I walk down Carpenter Street on a dishwater damp morning, and there’s nary a hint of the existence of a café; but just when I am about to get intimidated by the prospect of ending up no where, I see their standee before a dark and dank little building. “Café now open...” And there they are!
I walk up the little lift lobby which brings to mind uncommon businesses that make unlikely patrons out of students from China with remnants of winter on their fair, fleshy skins, or middle-aged men with streaks of limp hair across their dome-shaped heads, scalp red from one beer too many. I can imagine the yawning brute walking into the ground floor massage parlour, last night’s tabloid paper loosely tucked under an arm, a long string of ash hanging off a cigarette hanging off his sweat framed lips. Or maybe it’s just me grossing myself out.
I enter the old silver-grey lift which is a labyrinth in itself, with doors that slide close on one side then creep open on the adjacent side into the clean, air-conditioned brightness of the topmost floor. A wooden square frame with “Come in for a cuppa” hangs on the knob of an open door.
The place is long and narrow but well spaced with a kitchenette at the far end and a row of blockish wooden tables and chairs down the middle. Photographs line the top and power sockets the bottom on both sides of the cream-washed walls. Honestly, I was sold quite immediately because of the power sockets. I am the sentimental sod who goes around loving cafés with abundant power sockets because the battery of my 5 year old Miffy has fizzled years ago.
The owners are welcoming ladies, prompt in their service. One of them sings occasionally to the pop music they've put on. I order flat white and a scone with clotted cream, and I can’t wait to be back, even before I leave.
