Monday 27 February 2012

NUC: Café Trinity, Turnham Green



Today I ventured west, further west than I thought possible. It was a veritable odyssey over to a building near Acton used for storage spaces but refashioned into a band room for a certain drummer of mine, Jane. We are trying to rework a song for her course. Candidates thus far include A Design for Life by the Manic Street Preachers and Help by the Beatles, also Last Flowers to the Hospital by Radiohead and The Call by the Backstreet boys, just to add a touch of class to the line-up. We made some progress before decamping to this café for a coffee wind-down.

It somehow reminds me of the cafés of Southampton, situated here in a place where the oppressive assault of the city hasn't quite eroded the quaint little-Englandness of the mythical yesteryears. The eponymous green stretches out to the left, a church of sorts to the right, a roundabout and a red phone box in the middle. Inside too, it's Southampton - it's 4:30 PM and empty, with bored staff talking amongst themselves, and little wooden round chairs screaming for someone to sit on them. We heed this call. The one other customer in here turns out to be working here. We order a cappuccino and a tea; the cappuccino is very fluffy.

There are a few tasteful paintings on the wall. The café is dark and green and warming. Despite the sun, the day is cold, but the deep colours take the edge off. The staff talk in a language I can't understand and I think one of them is nicer than the other. Jane and I talk about the art of drumming. I tell her that most of my drumming practice was done on the dashboard of a minivan in Australia, and that my favourite drummer is Abe Cunningham of the Deftones. For her, a Taiwanese band that I would not know inspired her to embark on a life of drums, and she's never looked back.

This café is not overwhelming. Maybe because we're the only ones here? It's safe though. Or maybe that's the problem - too content with being a merely safe café to be in, and little more. Upstairs it gets more loungey. Out the front dark wooden tables face outwards towards the road and the confusion - a new bus every twenty seconds, a mother and pram, a jogger and dog walker. Yes, some of London's suburban traits have found there way here after all.

Tuesday 21 February 2012

NUC: The Deptford Project, Deptford

Saturday rained, Sunday did not. Saturday's café notes from Deptford is at Canary Magazine, which is down the digital street on a South East London server. Canary is good because 1. it's not oversaturated with content; 2. it's set out clearly; 3. it's got intelligent, creative articles which aren't dumbed down or formulaic and boring, and are instead embellished with such delights as Freud, existentialism and class war; 4. it's got stuff about stuff that I might be interested in - art and music and film and other random thoughts, little twists on everyday life; 5. it seems to have a voice - a Canary voice, if you will - that has a particular mood and direction (lose this at your peril...); 6. it's hoping to go to print which is way retro (physical things are cool); 7. it's got me in it, bestowing to me the semblance of legitimacy.

Sunday 5 February 2012

NUC: Wild and Wood, Holborn


On the day Saint Paul's became under siege by marauding disgruntled taxpayers (99% of the country, so I hear), Dave and I stopped here, at Wild and Wood, for a coffee, before heading into the battlefield and making unruly remarks about bankers, politics and the ambiguous City of London Corporation. We all know a little more about this secretive institution now, right? No, not really. "A coffee before the protest?" I advanced. — "Yes," replied Dave, "I know a place up here." — "Ah, but there's a place up here that I'd like to check out, looks pretty good." — "Trust me, the one I'm thinking of is really nice." — "Where is it?" — "Somewhere round here, not quite sure..."

Neither of us could find the cafés we were thinking of, which were both, incidentally, Wild and Wood. Until, voilà, here it was. The micro-network of roads round there still throws me. Our coffee was swell and gave us a much needed fuel injection for the chilly day of polemics which awaited us.

Today I am back here with Chris. We nestle in in what could be described as an alcove. The seats are carved into the walls, and the tables protrude from them. Pictures of old movie stars dot the wall, and a candle sits between us, giving Chris' beard an enigmatic shine. The unusual layout is a novelty in itself, and invites you to clumsily share the space with other coffee comrades. As the name of the place would suggest, its prettty woody and pretty goddam wild.

It's another one of those places which opts out of the conventional 'bar' system, instead simply plopping a cash register on the side and relying on shelves and worktops which spill into the room. The woman with the coffee (European but I didn't catch enough to guess where) is to-the-point but friendly. The small 'polite' reminders that those who sit here must purchase something, not water, sums up her character, at least in my head. Three suited men squeeze around a tiny table, sipping coffee delicately and talking about 'fiscal years' and 'strategic incentive strategies (SIS)'. We enjoy our coffee, it's good and is complimented nicely by a fine sugar. Buzzing slightly, we wonder whether we will ever set foot in an office; we expect not.