The cafe with five faces, p.25
The Café with Five Faces, page 25
Mr and Mrs Tourist had become almost regular, by which I am not referring to their bowel movements. They were, as some of you may know, former Leave voters who had changed allegiance very quickly when they had seen who was leading Brexit and where it was going.
“Yesterday really proved my point,” the female half of the partnership was saying, even though a large proportion of her audience had never heard her point before. She enlightened them. “There were at least a million people on the streets of London yesterday, some say closer to two, but let’s go with the conservative one million so no one will argue, and was there any trouble?” It was the type of question Mike often asked. “Not an ounce! And yet the woman who started the online petition to revoke Article 50, which has already attracted almost five million signatures in just, what is it, five days, gets hate mail and death threats.”
“Shame!” chorused the Cape Town trio.
“There are so many Leave supporters who just turn nasty whenever the tide turns against them.”
“Fascist scum, the ones who do things like that.” Mike rarely minced his words.
Lois, who was clearly missing Matthew and Mark sufficiently to migrate from Granada, had also been on the bus to London and rolled into Hebden Bridge with her face still showing the visual after-effects of a navy blue flag and gold stars. Obviously, she didn’t use the right soap. She descended on Mrs Tourist as if she had made a new lifelong friend on the journey.
“My friend has sent me some pics,” she announced, waving her phone in the Tourists’ faces. Long gone are the days when you took a roll of film to Boots and eagerly awaited the prints a few days later. “I can’t decide which is the funniest!” She sat on the sofa, sandwiched between husband and wife, and with Mike, James and John leaning over the back.
“I love that one,” said Mrs Tourist, laughing at a handwritten sign declaring ‘I’m British – I’m on a march – things must be bad’. “That’s me; never been on a march before. I just never saw it as a British thing to do.” I could have indicated that she was in possession of a short and/or selective memory, but that would have been churlish.
“I think that one is almost an insult to Ikea,” said James in response to a placard stating that the author had seen far smarter cabinets in the said Swedish furniture store than in the higher echelons of British government.
“That’s just so British, isn’t it?” laughed Lois, displaying a placard saying ‘I am quite cross’. “Classic restraint!”
The next photograph was of a foot dressed in a British flag with the owner shooting it. “Yep; that’s Brexit to the rest of the world – Britain shooting itself in the foot!” Mike commented.
“Trump and Putin think otherwise,” James pointed out.
“So proving the point!” said Mike. “Just what they want for their own ends!”
“I think this has to be my winner,” said Lois, displaying a cardboard sign written in black marker pen: ‘Brexit grass is greener because it’s fertilised with bullshit’.
“Close call, but yeah, that’s clever,” agreed John. “More beers, please, Kal!” It was rather early in the day, but who am I to argue with a would-be multiple purchaser of my wares?
When I came back with my bottle-laden tray a couple of minutes later, Lois and the Tourists were still engaged in animated conversation and it was soon evident they had been talking about Lois’s job as an English language teacher. Mr and Mrs Regular edged over to join their group, which actually involved a certain level of discomfort given the arrangement of furniture.
Allow me to rephrase; Mrs Regular joined the group as a participant, while Mr Regular was coerced by his spouse to lend his physical presence, if not exactly that of his mind.
Mrs Regular was curious about Lois’s job and some of the language she was using. “So, what’s all this?” she questioned, rather openly and a little aggressively. “How do you get students to produce a word without translating it for them first?”
Lois smiled patiently, as though she had been asked this question thousands of times before, which she probably had. “Let me try,” she said. “At the moment, Britain is in a bit of a mess…”
“And therein lies a major understatement,” contributed Mike from the fringes.
Lois, used to ignoring Matthew and Mark, disregarded Mike with consummate ease, which, I have to say, was quite an achievement. “Theresa May says it isn’t her fault and instead blames the MPs. She also says the people don’t want a second referendum when the majority clearly do. What phrase can we use to describe Theresa May? She’s… in…”
It perhaps wasn’t the best piece of conveying and eliciting I’ve ever heard, but it was definitely on the right lines. Mrs Tourist and Mrs Regular looked a little bemused.
“In denial.”
It was one of those moments when those partaking in an interaction didn’t have to fake surprise or double takes, although looking at the ceiling for inspiration might have been a little over the top. It was probably only the third time I had ever heard Mr Regular speak without being prodded into action by his wife’s specially sharpened fingernails or umbrella tip, and many of his fellow customers had probably assumed he was dumb, but his contribution was both timely and valid.
Lois, looking delighted at having successfully drawn her target lexical item from an unlikely source, decided to continue her teaching demonstration. “Does the majority of the country think Theresa May is to blame?”
“Yes,” came the choral reply.
“Does someone who is in denial believe this?”
“No.”
“Does the majority of the country want a second referendum?”
“Yes.”
“Does someone who is in denial believe this?”
“No.”
Lois, having decided to ditch the pronunciation and form stages of the language clarification process, took a seated bow and there was a smattering of applause from her immediate entourage.
Mike decided to ram home the message by being repetitive, just in case anyone had missed the point of the mini-lesson. “If anyone wants to know what ‘in denial’ means, they just need to look at Theresa May. At the moment, she is denying she is responsible for the mess and isn’t to blame for the Brexit crisis – wrong. She is setting the country against its own MPs by suggesting it’s all their fault and believes her press conference didn’t inflame public opinion against parliament and its MPs – wrong. And she’s claiming that she’s on the people’s side and is insisting they don’t want a second referendum – wrong – when every poll conducted suggests completely the opposite.”
“Didn’t I just say all that?” said Lois, in the manner of one whose thunder had been stolen.
Mike looked a little taken aback; he wasn’t used to being challenged. “I was just reinforcing your argument,” he countered, with a touch of rarely seen humility. “And to lead into my assertion,” he continued with more confidence, “that Theresa May is your archetypal drowning autocrat who fakes listening like…” He was suddenly lost for an analogy.
“Some people fake orgasms.” John’s intervention, quietly delivered though it was, produced expressions ranging from embarrassment to hilarity. Mr Regular seemed to be whispering in his partner’s ear, presumably asking for a definition. Mr and Mrs Tourist retreated into their empty cappuccino cups. “Oops, sorry!” He then made the mistake of trying to joke himself out of a hole. “Denial isn’t just a river in Africa, you know.” The diverging emotions in the room synthesised into a chorus of groans. Mike looked briefly ashamed to count him as a friend.
James, wisely, decided the mood needed changing. “Here’s a joke for you,” he began, perhaps less wisely after his drinking colleague’s recent lamentable effort. “Did you see the news last night? Nigel Farridge standing on top of a bus…”
“I assume it had a pack of Brexit lies written on the side?” John questioned, a comment which produced whimpers and chortles in equal measure.
“I didn’t notice,” replied James, “but he was there, so that’s a big enough lie in itself. Anyway, he told the two hundred people listening that the million plus on the streets of London were not the majority and that they, the two hundred, were actually the 17.4 million! Is he just bad at maths or is there something more sinister going on?”
“More sinister!” called out someone, although this remark of genuine concern was almost drowned in the laughter.
“Oh yeah,” commented Mrs Tourist, “this is the pro-Leave march which originally attracted about seventy people and Farage couldn’t even be bothered to be one of them!”
“Except when the press said they were coming to take pictures!” added her usually more reserved husband.
“Pathetic!” a customer was heard to sigh.
“That guy would perform more of a public service if he started selling used bog roll,” added James. There was a moment of silence while the gathering considered such a prospect.
“Here’s another joke,” said Mike, recovered from his momentary Lois-inspired awkwardness and trying to clear his mind of James’s lavatorial imagery. “Jeremy Corbyn.” The two words alone barely raised a giggle, but Mike, as always, wasn’t done. “First, he attends a meeting aimed at trying to resolve a national crisis but walks out when he sees the much more politically able and responsible Chuka Umunna is also present…”
“Pitiful!” chorused two of my customers.
“And then, when the largest national protest ever is taking place on the streets of London, where is the great rebel leader? Canvassing by the sea!”
“The invigorating air might bring him to his senses,” commented James. “Support your party or retire.”
I love a good-humoured café – it was a shame, however, that the underlying despair caused by the Brexit shambles took the shine off it, even if many us were, at long last, starting to see a speck of light at the end of the three-year tunnel of gloom.
I deemed this to be a successful excursion into my Hebden Bridge space. I’d been called young, I’d found out I’d been read as an author, I’d been called a ‘cheeky bugger’, a few customers had tried a new room in my café and seemed to like it, I’d increased my sales of beer, and two of my former Leave-voting customers (almost certainly my only two) had attended a ‘Put it to the People’ march in London whilst carrying pro-EU banners and EU flags. Result or what?!
As no one bothered to send me any pictures of the march in question, here is one from the equally well-attended People’s Vote march in London in October, 2019.
2019: 44: Granada: The Descriptive Rules of the Road
Early spring in England isn’t what it used to be. It’s a lot wetter and a lot warmer, although no doubt Mr Trump would say this is a figment of our imagination caused by being indoctrinated into believing that climate change actually exists. So vain is the aforementioned ‘leader’, he might even try to take the credit for the increased warmth. Nevertheless, having got through a week when more rain fell than was supposed to fall in the whole month, which left the home valley on the verge of flooding once again, it was now unseasonably temperate enough to leave the street heaters and blankets in what passes as my utility room. ‘Dumping ground’ would be closer to an honest description, but I’m the only one who sees it, so ‘utility room’ it remains.
Matthew and Mark were sitting in their customary seats in my outdoor space known as Granada. Both were wearing jeans and warm sweaters, with Mark also sporting what I understand is known as a beanie; whether this was to protect him from the wind chill or to conceal his lack of a thatch, as Matthew politely described his friend’s near-baldness, was open to question. I hadn’t seen them for a while as they had been back in their beloved Lebanon for a month or so. As quite big spenders, as well as being really nice people, it was good to see them back.
Even more delighted to greet their return was Lois who, despite having forged new relationships on the return bus to London the previous week, had missed her two closest friends, to say nothing of the availability of some gullible types to verbally make feel awkward.
“Well, hello, you great deserters!” she welcomed them with a heavy dose of sarcasm. “How dare you miss the march?” This was typical of the ‘never mind the formalities; let’s get straight to the point’ outlook on life which Lois possessed in more than ample quantity. Her friends preferred to term this attitude ‘never mind the bollocks’.
“Yeah, I was really sorry about that,” half-apologised Matthew. “We couldn’t change the flights.”
The sincerity, genuine or otherwise, was lost on the abandoned one. “Pathetic excuse,” adjudged Lois, giving both of them a hug so cursory it barely counted as a pat on the back, before sitting down opposite them and, suffering from her over-estimation of the temperature in her choice of attire, looking for a blanket. Spotting this in the way only an excellent mine host could, I quickly, and as secretively as possible, opened the door of my utility room, retrieved a blanket and put it on the free adjacent chair at their table.
“Blimey.” I was, perhaps, expecting a form of thanks; this remark left me wondering if my standard of service did not usually attain this level of excellence.
“We found some really nice new cafés in Beirut, Kal,” said Matthew, attracting and holding my hundred per cent attention in one fell swoop. “Take a seat,” he added after I had already done so, narrowly avoiding sitting on Lois’s hand as she snatched the blanket.
“I’m all ears,” I said, perhaps literally as well as metaphorically.
“Two really small ones, called Cortado and Ben,” said Mark, equally enthused.
“Ben isn’t a person,” Matthew interrupted helpfully. “In fact, I’m not even sure it’s called Ben; seems to be more like Bn, which I’ve been told means coffee, as in the beans or the ground form from which you make the drink.”
“The girl who works there is really knowledgeable and gives good guidance,” Mark continued, “although the seating area isn’t the most welcoming.”
“But you go there for the coffee.” It was almost like watching a tennis match as each took a rapid-fire turn in the rally to advance the collective point.
It is hard to imagine the turnaround in café society in Beirut in less than three years. From a city in which I had almost avoided coffee shops altogether to one in which I was becoming increasingly spoiled for choice, the change was both remarkable and encouraging. Local friends have even referred to new cafés I haven’t even had time to try yet, so adding to the ever-bewildering, mind-boggling choice of upmarket establishments, which are, unfortunately, mostly concentrated in two very small areas.
“Last time, I was there, I found The High Llama,” I countered, as if not to be outdone.
“I didn’t know Lebanon had llamas.” I assumed Lois was trying to be funny. “Or lamas.” She giggled to herself. We coffee enthusiasts collectively, and slightly rudely, ignored her.
“Yes, yes.” Matthew’s enthusiasm seemed to be reaching dizzy heights. “A great place for Siphons, and they have a really good Yirgacheffe which really suits the method.”
“Are you speaking English?” Lois decided she was not to be ignored.
“A Siphon is a way of brewing coffee,” Mark explained.
“And Yirgacheffe is a coffee-producing region in Ethiopia where it is possible the great bean was actually born,” added Matthew in tones verging on the reverential.
“I have both here,” I intervened, spotting a sale. Now it was my turn to be ignored.
“The main problem with these cafés,” Matthew continued, echoing a ‘complaint’ I had made before, most recently just a few lines above, “is that both Cortado and Ben are within about a hundred metres of Sip, so the dangers of caffeine poisoning associated with café-hopping are growing rather rapidly.”
“There is a financial deterrent, though,” said Mark, who had a reputation for holding a tight grip on his purse strings. “You can pay almost as much for a decent coffee and cake in Beirut as you can in Mayfair, but you really do get decent coffee and cake.”
Matthew laughed at his friend’s all-too-frequent reference to money. “Look, you can still buy coffee from street stalls for around fifty pence,” he pointed out reasonably, “and, so long as you really do need a stiff wake-up call, these are perfectly adequate.”
Mark shuddered slightly at the thought, although I know from my own experience that some of the cheaper coffee can actually be quite decent, if you’re into that type of thing. “I wasn’t complaining,” protested the accused, although he had obviously been counting the cost. “I spent around £100 a week just on coffee in the last month. I blame you, Kal, for giving me expensive tastes! It would be almost cheaper to form a hard drug habit, but that’s one train to Losersville I’m definitely not catching!”
“OK, go on, Chaelli,” said Lois, tweaking the subject and proving my voice hadn’t fallen on completely deaf ears. “I’ll have a Siphon with that coffee I can’t pronounce.”
“Make it for the three of us,” instructed Matthew, even though Mark had remained mute.
To avoid missing too much of the chinwag, but also in the interests of customer service, obviously, I made the coffee at the table, a marketing ploy I had first witnessed at the Calle 10 branch of the Arte y Pasion Café in Bogotà and one which I really appreciated as a customer. Lois seemed entranced as the water magically rose into the upper part of the device and then trickled back down into the lower glass. Matthew and Mark, whilst anticipating the prospect of the final brew, had seen it all before and continued with their conversation.
“She might not be listening to us now, Kal,” Matthew whispered, with a nod to the bewitched Lois. I also nodded, although with the different communicative purpose of indicating that at least one member of his audience was paying attention. “But we were actually in virtual contact with you-know-who while we were away.” The chemistry experiment which the Siphon process resembles was as captivating to Lois as it might be to your average ten-year-old. Matthew decided trying to involve her ranked in the third level of futility but fortunately deemed I was worth addressing. “The weather there was weird; at the same time that England and Wales were baking in twenty-degree sun and a fair proportion of its population was lying semi-naked on the beaches, Beirut was like a warm-ish Manchester in November with torrential rain which just went on and on. And on.”
