Day 4: Not so perky...

Saturday 3 October 2009

Buster is a man who loves bad coffee (I can see the words ‘How dare you!’ taking shape on his lips as he reads this). He is utterly unashamed in his preference for froth, sugar, cream and syrups – preferably with a chocolate chip cookie on the side (but never shortbread). I am strictly a five-shot venti americano girl myself, much to the consternation of the staff in my local Starbucks who give each other the uneasy looks normally bestowed upon those who order pints of snakebite in non-university towns. So what Buster calls coffee is so entirely removed from what I call coffee, that I’m not even sure I can truly say he loves coffee. But what he is, is a true fan of the coffee shop experience.

Coffee shops permeate every aspect of Buster’s life. The accent wall in his flat is painted Costa red – I think he’s finished painting it Costa Red now. Many coats were required to assuage his inner perfectionist, and we all kept squinting at it as if it were a laminated magic eye poster from Athena and a pyramid and a camel might appear appear –  but they never did. Coffee shops dictate where Buster goes on holiday – a trip to the Gower was recently vetoed due to a “lack of facilities” (he meant coffee shops). He’s also the only person I know who owns a bottle of ‘Starbucks Dark Cherry Syrup’ (so he can make his own Dark Cherry Mochas... vile concoctions that taste like someone wasn’t concentrating and picked up the Vimto instead of the milk).

And we spent a recent weekend to Bath, almost exclusively in coffee shops, turning me into a quaking wreck complete with perspiring eye sockets and quivering fingers. Although it was worth it just for leaving a friend’s newly purchased gift in there and having to return to Starbucks the following day to say: “Hello – I was in here yesterday. Did anyone hand in my knickers?”

To cut a long story slightly shorter, Buster is an excellent person to avoid pubs with (although my next blog may have to be called The Caffeine Dodger as a result). And it was his idea that we tried the new Friends-themed Central Perk replica coffee shop on Broadwick Street in Soho. It contains the pink sofa. And the Thanksgiving turkey. And apparently Gunther worked in there for the first week.

The visiting Jammy Dodger was up for this. “Where is it? How long will it take to get there? Will there be a queue? How much will a coffee cost in there?” I had three free coffee vouchers printed from the internet, which should have set alarm bells ringing – “ What, they’re only there for three weeks and they’re giving their coffee away?”

Half an hour later and I was ready to give the Jammy Dodger away. How one woman can own such a startling array of spectacularly unsuitable footwear is beyond me. “This is LONDON! We are not in the PROVINCES! We can go OUT and still wear TRAINERS!” is my usual refrain. She tottered  to the station in what looked like sensible, low-heeled knee-boots, but were actually more akin to the molten iron shoes Snow White’s step mother was forced to dance to her death in. “How many more minutes to the station? When we get off this train how far do we walk to get on the next train. Sorry, I know you’re getting annoyed now but how many minutes is it ‘til the next train? (this final question asked whilst stood under an electronic sign saying “Next train: two minutes”)

Foolishly, I thought we could walk from Charing cross to Soho: in my book, not a long walk. The Jammy Dodger initially flagged, then took to walking directly behind me, which was inconvenient if I stepped out into the traffic and then tried to step back onto the pavement. By Berwick Street, she had fallen of a kerb and then informed me, with tear-filled eyes, that I must remember she lives in a little village and drives a car. And that to her, this had been the longest walk she had ever undertaken. I coaxed her into a few more minutes and we headed up Broadwick Street to witness the longest queue I’ve ever seen for a coffee shop (just while we’re on the subject of world’s longests).

No joke. We met Buster there and we watched people queuing past several other coffee shops just to get into Central Perk which looked... erm... well, very like the one off Friends from what I could see over the tops of everyone’s heads. Why were they giving the coffee away if it meant a queue like this? Well, I imagine the queue was very good PR. Excitable sorts were milling around taking pictures of the queue. Clearly just being close was enough for Fake Central Perk to work its magic. However, a two-hour wait for a free cup of coffee with Snow White’s wicked stepmother was not my idea of an alcohol-free good time and I was already beginning to hear the Ayingerbrau calling my name from the John Snow.

So, we went to Pret. It was nearby and the Jammy Dodger could not walk another step she said. What an enormous build-up to nothing. Rather like this blog entry.

Units dodged: I would say at least 30. There is nothing like a plan gone tits-up... or a person who moans about walking whilst in possession of two fully functioning legs, for making me want to down a gallon of wine and a cherry brandy. We even went for a wee in the John Snow afterwards, and I came close to sucking the spilt dregs of Sam Smith’s finest own-brews from the nearest bar towel. As it was, we drank tea, coffee, hot chocolate, fizzy water and a cup of miso soup with a sea-monster dwelling in its depths. Today was hard. I am very brave.

The Unit Dodger