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Tuesday.
I arrived in the back-up café just after 9.15am. There was a very Acid Jazz summer of ’94 playlist this morning, which was no bad thing. What a summer that was, one that saw the brief revival of the Adidas trefoil tops that Adidas inexplicably did away with in the summer of ’91.
The temperamental Italian waiter, with an accent identical to Poppie, the memorable Seinfeld character who made pizzas and never washed his hands in the bathroom, in his usual double denim, has had a haircut. I toyed with complimenting him on his trimmed silver locks in order to thaw out what has so far been a lukewarm relationship. I don’t know enough about how things work here to know what the etiquette is in this place in terms of ordering beverages. When I happened upon my SW8 café for the first time back in August 2001, in those early weeks and months, inpatient for my coffee, my ordering was erratic. Sometimes I’d order from my table, sometimes from the bar, until one day, one of the early generation waiters told me to just order from the table, assuring me I would be spotted and served as soon as the situation allowed.
The problem with the back-up café is it’s very cavernous. While visibility from the bar is clear, there are no cubby holes like my café where you can easily be out of a waiter’s line of vision, the service can still be poor. I’ve noted some customers order at the bar as soon as they come in so Signore Temperamental knows they’re here and within a minute or two, they get served.
I’d walked in, gave him the ‘Morning’, got ignored and made my way to a table near the back. I saw more and more customers coming in, some for takeaways, others ordering at the counter to drink in, and still I wasn’t getting served. I knew if I went up to him and ordered, it could irk him. Waiters seem to see this as a badge of honour. By pressing them for your coffee, some see it as a failing on their part and you’re effectively calling them out for it.
Signore Temperamental must’ve either had a hair compliment this morning or he was feeling good in his double denim, because this time, as I went up to the counter to place my order, he showed no irritation. The timing was slightly off on my part as he was drinking a glass of water and I caught him mid-gulp. I ought to have waited a second or two before coming in post-gulp. A couple of minutes later, the latte arrived with excessive apologising from the temperamental one.
“I’m sorry. Please forgive me,” he said, delivering the tall glass, but not as tall as the SW8’s tall glass, and the customary glass of water – with ice (crazy in these temperatures).
I finally used the new bank card yesterday after its much-delayed arrival on Saturday. It has been a surreal two and a half weeks trying to manage without a card. I used it for the first time in the café yesterday. Seb K, the café’s greatest coffee maker tried swiping it first, but I told him this was the new card and I needed to use the chip and pin to activate it.
With his family now in Portugal, Seb K has moved into a smaller flat, a studio just around the corner from the café, but he’s very much regretting it. Loud neighbours, shared amenities, the front door being slammed at all hours. Some people are just awful. Some are just used to living in houses rather than flats and don’t appreciate the two are very different.
Seb K is looking and feeling tired and clearly, it’s on his mind. I told him to focus on the long-term. He’s got his kids out in Portugal now, giving them the life he and they wanted and sooner rather than later, he will be joining his wife and the kids. The café will sadly lose the finest coffee maker it’s had outside of the late owner.
I note some customer talking to Signore Temperamental about the football. Clearly, given I know way too much about football, particularly the historical side of it, this could be an obvious way to establish a rapport with this guy. The customer makes some SMALL talk with the double-denim one about Italy failing to make the World Cup this winter. I get the impression the customer is trying a little too hard and that football isn’t his number one sport. Like he might’ve gone online to find out this nugget of information in order to bond with Temperamental. The subtly irascible Italian counters, “This is the second time,” Italy having failed to make the 2018 World Cup too. He offers his return in a rather pointed way, as if to say, “If you want to do this football chat with me, you’d better know your stuff.”
The more affable waiter and younger of the two, another Italian and the one who actually knows how to use the card machine, has a nostril flare which can throw me. At around 11.05am, he was making his way past my table, I noted the nostril flare and thought it might precede a smile and some SMALL talk, but instead it was just a throwaway nostril flare. Years ago, I briefly dated a girl with a nostril flare. It was a seminal date for me in that it was the first girl I’d seen who had tattoos, and secondly, I was new to the nostril flare. With her, I found the nostril flare tended to follow something funny I said. I found this a useful marker in gauging how the night was going. What would’ve been more useful would’ve been if she’d at least paid for the odd meal. It was near impossible for a writer to date someone like that long-term.
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