. There were dark Italians huddled in earnest discussions, suddenly bursting into furious argument... and several pale young artists and poets searching half-heartedly for jobs..."
                                        - Daniel Farson “Soho in the Fifites”, 1987.

Strangely enough, the first character in Fried Green Tomatoes was the café, and the town. I think a place can be as much a character in a novel as the people.

-       Fannie Flagg

My place includes a café where we sometimes go for cappuccinos and people watching. They welcome dogs, as evidenced by the many dogs lounging around the outside tables or tied to various structures as their owners make their coffee orders. Large metal water dishes provide refreshment for canine visitors and, on hot days, the water is spiked with cubes of ice.  Dog cookies are free and plentiful.

This is one of the few coffee cafes that actually knows what a ‘dry’ cappuccino means, which is one of the many reasons we frequent it. One of the barristas is so excited when we show up, she says we make her day. Why? Because of the fact that we order dry cappuccinos.

“I get to create clouds”, she enthuses. “You let me make clouds for you!”

And, indeed, the cappuccinos are works of art, airy clouds virtually being kept in the cup by a mere spoon. Remove it and the froth would rise to the sky and take its place amongst the real cumulous, and cirrus, and mare's tails.

They let you sit forever. You can write, or muse, or people-watch. You can watch the curmudgeon Asian barrista draw incredible flowers, and trees, and fleur-de-lis on the top of lattes, a cynic with the heart of an artist. Or smell the fresh-baked creations of a chef-artist that understands the virtuosity of a truly poetic blueberry muffin.

A neighborhood café, a good café that authentically reflects its community, tends to be a centre of music, art, ideas – the place where people come together and share stories. We’ve started up conversations with people about their precocious toddlers, or their old, but lovable dogs, or whether their bike is Italian or American. Cyclists come to this café on the weekends, propping $3,000-dollar bikes against the hydrangeas. Mom n’ Babe groups on weekdays – looking for all the world like troupes of baboons as their babies cling to their backs, or fronts, or loll in their designer carriages.

We come to this particular café, in my place, for a lot of reasons. People-watching. Dog-watching. Narrative voyeurism. But mostly I come to this café because I love sipping mouthfuls of full-bodied, slightly bitter coffee through cumulous clouds.