Chocolate on the cappuccino etched into “Che”,
and a languid jazz backing track.
Slow service, with a smile,
and battered paperbacks amongst eclectic art
of faded intensity
and forlorn hope.
A saxophone and trumpet on the wall,
and 1950s ceiling fan, expelling the English winter.
The Financial Times and concert flyers
on a battered piano with wax-stained candlesticks;
a chalked advert for a wine-tasting evening;
plain wooden tables
and assorted chairs.
Cigars at twenty pounds a go;
some customers chatting gently – most reading.
Thus fully-equipped to solve the problems of the world,
I prefer to forget time, and watch instead
the gentle sway of the waitress’s hips.
Perfect cafés are hard to find, or define. I feel this one does pretty well; it’s a regular weekend haunt these days.