ALL OVER A CUP OF COFFEE
The smell of good coffee reminds me of walking into one of the cafes on Glebe or Newtown... could even be any of the singular coffee cart bars. I am sitting in a cafe drinking a cuppacino. In reality, my caffiene beverage of choice, is a latte, done Glebe style - doubleshot. It is about 11am, I am having brunch. The waiter brings my cuppacino to my table. I am sitting on a balcony overlooking Glebe. The air is a cool moist morning. Belle & Sebastian's Rollercoaster Ride plays overhead. One and a half brown sugars mounds and sinks into the oblivion of foam and milk.
Cut: I am swimming in well foamed milk. I am so proud of myself for not scalding it that I narcisstically plunge into my own coffee cup.
As I ponder of my coffee, I realise I am not really pondering at all. Or if I am, it is that, down this 4 kilometre stretch of road to the water's edge, my anxieties of the world dissipate as I talk them into the air.
I am waiting for my breakfast. Now I am not in a cafe balcony overhead. I am still having my breakfast cup of coffee, but this time, I am in a wooded establishment at a corner. The smells that emanate from the kitchen is a mix of buttermilk batter, bacon and coffee. I am waiting for two sunnyside eggs done easy, toast, bacon and grilled tomatoes. I think, "I shall go eggs and soldiers today". I think, "I hope my breakfast company comes before my breakfast does."
She comes. This time, I am across the road. Still waiting over coffee. But for all the waiting I am doing, I am not an iota anxious at all. Instead, I am relaxed and enjoying this waiting game. I am having either an bagel with cheese or a croissant with butter. I am lounging out of doors on this sunny morning, reading a novel on my favourite topic; post-colonial identities. It is part of my research for a novel I intend to write, but it doesn't feel like research. I almost do not want to put the book down when I see her walking up towards the establishment. As she sits her person down, I look at her with a smile and a twinkle of my eye to let her know I'm glad she's here. I close my eyes, throw my head back and bask in the glorious sunlit late morning. I am so glad for the sun's warmth.
We lounge around for a good part of the morning then walk further to the water. Its an excuse to keep talking. We find a bakery house, we think about it then think not, cross the road and walk further to the water. But we're too lazy to walk to the water. It's getting too warm. We just want to sit down with a drink and talk. Again. Some more. We head back in the direction of the city. The city decibels increase. As long as we remain on this road, I am in dreamland. Up till the Point, its as if I have everything under control and need not worry. I feel like I belong. I am at my best here.
We are sitting on pew-like benches indoors this time. A sign on the wall says "salamat datang" but we are not in Malaysia. An old ceiling fan whirrs overhead. There is a lot of crowd noise in this cafe. The wait staff are not exceptionally pleasant. But that is the beauty of this place. They're normal people behind the bar. I saw Ange in the kitchen as I walked through. I say Hi. I feel no sense of embarassment that I'm the paying customer. In fact, it is I who am in awe of her. She who works with refugees and homeless people for the state. She who wears tie-die skirts over black tights and her heart on her sleeve. She who loves an unkempt, unshaved bass player who pads around the world barefooted and plays his heart out for God on a 4-string. I don't always understand her but I am still in awe of her. Sometimes wish I had the guts like her, to work in a cafe so I that I too could have the time to do what I love most. I wonder if I should have another cup of coffee, then I decide not and have a sherbet cider instead and order a side of salad. We pick at the alfalfa and rocket. I pour my heart out and discuss my intentions and my anxieties. I make emphatic hand gestures and long drawn out sighs. We think in a moment of comfortable silence between us.
I go back to my plate, but I am not having alfalfa sprouts for a side anymore. Instead on my plate are two raisin butter rolls quickly losing their toast. My yoghurt is at an undecidedly tepid temperature. I only like my yoghurt chilled. Now I have to wolf down my rolls so I can polish off breakfast with my fruit yoghurt. I look outside the window. It is not bright, sunny nor warm. Its just chilling, grey clouds covering the whole basin. The chatter of customers has drowned out and in its place is the incessant patter of a typhoon that is sweeping across the east northern hemisphere. I have made it into a wet season. My coffee has turned as cold as the sherbet cider I would have had. But the smell of a good Italian roast still lingers. I thank God for all the good things I have had including the creation of coffee beans.
Cut: I am swimming in well foamed milk. I am so proud of myself for not scalding it that I narcisstically plunge into my own coffee cup.
As I ponder of my coffee, I realise I am not really pondering at all. Or if I am, it is that, down this 4 kilometre stretch of road to the water's edge, my anxieties of the world dissipate as I talk them into the air.
I am waiting for my breakfast. Now I am not in a cafe balcony overhead. I am still having my breakfast cup of coffee, but this time, I am in a wooded establishment at a corner. The smells that emanate from the kitchen is a mix of buttermilk batter, bacon and coffee. I am waiting for two sunnyside eggs done easy, toast, bacon and grilled tomatoes. I think, "I shall go eggs and soldiers today". I think, "I hope my breakfast company comes before my breakfast does."
She comes. This time, I am across the road. Still waiting over coffee. But for all the waiting I am doing, I am not an iota anxious at all. Instead, I am relaxed and enjoying this waiting game. I am having either an bagel with cheese or a croissant with butter. I am lounging out of doors on this sunny morning, reading a novel on my favourite topic; post-colonial identities. It is part of my research for a novel I intend to write, but it doesn't feel like research. I almost do not want to put the book down when I see her walking up towards the establishment. As she sits her person down, I look at her with a smile and a twinkle of my eye to let her know I'm glad she's here. I close my eyes, throw my head back and bask in the glorious sunlit late morning. I am so glad for the sun's warmth.
We lounge around for a good part of the morning then walk further to the water. Its an excuse to keep talking. We find a bakery house, we think about it then think not, cross the road and walk further to the water. But we're too lazy to walk to the water. It's getting too warm. We just want to sit down with a drink and talk. Again. Some more. We head back in the direction of the city. The city decibels increase. As long as we remain on this road, I am in dreamland. Up till the Point, its as if I have everything under control and need not worry. I feel like I belong. I am at my best here.
We are sitting on pew-like benches indoors this time. A sign on the wall says "salamat datang" but we are not in Malaysia. An old ceiling fan whirrs overhead. There is a lot of crowd noise in this cafe. The wait staff are not exceptionally pleasant. But that is the beauty of this place. They're normal people behind the bar. I saw Ange in the kitchen as I walked through. I say Hi. I feel no sense of embarassment that I'm the paying customer. In fact, it is I who am in awe of her. She who works with refugees and homeless people for the state. She who wears tie-die skirts over black tights and her heart on her sleeve. She who loves an unkempt, unshaved bass player who pads around the world barefooted and plays his heart out for God on a 4-string. I don't always understand her but I am still in awe of her. Sometimes wish I had the guts like her, to work in a cafe so I that I too could have the time to do what I love most. I wonder if I should have another cup of coffee, then I decide not and have a sherbet cider instead and order a side of salad. We pick at the alfalfa and rocket. I pour my heart out and discuss my intentions and my anxieties. I make emphatic hand gestures and long drawn out sighs. We think in a moment of comfortable silence between us.
I go back to my plate, but I am not having alfalfa sprouts for a side anymore. Instead on my plate are two raisin butter rolls quickly losing their toast. My yoghurt is at an undecidedly tepid temperature. I only like my yoghurt chilled. Now I have to wolf down my rolls so I can polish off breakfast with my fruit yoghurt. I look outside the window. It is not bright, sunny nor warm. Its just chilling, grey clouds covering the whole basin. The chatter of customers has drowned out and in its place is the incessant patter of a typhoon that is sweeping across the east northern hemisphere. I have made it into a wet season. My coffee has turned as cold as the sherbet cider I would have had. But the smell of a good Italian roast still lingers. I thank God for all the good things I have had including the creation of coffee beans.
posted by The Chilibuddy @ 10:20 am ::
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