We drink coffee. We can’t help it, we live in Melbourne.
Our car washes have cafes. Our hairdressers are frothing the cappuccinos out the back as they’re mixing up our hair dyes. There’s a cafe on every corner, almost. Especially in the city. We’re so picky, if a cafe’s chosen or preferred brand to use in store isn’t to our taste, we we tend to move along until we find another.
I remember when I was still a staunch NSW-er and we had a Melbournian flatmate move in, I remember him stopping dead in front of one coffee place and stare at the ‘Grinders Coffee’ sticker on the door.
“They have GRINDERS here!”
[Insert several words of relief and praise.]
Now, I’m not much of a Grinders girl myself, but I do now rather see his point. Which is sad, yes, I know.
This is where my husband comes in. You see, his favourite cafe shut down as of Friday, and from his belly-aching on the subject on the weekend you’d think his best friend had died.
His appreciation for caffeine is really more as an amateur aficionado than a true foodie, I think. He doesn’t stand in the kitchen and lovingly grind the beans in a state of ecstatic (erotic?) distraction, rather the masculine equivalent to any given moment in Like Water for Chocolate.
No, he is the pure consumer. From what I gather epic debates occur between he and his workmates, who altogether must be the coffee cabal of Melbourne, as to what makes a place special. On the weekend, I was deemed privileged enough to be explained just what made his cafe so special.
“Consistently good brew; never burned, never too hot, full flavour. Excellent waitresses, competent; good looking but friendly. The chairs actually had backs, not like those stupid ottomans they are cropping up everywhere now. The raisin toast was perfect. It was in a hideaway spot, so no crowds.”
Very acute observing.
Interesting.
Now, on any given day, I’d bet that if I walked up to him, put my hands over his eyes and asked, “What am I wearing?” he’d be stumped.
“Er. Er, um – ”
Never mind.
