Coffee

Whenever I hear it, I miss the sound of coffee being made; the bang and clatter of delph and the hiss and gurgle of of the frother. The jug tapped to settle the foam. Cups hurriedly placed on wooden tables. Spoons rattling on saucers as cups are placed on them.

The toughest thing I face in life is that every few years my favourite coffee place closes and I have to find a new one. Perhaps I’m attracted to doomed coffee places, or perhaps I doom them. Either way, once I walk in the door and settle down in the corner, start thinking up a new business model, because your days are numbered.

My first love was The Winding Stair. It was the fire hazard to end all fire hazards. Not alone was the book shop entirely made of dry, untreated wood, but on the walls of the (only) winding staircase to the first floor coffee shop, some young bohemian libertinev had stapled the pages of books in a fit of romanticism. I was so convinced the place was going to go up in flames that I was scared to use my phone there. And so convinced was I that it would be shut down, that I spent as much time there as I could, like the family of a dying relative who visit all the time but would otherwise be somewhat ambivalent. 

I’m not sure if it was passionate love, or caffeine addiction, but the two are very similar. The taste, the smell, the look, the atmosphere; just being around coffee made me happier. I would think about it all the time. Sometimes in the midst of a conversation I’d zone out and dream of coffee and smile, and only tune back in when my frustrated interlocutor started calling 

“Paul! Hello!!! Are you ok!?” 

I’d sigh happily. 

“Yeah… I’m great...”

Weirdo.

When The Winding Stair coffee place finally closed, the bookshop downstairs stayed open. The clerk recognised me when I came in. We shared our sympathies. He invited me to get coffee from somewhere else and sit in the couches they had for bookstore customers, but we both knew it was over.

After that, I went through a dark time. I had a few one-morning-stands with disreputable chain coffee houses. I had coffee out of petrol stations. I even had one of the McDonalds cappuccinos, before the café at the front existed. All I could taste was bitterness. I never thought I’d have to talk about it, but here it is, out in the open. I guess it doesn’t matter now.

Eventually, I found I had a new regular. I don’t remember how it started, but before I knew it I was a regular and I was introducing it to my friends. It was first year college and I had classes near Stephen’s Green, so I’d slide out to a little West Coast Coffee place just off Grafton street. Most of the seating was in the basement, and I’d spend hours shored up there, reading and writing. 

Pat Ingoldsby was still to be seen selling poetry on the streets of Dublin those days, and I found his awe at the world somewhat contagious. His poems have that childish wit and charm that compliments Irish melancholy so well, and form something strangely uplifting, and a little cheeky. I’d have silly conversations with him, and then spend assimilating his words and perspectives.

It was years later that this West Coast Coffee place closed. I still have happy flashbacks to playing chess with strangers there. Flirting over the top of a book. Darting in with a friend to grab the couch. We had a good run. She’ll be missed. 

There have been others; in different cities, different countries. Bewleys has been there all along, but we’ve never gotten serious. Just a quick one to-go every now and again. And I make myself one every morning, of course.

Right now I’m drinking a decaf cappuccino, and I would imagine this is what sleeping with a prostitute is like. I don’t have the kind of life where I can afford to spend until three am bolt awake staring at the ceiling just because I’m hopelessly in love with a beverage. I wish I did. I wish I was bold enough to just do it. But I have a job and a life and a million excuses that seem to stop me following my heart. 

Sometimes a pale imitation is just enough to stop you going after what you truly desire.

The place itself is pretty cute though. It’s the Costa opposite Trinners. It used to be Easons, so without a single book, it reminds be of a book store. The rooms are oddly shaped and sized, and the dark wood, warm lights, and grey stone walls outside suit the winter.

There’s something promising about it. I think this might be the next one I fall for. I think the next coffee I drink here will be full caffeine, and screw the time of day.

Drink there soon if you’re going to.

It's doomed.