The cafe cafe

The Hairnet Café

We had a Property Café. Just down the road. Unfortunately it didn't last long and has closed. Luckily, as property professionals, they will be well placed to market the premises and get a new tenant in. Or maybe they're not so hot, and that's why they closed.

Interesting use of the word café. There are internet cafés, and property cafés (otherwise known as estate agents). It must be tempting to open a proper café., and call it that. The Proper Café. Or the Egg 'n' Bacon Café. They could rebrand the M25 as the roadworks café., the House of Commons as the Expense Café., and the gym as the torture café.

How many tabloids do you need?

Stuck in traffic approaching Greenwich today (this is an indication of (a) how bored I was stuck in traffic this morning, and (b) how long I was at a standstill, bored, in the traffic this morning) I saw a little old boy go at one of those plastic rainproof newspaper stands outside a shop. At first he looked as if he couldn't make up his mind. Then the picked up a tabloid size newspaper, then another one, the The Sun (he was on the other side of the road – far enough away for my eyesight to be functional) then at least another two. Why would you need so many papers, all presumably repeating slightly different versions of the same news?

The Egg 'n' Bacon Café.

Then, on the left, a café. that looked vaguely familiar. I'd stopped there with Dave on the way to the Rotherhithe job last year. It was run by two bruisers who looked as if they were off to the building site with the rest of the patrons the minute the last bean was mopped up with the last bit of bread.

This was a proper Proper Café. Steamy windows that had been cleaned, but not in the last few years. Tea came with two sugars and full cream milk as standard. Coffee came from one of those oversize tins of granules. The service was abrupt, and turned aggressive when Dave stuck his wet teaspoon in the sugar instead of the discarded teaspoon bowl.

“Oops” he said “sorry”.

This was met with some mumbled oaths and raised eyebrows. We'd have walked out in protest if it wasn't so appetising, if we weren't both desperate for the loo after a long drive, and if we could've been arsed. The big, bad-tempered baldie was behind the counter this morning. I was late and there wasn't a parking space, and without outside influence I have to be hungry to the point of hallucinating to stop and eat during the working day.

Proper proper café. fare it was too. None of your fancy-Dan butchers' sausages. These were frozen, sold in batches of huge numbers. At least 95% filler, grain, sawdust off the butchers' floor, and 5% meat of unknown origin. That special back bacon only old-fashioned cafés have. A dark colour, with that trademark little bit of white boney stuff in the bottom corner, the shape of the Nike tick. Tinned mushrooms. Tinned tomatoes. A range of vegetarian options: egg on toast, beans on toast, tomatoes on toast, just a coffee, just the toast. Salt and pepper. Squeezy plastic bottles filled with watered cash 'n' carry red and brown sauce. Vinegar for the lunches. Including the classic. Spag boll and chips. A masterpiece of café. culture.

Newspaper? Next door mate. Earl Grey? Never heard of him, must eat down a different café., mate.

“One late, one cappuccino, one skinny late? Coming right up. Three coffees Bob. One stirred with a fork and one with watered down milk in.”