So I'm on the bus on my way home from the dentist after a gruuuuuelling procedure, feeling a bit sore and sorry, when this guy stumbles and kinda lands against my seat, which is a high one and can fit 2 if you squeeeeeze in.
"Sorry," he says in English, so I reply, "No problem."
He looks back, surprised, then looks at the Charlaine Harris book in my hand. "Are you reading a book in English?"
"Yep, because I'm Australian."
"Good on ya! Mate, I'm knackered."
So I move over on my seat and he squeeeeezes on beside me and there we are for the next 15 minutes, chatting away like the best friends Australians can become in an instant. My fellow former Melburnian lives in Switzerland and thinks we should start a business here selling the fresh café food that's so common in Melbourne and that we should import baristas who know what the hell they're doing.
Because I've said it before and I'll say it again: the coffee in Paris sucks. No, actually, the coffee in Paris is shit. What, you think I'm being too harsh? Take yourself off to Melbourne, try what's on offer there, then come back here and tell me I'm wrong. (Special offer at the end of this post!)
Once I got home, I read Barbara's post about one of her favorite places closing down. That, and the conversation with my BMF (BTW, yes, he was very, very attractive--the girlfriend with him thought so, too), made me think of Brown Sugar. Sigh. Brown Sugar, how I did love that place. Here's how it all started:
Back in 2000, I was writing a book with the final scenes set in Paris. I'd never been here, so I was at Borders, looking through the travel guides, etc. It was a hot late February day, and I wandered out of Borders onto Chapel St, and straight into Jules. We'd worked together about 4 years earlier, then she'd moved to a different division and I'd barely seen her. So we did the usual catch up and she said "I'm planning on going to Paris for my birthday in August."
"Get out! I was just looking at books on Paris, I soooooo wanna go!"
"You should come with me!"
"Okay, sure!" I gushed, and thought no more of it because I'm always gushing about things I want to do then finding something else I want to do, etc, etc.
A week later, Jules was on the phone. "Okay, so are you still on? Coz I found a great flight..."
"Um....sure! Why the hell not?" (Why the hell not? Because they all speak FRENCH there and oh, by the way, the tires on your flight home, 2 of them are going to blow while you're taxiing down the runway, the same runway that the Concord took off from, and you're going to have people driving along beside your plane waving their arms frantically at you while you say to the hosties, "Ah, we might have a problem here" and then you'll get to sit in the terminal for 6 hours. But hey, the croissants are good.)
We agreed to meet every Tuesday morning for breakfast. I was living on one side of town and working on another, and I had to pass through the city centre, where Jules was working, so it was easiest to meet there. Jules said she knew of a great little place in Block Place, this tiny lane that runs off Block Arcade that's filled to overflowing with cafés. Block Arcade is one of Melbourne's Paris-style covered arcades, loaded with tony stores and Haigh's chocolate, which I steadfastly claim can whip the chocolateries here, if only because of the amount of pure cacao in their creations. And because they make peppermint frogs.
Here's a pic of the entrance to Block Place from Little Collins St--the arcade entrance is at the far end. Anyway, the café Jules wanted to go to was closed. The only one open was a place that looked very Parisian to us: dark wooden fittings, rich yellow walls covered in B&W shots of European locales, French country-style chairs. It was called Brown Sugar and we started meeting there every week. And because we got there early, around 7.30, and the guys were friendly and didn't have too many customers, they started sitting in on the plans, giving their opinions, etc. "The guys" were the owner, Tony, and the chef, Frank. Tony is, to this day, one of the nicest guys I've ever met. He was about 32, 34, then, Australian-born Greek, personable, and the maker of the best flat white* I've ever had. EH-VER. We sent them a postcard from Paris, they loved it. Pretty soon, I was coming in almost daily for breakfast, taking friends there at night, having post-writer's-group-meetings coffees with my critique group on Sundays. The food was always good, they had an impressive wine list for a small place, and the coffee....oh, the coffee.
(*For the non-Aussies/Kiwis, a flat white is about 1/3 espresso then 2/3 hot milk with only a tiny, tiny bit of foam that's folded over, so it's "flat." No, it is NOT another word for "latte," as some like to think. It's rich and creamy and my drink of choice.)
I had my favorite tables--on the mini terrace in warm weather, up against the wall in winter. When I left work in 2001, I'd take my Alphasmart there and write for hours on end. As soon as Tony saw me, he'd fire up that espresso machine. Sometimes he'd write "G" in the froth, sometimes he'd do a heart or a leaf, whatever caught his fancy. He'd come over for a chat when things were quiet, he'd put aside slices of cake or a serving of a favorite food if he knew I was coming in, he'd let me order things that weren't on the menu if I had a craving and he'd charge me mate's rates. Brown Sugar was definitely my home away from home. There were always plenty of people around yet at the same time it was
hidden away, a place where people were unlikely to find you--based on my habit of skiving away from the office, that's always been a basic requirement for a café. My fellow skivee, Sally, who was working in the city during that time, would often sneak away to meet me for a caf and some curse-strewn gossip.
Because the Place is so narrow and most of the cafés are owned or staffed by Greeks or Italians,
everyone knew everyone's business. There was a healthy sense of competition/camaraderie. They'd be thrilled if they had more business than their friends across the alley but would also happily give them any ingredients they might need in a pinch. So the day when Tony sat down and said, "Gab, I have something to tell you. We've sold the place," I felt so betrayed, I blurted out, "You'd better be fucking kidding me!" He got tears in his eyes and I did, too, and neither of us could talk for a while, until he said, "I know, I know, I'm sorry." But it was the right thing for him to do. His wife and he had one child and another on the way. She worked there, too, and they rarely saw each other or their son, so they had to do something.
We all had our fingers crossed that things wouldn't change when Tony left, but of course they did. The staff stayed on and tried to make it work, but you know how it goes--people buy a business because it's great but then their egos gets out of hand, they have to put their stamp on it. No so thing as "Do not mess with success." They painted, making it colder, and messed with the menu. One by one the staff left, and so did the regulars. I went when I ordered a flat white and got this...thing. This bitter thing that had burnt bubbles where there should have been a smooth nappe. Some of us drifted to Segovia (the first café on the right here; BS is 2 doors up), others simply disappeared, wandering out amongst the lost.
I've been on the hunt for another Brown Sugar since then, and I've yet to find it. I sincerely doubt I'll find it in Paris simply because, well, there are no Tonys here. There are no guys like the one on the bus this afternoon. There don't seem to be any people who actually know how to make coffee--except at Starbucks, which shows you just how dire things are. The problem is two-fold: 1. they use long-life milk and that tastes nasty, and 2. they burn that nasty milk. Burn it. I've hardly ever had a coffee here that wasn't bitter. Except at, yes, Starbucks. I"ve got to pay more attention the next time I'm at a café, because it occurred to me when I was in Starbucks the other day that I don't hear coffee being gorund in the other places. Or maybe I'm just tuned out? Hmm!
And yes, it's fair to say that, even though I rarely have more than one coffee a day and not every day, I'm a coffee snob. I wasn't born that way, I didn't become one until I moved to Melbourne. My brother was one long before me, courtesy of working at good cafés for a long time. He's taught me to listen to the pitch of the coffee heater and recognize when they've gone too far and the milk is burned, and he's been known to say "You can throw that one away and start me another one" to the barista when the pitch hits a certain level. When he was here in Paris, he refused to drink anything but espressos. Not like he had much to choose from. Here's what you get:
Espresso--fair enough
Americano--a weak espresso, because the locals think Americans can't stand the real deal
Café au lait--coffee with (burned nasty) milk
Crème--their version of a cappucinno. Always always always burned.
Noisette--a short black with a shot of milk, usually weak, though, because it's also aimed at tourists. The locals call it "sock juice."
The range in Melbourne is decidely larger, yet somehow not wanky. And while here people prefer to get out onto the grand boulevards and be seen, in Melbourne the little alleyways are often the favourite spots. Perhaps it's because here people get out in the soleil as often as they can because they know it might soon be gone, whereas Melburnians are often trying to take cover from the harsh Southern sun. Or it could be that, like me, people are sneaking out of their office. When my brother had an office in the city, I'd often take off and meet him in a small place on Centre Place (below) then I'd go shopping at the small, quirky places along the laneways.
And then there's Hardware Lane:
And these are just a few of Melbourne's many delights. Some of my other favorites are Jasper Coffee on Brunswick St (if you see a gorgeous girl with black hair in pigtails and red, red lips, that's my friend Ruth--give her a kiss from me and make sure she makes your coffee) and Fruits of Passion in Kensington, where you'll also have one of the best breakfasts ever. You might also get lucky and be there on one of their "Serve Naked" days. Here's a list of more great places.
What I said before about proving me wrong, well, I would be very, very, VERY happy if you would. I would be ecstatic if you could make me eat my words. Blissful. Even orgasmic. If you know of a good place in this town where they serve non-burned coffee made from fresh milk that doesn't have me scraping the foul residue off the top of my mouth, drop me a line and I'll be there. With bells on!
This was the blog of an Eloise wannabe and her 2 roustabout kitties as they work on a book deal in the City of Lights, giggling all the way. Now it's the blog of an Eloise wannabe planning her next escape (California, Canadia?) with 2 other kitties--still working, still giggling.
