Not Seattle, not Turin, but Belfast. In the bad days, back in the 1970s, Belfast had only a handful of cafés. Crowded cafés were favoured by people who liked leaving bombs under tables that would blow off legs and arms and heads once the bomber had left, just like they did in Algiers in the 50s and 60s So no-one really risked staying around too long, and what cafés weren't blown away lost their trade and had to close. All except a few and they weren't so good.
Now Belfast has become one big cappuccino bar. Every new shop that opens has to have a coffee shop, and that's on top of all the usual chains: O'Brien's, Starbucks, Clements; even the large hardware stores are at it. It used to be that men went to B&Q to stand and look at planks of wood. The discussed the merits of various types of screws and wrenches with other men and went home satisfied for having bought nothing. They'd been for a trip to a male area of life, but now even B&Q has added a coffee bar and the wives come along too and have started getting their own ideas about what kind of new kitchen they want.
But I mustn't complain too much because it's in some of those cafés that I do my best reading. I cycle down to O'Brien's on a rainy morning and take my place at my favourite table and mix a good book up with coffee and a good dose of people watching.
However Belfast doesn't always get it right. Not every place serves up an Americano just the perfect way; it's either too weak or not very hot, it has no head, or the cappuccino is all head and no substance. But we're learning, slowly. I suppose we are taking our place among the sophisticated places of the world much in the same way that a ten year old girl tries out her mother's make-up. Refinement comes with age and experience, and at this stage we still have lipstick smeared from ear to ear.
Yesterday when I lifted my head out of a scene form the Algerian coast in Camus' La Morte Heureuse, I noticed two construction workers come in. It was their yellow bibs that drew my attention because it made them stand out against the grey, mizzley morning. I could smell the cement dust that dulled the strong aroma of coffee as they swaggered in, and they seemed to fill the room with their talk and their walk. One was forty or thereabouts, the other about nineteen. They both bent down to lean their elbows on the counter and treated us to a good four inches of builder's bum each. The Polish waitress came over and the older of the two ordered in a gruff, intimidating, loud, uncouth voice: “A skinny latte and a fat-free muffin to go”. The girl hesitated for a bit before he added “please”.
