And it was. Not the very English affliction of coffee as a tool to get through the day, but some basic idea that four walls, comfortable seating, good coffee and unhurried atmosphere make a place where nothing really matters. Come in, order, and drink warmth, watching the footprints outside. There are fewer comforts I think better than a deep leather armchair, a heady brew and the ability to watch people yod've never met before. Some place don't do that. Borough Market Monmouth is an experience in itself, or the Apes that've started colonising popular bits of cities nowadays. Although it isn't easy to find great coffee wherever you go in Britain, neither is it purely a drink. I am happy to pay many times more for a cappucino in an indie or chain than one I can make at home because coffee isn't just a drink.
I have measured out my life in coffee spoons, they hold memories. Nothing else is as easily accessible an inlet into Continental savoir vivre. £2.40 isn't just a flat white, it's an hour spent with friends, a breakfast with an old mate, a private reflection or a moment of pleasure with a plastic lid and heatproof sleeve. This place has been privy to frank discussion and arguments, confessions and conversations that can never last long enough. For lucidity of thought and total creativity? Earth tones and deep flavours. Open a book and write, draw or think time away; I am content in this corner.
Greatness is not achieved through orange squash.