AnaNA Siniestro

Today in the cafe... I don't really need another nickname or alter ego or personality, and yet...

This is my much loved current co-worker, Martina. I call her My Favourite Martian because of the anagram of her name. She is a treasure. She is a great worker, is great company, is a friend, and every day when she brings her sunshine personality into the cafe - as with The Dreaded One's assistant Jodie - I feel incredibly grateful that fate brought us together.

But the nickname thing. I'm learning Uruguyan Spanish, and apparentlyy my nickname is Anana Siniestro.

Sounds cool, huh? It's got a rhythm. It's got a beat. You can chant it... AnaNA Siniestro... AnaNA siniestro... AnaNa siniestro...

So primitive. So tribal.

So what you are probably wondering, if you do not speak the Uruguyan version of Spanish, does it mean?

It appears to mean "Weird Pinapple." Or maybe "Sinister Pineapple.

So. There you go.

Cigarettes After Sex

Today in the cafe... my new front of house helper Nøraa and I were working away during a lull in customers. Out of the blue, she struck up conversation with, "So eeeh... you know cigarettes after sex?" Spoken in that hybrid French/Spanish accent.

"Erm... yeah?" I replied, thinking that she was asking if I was aware that people enjoy smoking cigarettes after having sex but not having any idea where she was going with it.

She nodded slowly almost to herself. "Mmm. Is good."

"Okay."

I waited for a while, thinking there was more to come. Maybe the results of a new study or something. I don't know. But that appeared to be it. Apparently she had just wanted to tell me that she enjoys a cigarette after a good bonk. Which is cool. That's fine. Random as hell, but fine.

"So..." I asked eventually, "What made you share that with me?"

"What?"

"That you like smoking after having sex."

"No the band that is playing this song. It is Cigarettes After Sex. Is good."

"Oh. Oh I see."

Moon

Today in the cafe... It was hot today, so I wore a pair of my mega baggy, mega billowy, mega meshy doof pants to work. The Boys are very grateful for the freedom and the flowing breeze these pants give them. Honestly, they whoop it up down there, high five each other and are just generally really happy. Going commando - it's all about freedom.
At one point, I'm in the cool-room trying to sort out the milk crate situation. Situation almost sorted when I step backwards through the open cool-room door. My left foot catches the right leg of my mega baggy pants and totally pulls the whole pants scenario way down past my arse cheeks. I bend over to correct the wardrobe malfunction, and for several loooooong moments anyone in the kitchen would just see me mooning the kitchen from the cool room. Awesome, I think, I've just pantsed myself at work.

A Mutley Moment

Today in the cafe... I was telling my new helper a story and she actually spat an entire mouthful of coffee onto the wall with laughter. It didn't spray, just blurped out in a stream and splashed loudly against the wall. It was spectacular. It's had me sniggering like Mutley all day.

And yes, occasionally I actually do sound like Mutley when I laugh.

Gone Doofing Again: Yemaya 2016

Sign on the cafe door before going to Yemaya. Such a good festival with good friends old and new. This is just kind of a bookmark: went to the festival, didn't catch up with Loredana. I hope to fill in more details later. Beautiful weekend with friends, but the Loredana thing was a big disappointment. Really wanted to spend festival time with her. Alas...

The Evolution Of Friendship

And so Badaboom Beverley's orbit leaves my realm. She will zing past again in one month before heading off forever into the future. We caught up briefly in the cafe today. It was the relaxed comfort of catching up with a good friend. Love the evolution of friendship. Once a stranger, now a friend. It's a beautiful thing.

Moustache Monday In Grumpy & The Dreaded One's Little Cafe Of Awesome

I don't know which of my boys is more handsome - Kafka Woman or Badaboom Beverley. (Love these two).

Tutu Tuesday tomorrow. Yes, Grumpy will be wearing a tutu.

Never Better Than This

Today in the cafe... a former regular customer reappeared unexpectedly. She used to come in almost every day and buy one of our tuna wraps for lunch. The only time she deviated from this was when she bought two tuna wraps. Before she stopped being a regular she told us that her office had been relocated to Abbotsford - a couple of suburbs away - and so she wouldn't be in anymore... She said goodbye and I think wanted to let us know the reason for her sudden disappearance.

Today she said she could take it any more She really wanted one of our tuna wraps and so jumped into a cab to get to the cafe and back in her lunch break. Apparently they're pretty good, our tuna wraps.

Then a little later, that woman a while ago who didn't exactly endear herself to me by telling me that a smile doesn't cost anything? She's been in a few times since and I always get a laugh out of Badaboom Beverley by snarling at her appearance.

When I delivered her coffee to her, she was reading one of my stories to her husband. She stopped reading and told me that she was really enjoying the one about the time I held the stranger's hand at the festival. She thought it was hilarious. She also loved the one about the time I was on the Amalfi Coast. We had a bit of a chat and a quiet laugh. Was not expecting that.

Later, Ann's helper told me, "That woman up there was reading your stuff as I walked past. She stopped me, put the stories to her chest and said 'I'm loving these stories. I really love them.'"

Before she left, the old lady approached and told us she wanted a photo of "Grumpy and The Dreaded One and you two. I don't want Grumpy to smile for the photo."

Much laughter, from us, many smiles from the full cafe as bemused customers looked on, but Grumpy, The Dreaded One, Badaboom Beverley and Kafka Woman bunched up for the photo. As directed, I didn't smile.

Well done little old lady - you somehow went from being a sour little thing to being a wonderfully quirky individual. Respect.

And as deeply happy as I was, I was a little sad too because I was pretty sure that life in our banged up little cafe was never going to be better than this.

Nothing Worth Writing About Happened Today. Nothing.

Today in the cafe... there were no poignant human interactions and not a single funny thing happened. It was basically just an infuriating day of totally normal and nice. People smiled and enjoyed their food and coffee, and there was pleasant small-talk with the regulars and all of our co-workers got a long really well... days like these, they shit me to tears. Come on Universe - give me some Goddamn material!

And Then They Were Gone

Today in our banged up little cafe... a family walks in. Light's kind of funny from my end and light sometimes plays with my eyes. I notice that the guy has dreadlocks or the beginnings of them. Dreadlocks in the cafe always make me feel happy. I know dreadlocks are not a guarantee of integrity, but in my circle I've been lucky, and dreads = good.

I said hello to the guy, probably kind of blankly because it was nearing the end of the day. He said hello back, equally as blankly. I looked past him and recognised his beautiful wife. Looked back at him and recognised his rough head too, now smiling.

It was our friends The Hepworths. Haven't seen them in years. And now they are here in our banged up little cafe.

Hugs. Of course there are hugs.

We talk as much as we can. We've always been in touch online, but seeing them in real life is a different experience. Voices. Seeing the changes in their faces. Their boys now, so much bigger - quite cool young human beings, the result of good parenting. Expected nothing less.

We talk as much as we can, which is not very much because we are working and even when the cafe is quiet at the end of a busy day, there is stuff to be done.

Seeing these people, these friends we met in the doof scene, I wish we could have them over to ours for a meal. A dinner would be nice. But you need to plan these things. And we are all so busy and everything is so transient and we are all so far away.

And there were hugs and a photo and goodbyes.

And then they were gone.

A Smile Doesn't Cost Anything

"Today in the cafe... It's busy. Really fucking busy. All is going well but you kind of have to focus on not fucking up. There is food prep and delivery and coffee and delivery and teamwork under duress and shit goes wrong and there are fuckwit customers like zombies with their phones when what is wrong with the real world? Gaze out a window sometimes. Look at the world going on around you. Make eye-contact or heaven forbid, conversation. Do you even remember how wonderful the clouds are since since your phone hijacked your mind? No, don't bother - put your head back into that fucking phone because all the wisdom of the world is in that phone, you dulloid, as I call out your takeaway order again, and again, and again.
And then I get this customer. I have taken their drinks to them, and I ask who has the skinny cap and who has the pot of Earl Grey? And they both stare at me for long seconds, blankly. This happens so often.

So who has the skinny cap?
Second round of blank stare.

Then finally, Oh I am the skinny cap. Thank you.

Later, Earl Grey Granny comes over to pay her bill. There is a silly gaff on my part, and I laugh it off.
"You know - that's the first time I've seen you smile."
"Yes, I get that quite often."
She leans in to share a secret. "It doesn't cost anything, you know," she whispers, like she's shared some great fucking wisdom.

It doesn't cost anything.

Like this pearl of enlightenment is going to help me through the rest of my life. Like she knows why I am not smiling at that moment in my life. Like she has a fucking clue about what is going on in my life. Like the fact that "It doesn't cost anything" means a person hasn't been born with severe facial features and for whom smiling doesn't come naturally. I'm really sorry I have an ugly, frowny head that displeases you so much... but please understand that the frowniness is just a result of me trying to do things to please other people. There is quite a lot going on besides your pot of Earl Grey.

I should have told her that my smiles are to be earned. I'm not a smiling idiot. And nothing in my exchange with you and your idiot cliches has given me reason to smile"

I posted this on Facebook and basically everyone who knows me has been supportive. My friends know I am not as severe as I appear to be. My friends know that I care.

The comment that has affected me most is this one, from my beautiful friend Annye (immediately to my right in the photo, and on her right my beautiful friend Nadia, and on her right my beautiful friend Ann, and in the foreground my friend Danny, us in Arles in Southern France circa 2010... or was it 2012?): 

"Funny, but the one person I shared one, if not THE best ever laugh with was YOU.... talking hedgehogs and tiny little street sweepers!"

I remember this moment so clearly, this laughter we both shared about hedgehogs and tiny street sweepers. Truly one of the best laughs I've had in my life.

So nice to be reminded that you - accused non-smiler -  share a beautiful memory of hysterical silliness with someone, even if it does make you wish they were not so far away.

Miss you, Annye.

Solitary Man by Crooked Fingers

Neil Diamond wrote a good song. Crooked Fingers made it better.  Sometimes it comes on in the cafe at the end of the day when we are packing down and closing, and I sing along to it as loudly and as in tune as I can in our empty cafe, and I feel a private happiness.

Living Stories: Kafka Woman

The thing was that he didn't want to send out the wrong signals. There was no denying the facts: he was much older than her and she was, no question, beautiful. This random encounter – so far quite a lovely thing - could quite easily turn into the clumsiest of cliches.

Maybe it was best left alone. Left to fade to the faintest of sweet memories.

But what if he was – yet again – missing an opportunity? Hadn't he already missed his opportunity with her? Only for her to return, for the memory of her to return, for him to be given the chance to thank her and talk to her and get to know her a little.

She had been sitting in his cafe. Her beauty and serenity had caught his eye. He didn't feel love or lust, but he was entranced. That she was reading one of his stories intrigued him further. Which one was she reading? What was she thinking as she read? He kept glancing over, entranced and intrigued as she read.

Later, while he had been busy making coffee that he knew they would enjoy, he heard an accent ask his helper a question: Excuse me, can you tell me who is the author of the stories?

His helper had looked at him. He had looked at the customer and smiled: I am the author of the stories, he had said.

She had smiled like she knew, a smile of peace and knowing.

I loved your story - she had said in a way that made him forget what he was doing - It was so sad and so beautiful.

He had felt such gratitude hearing these words. Thank you, he had told her, for telling me this. It means so much to me that my stories reach people but I never know.

It moved me so much, I had tears as I read it.

Ah, he had replied, I had tears as I wrote it. A sad smile of gratitude, then he had remembered the mundane thing of work and had shifted his attention.

She lingered, seemed to want to say something, could see that he was busy and wished him a good day.

And was gone.

He watched her go.

I think, his helper had said, that she wanted to talk to you.

This was true. As true as the fact that she was gone. He said something about next time, knowing as he said it that she was a traveller, perhaps passing through, perhaps never coming back. Losing focus, he had heated the milk too much, tipped it out and started again.

But she came back. She was looking for work, would like to work in his cafe. She wanted to leave her contact details in case there was work for her. He didn't recognise her immediately. He wondered why there was such friendly warmth in this traveller's smile. Then the memory fell into place and this time there was no room for the mundane things. He was not going to miss this opportunity again. Fortunately it was the quiet time of the day. Perhaps she had planned it that way.

You were here a few weeks ago, weren't you.

Yes.

And you told me you enjoyed my story.

Yes.

Thank you so much for sharing your thoughts. It means a lot to me. And thank you so much for coming back. It felt like you had wanted to talk.

I did. Your story has stayed so much on my mind. It's so strong, the way life moves on... it is such beautiful writing.

Thank you. It's just a thing I do. Stories are all around us, happening all the time. Some of us have to write them down. Are you a writer?

Yes.

And they talked and talked the way only very old old or very new friends talk. She told him about her play that she had written and produced, and about the other things she had written but not yet shared. They both asked questions and gave answers. They told each other about the tricks needed to get the words flowing, about the pleasure found in writing the perfect piece. He made her a coffee that she said was perfect, and she stayed and they talked and when finally he had to get back to the mundane things of cleaning up and closing down, she sang a peaceful song to herself in his empty cafe, perhaps for herself, perhaps for him. Her voice was exquisite.

Eventually, it was time for her to go. They thanked each other for whatever it was they had given each other, and once again he watched her go.

And now, weeks later, he was worried about sending out the wrong signals. He thought that maybe he should just let it go because it could so easily become the clumsiest of cliches. And yet... what if it could be the perfect friendship? What if, like him, she was a solitary soul who rarely opens, but opens fully in the right company?

He had no work for her, but he had her contact details. He could write to her. He could tell her about a new story he had written. She could come back into the cafe to read the story and they could talk and...

And what? Could they really become friends? Could true friendship really come out of this random chance encounter with a stranger? Why not? Stranger things had happened.

And yet. Maybe it was best left to fade to the most perfect of memories. She had come into his cafe. She had read his story. They had talked. End of story.

Conversations With Our Customers - Mr Guatemala

A guy walks into the cafe oozing absurd amount of confidence. Says, "I'm after a pie. Yeah, I want a pie. You have?"

The daily pie special is a roasted vegetable, haloumi and tomato pie. This customer has too much confidence to eat a roasted vegetable, haloumi and tomato pie. This level of confidence requires something's flesh. He sees the house-made Moroccan lamb sausage roll. He announces that he will try a house-made Moroccan lamb sausage roll,  to takeaway.

Then he turns his confidence to me. I've been watching the guy deal with my helper and wondering just where in the fuck someone gets this kind of confidence. Is there a place you can go and swap some insecurity for some confidence? Why do I not know about this place? Why has no one told me? Perhaps I can trade a little paranoia for some sex appeal while I'm there.

"I might have a coffee while I'm waiting for my sausage roll," the guy tells me with a kind of nod and wink that is neither an actual nod or wink, his confidence a dazzling thing somehow magically just holding back from smarminess. How the fuck is he doing this?

"Um... okay," is my riposte.

"So what can you tell me about the beans?"

Oh God, I think. "They're not a brand you're going to recognise. They're not a 'label' brand. They're kind of our own blend."

"Your own blend?" His tone has turned its head ever so slightly to one side and raised one eyebrow as if to say prey do tell.

"Well it's our supplier's blend. I think she supplies a few select cafes around Melbourne. Like I say, It's not a recognised brand but we think it's good coffee."

"What can you tell me about the components?" he asks, his tone jutting its chin in a slightly outwardly-upwardly direction, making me want us to stop talking about things so that I can just make his coffee, since I can't be suddenly on a beach in Barcelona with my fellow nude Spaniards, sipping mojitos and discussing Gaudi.

Truth is, it's been so long since I've thought of the 'components' of our coffee beans that I can't quite recall them.

"Erm... it's a blend of beans from New Guinea, Guatemala... India..."

I'm really hoping something kind of big, like Armageddon, is going to happen right now because if it doesn't, I'm going to have to start pulling coffee growing countries out of my arse. And if I do that, I suspect this fucker will be right onto me.

"Ethiopia or - "

"I don't KNOW!" I whimper.

"Hmm. Well I like Guatemalan coffee. I'll take a long black."

"In a take-away as well?"

"Nah. hit me with ceramic. I'll sit outside and smash out a cigarette while I'm waiting for my sausage roll."

I fully expect him to shoot me with his two finger guns and make clicking sounds with his tongue.

I am very happy that he is gone, but equally sad that I now have to make this Guatemalan coffee appreciator a long black. On the one hand I am glad he is not a latte drinker because the result of my attempts at latte art are as unpredictable as Melbourne weather. On the other hand, with a long black there is nothing to hide behind. I like coffee and I think ours is good, but I am no connoisseur. This bastard, I feel sure, is.

Which is fine. All I have to do is not fuck up his coffee.

I make the coffee and take it out to him. The grind has been perfect. I manually stopped the extraction at 27 seconds because I like the number 27 (I just like to stop the extraction on a long black before 30 seconds - at 27 seconds - because some of the most legendary rock stars died at the age of 27 and so... er...). The crema - floated so deftly on the surface of the water - looks glorious in its deep caramel hue. It's a good looking cup of Joe. I feel confident.

But not confident enough to double shoot Mr Guatemala with my finger guns.

Service is busy. I'm getting nailed on the coffee machine but as Mr Guatemala's Moroccan sausage roll comes through, I grab it because I want to take it out to him and find out what he thought of the coffee. I need to know.

Outside. I walk towards him. I open my mouth to ask but he cuts me off with his diamond-hard confidence.

"You've got a good cup of coffee there."

"Oh really?" I sob. "Because you had me worried there. You obviously know your coffee." I wipe the tears from my eyes with the heel of my hand.

"Nah. I'm a discerning customer that's all. And a happy one. It's good stuff." His smile is all finger guns and click-clicks. He takes his sausage roll rides off into the sunset.

I skip into the cafe and kind of frolic in my Viking-frolicky way for the rest of this wonderfully sunshine-filled afternoon.

Not even Spoonwoman could bring me down now.

The Spoonwoman Chronicles Part 2

So Spoonwoman - or as I like to call her, Fucking Spoonwoman - comes into the cafe today. She pays for yesterday's coffee, apologises for not paying for it yesterday like she said she was going to, AND she thanks me. Like, WTF? What the hell is she up to? What twisted mind game is she playing? She's supposed to be evil, not civil. Bitch is doing my head in.

The Spoonwoman Chronicles

Fucking Spoonwoman... she ordered coffee and then found she didn't have any cash in her purse. She asked if she could pay for her coffee later when she was on her 3pm break. I snarlingly, grudgingly said yeah sure, Spoonwoman.

Then she didn't show up at 3pm.

Spoonwoman and me, next time we meet, it's going to be apocalyptic.

Maximum Spank

Last week our banged up little cafe was the busiest it has been. Record week. Would like to be doing it every week. With the right team, we can do it.

At one point, stuck on coffees, exhausted and almost overwhelmed, I closed my eyes and said thank you to the cosmos. Not because we might be looking at a record week, but because of the help we had been given. A random traveler had left her resume, as so many of them do, and sensing we were going to be spanked this week, having had a good impression of said random traveler, I asked her to come in and help out.

These things can go either way. Some trial-shifters have done my head in after 10 minutes. But this one, she was a good one. There was zip. There was bang. There was energy and intelligence and that thing that happens when you know what they're doing and why they are doing it, and they know the same about you. You feel like two parts of a unit. It's a good feeling.

And that's why at one point, maybe more, I closed my eyes and said thank you to the cosmos.

The Health Inspectors - A Black Comedy Farce.

If I ever write again, I think I'll write a savage black comedy about the life of the average (and they are very average humans) council health inspector. They swan into your place of work dressed like they're going to the opening night of the opera, even though in reality they should be wearing overalls or other similar mundane attire, and find their special area of annoyance and begin to tell you - as you try to keep up with the busy, service-time influx of customers - that you must make this change or that change. They look so smugly chuffed that they get to tell you this as they consult their snappy electronic device as if to say "See? See? There it is. There's the rule in the regulations that stipulates why you have to change this thing, and aren't you impressed with my vast knowledge of the myriad rules and regulations that rule and regulate my world?"

They never know the actual, practical arguments for these rules and regulations (it's never anything major in a reasonably run place; just niggly changes that must be made because surely you want them to smile and pat you on the back on their next irritating visit). They don't consult the previous inspection report (common sense? Fuck common sense!) to realise they are directly contradicting previous sage recommendations. They clip-clop about on their teetering heels and mneh mneh mneh as if they are doing something meaningful like... anything remotely meaningful. Which they are not.

Ever worked in a commercial kitchen, Miss Poindexter? Ever run a business? What, exactly, qualifies you to even think you have a fucking clue?

This is what you think as you nod and say sure, we'll move the thing over there that the last council numpty made us move to where it is now, as we try to focus on the job of serving our customers.

This is probably what I will write about if I ever write again.

Maitreya 2015

Today, working in my cafe, a bright little moment that cheered my internally gloomy mood...

A new regular came in and asked for her coffee. I remember her from her first visit because she looks interesting and familiar amongst our otherwise pretty straight and corporate clientele. Suits and ambos and doctors and nurses, and this cool looking one with her tatts and specs and unruly hair, her bright eyes and that smile.

During the transaction of coffee and money, she notices my wrist band from last year's Maitreya festival, and says, "That was a fun party."

"Have you seen the photos of the new site?" I ask.

"No, but I'm excited because I hear there is water."

We talk for a bit more. I like her smile and her happy eyes, and I wonder if some day soon, we might be friends.