Perfection in a cup

The best thing about the Café Metropole is the chairs. They are wicker, made out of real straw and have armrests which slope into a gentle incline. I can sit in one of these chairs for hours without feeling in the least uncomfortable. They’re sufficiently upright to allow you to work on the marble table top without feeling awkward and the waiters check all of them regularly so you needn’t experience the annoying see-saw effect when one of the legs is too long. The cast iron tables are good and sturdy too. Couches along the walls cater to those in languorous mood. No one objects if you have a short nap stretched out on one of these beneath the crisp folds of a newspaper. Gazettophiles are well catered for at the Metropole. The management places a comprehensive selection of newspapers and periodicals at our disposal. everything from the Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung to Mad magazine is on offer. All these publications are suspended from the walls attached to solid oak rods so they cannot be dismembered. Not that the clientele of the café would be so thoughtless. Those with time on their hands – students, artists, writers – are well represented. Professionals escape the tedium of their offi ces and conduct conferences on one of the couches. The café is big enough for small children to be unobtrusive so that families feel welcome. Workmen take their morning café at the zinc-topped bar. Men of letters (even journalists) get a ten per cent discount. That is unless the major-domo, a red haired Italian called elio, has taken issue with that morning’s editorial. Always ready with a bar of Pavarotti, he reserves choice verses of Catullus in the original Latin for initiates. If anyone has had a book published or even a single poem, a glass of prosecco is obligatory. The service is always impeccable at the Metropole and the same waiters and baristas have been there for decades. They like to talk to the customers without prying into personal details. The manager doesn’t instruct them to pressure idlers into ordering more drinks to justify taking up a table. In truth, there is no manager. The Café Metropole has been owned and run by its staff for as long as anyone can remember. Profits and tips are split equally: no one gets a bigger share. They all have an interest in the café’s continued popularity. Indeed, they are rich men. elio spends August in a Tuscan villa and the sports cars beside the door belong to the waiters. Their wealth does not come from ripping us off. An espresso costs 70 pence at the Metropole. I have never had a bad one there. It arrives in a small white cup and saucer. It is short and strong. Anyone stupid enough to order a double will be given two separate cups of coffee. The surface of the coffee is coated in a thick brown cream. When I pour on the sugar, it remains suspended there for a few moments before sliding to the bottom. You shouldn’t stir coffee like this. It is intended to be a tale of two flavours; down it in one and savour first the robust bitterness and then the slow flowing sweetness. They take such pride in their coffee at the Metropole that often I have been presented with a perfect looking espresso only to have it whipped away by the same waiter. He goes to berate the barista and returns with another sumptuous espresso, this one on the house, apologising that the previous effort hadn’t reached his standards. For eight pounds you can get the dish of the day, a glass of house wine and a coffee at lunch time. The food is always good and simply prepared. A cassoulet on Monday perhaps, fish pie on Tuesday, spaghetti carbonara (prepared in the proper way, without cream) on Wednesday, mushroom risotto on Thursday and maybe fresh fried mackerel on Friday. I find myself eating there every day for weeks on end. The head chef is Greek and called Bruna. She speaks six languages with twelve accents. Ask why she doesn’t dish up any Keftedes or Moussaka and she’ll say, “Go to Athens if you want gas.” On the last Friday of each month, regulars are invited to an eight course feast. The last one began with tuna carpaccio coated in truffl e shavings and ended with the largest raspberry souffl é I have ever seen. In between, chicken with slivers of foie gras inserted under the skin was particularly memorable. elio scurries continually with a succession of oddities plucked from the Metropole’s cellar, insisting we try each one. We pay forty pounds for the privilege but this can barely cover the costs. No one arranges to meet anyone at the Metropole. You’re always bound to see someone you know. Many come to work there but it’s accepted that conversation takes precedence. Strangers are always welcome to join in. Anyone looking forlorn at the adjacent table will have their opinion solicited. Many a beautiful friendship has begun this way and more besides. Elio proudly declares that the Metropole has been responsible for at least 24 marriages (seven divorces, alas), 67 children and one Nobel Prize. They don’t sell cigarettes at the Metropole but if you ask them they’ll produce a wooden box of cigarettes gratis. No one takes advantage of this generosity. The tables are spaced well enough apart and the domed glass ceiling is high and well ventilated so that abstainers barely notice the smell. Pipe and cigar smokers have a refuge at the Metropole too. The only music at the Metropole is the jazz band that plays on Thursday nights and the occasional string quartet. There is a transistor radio behind the bar on which the waiters listen to football but the thought of introducing a sound system throughout the café has never occurred. When one of the waiters suggested introducing a television for the big games, he nearly lost his share in the business. The Metropole opens at seven and closes at two. Often have I woken after twelve and gone to the Metropole for a soporific cognac though I tend to see a friend or at least elio looking for advice on the sonnet he’s writing. I forget why I came there and stay till after closing time arguing some finer point of versification. If anyone ever gets out of hand as the night wears on, elio knows exactly when to call a taxi. everyone’s been in the same position so no one looks down on a drunk. The incident is never recalled when the beleaguered party returns to the café and elio will feign ignorance if he or she attempts to apologise for their conduct. The walls of the Metropole are hung with photographs, drawings and paintings donated by customers. These are all of a high quality, elio has good taste. Indeed, artists regard it as an honour to have a work accepted by the Metropole. The café is acknowledged to have accumulated one of the city’s best art collections. Only a small portion of this can be displayed at any one time. I have seen such treasures in the back rooms: a signed Cartier-Bresson print, paintings by Bacon and Hockney, Giacometti sketches, and one remarkable early Picasso provided by a lifelong customer in his will. In fine weather, most choose to sit on the terrasse. Beer is the drink for thirst; anyone showing off with the wine list outside will go out of elio’s good books. I’ve spent whole days sitting in the sun out there. The seats are arranged in rows so people watching is natural. The Metropole is in a secluded square in the centre of the city. There’s no traffi c but people are always walking through. On average, I’d say one in four stop at the café. I never expect to pass by the Metropole without stopping for a drink. even if I am going to an appointment elsewhere, someone I know will inevitably call me over for a half pint. did I mention they only serve half pints? It’s no more expensive to have two half pints at the Metropole than a whole one in a pub. “Festina lente, festina lente” murmurs elio if anyone ever asks why. Astute readers will have grasped by now that the Café Metropole does not exist, at least anywhere that I know. It is my ideal café. I know a few cafés which have some of the qualities of the Metropole but nowhere are they all combined. Some of its qualities are unlikely to be found anywhere. An ideal is to be aspired to, if never obtained. In Oxford we are particularly poorly served for cafés. No one seems to regard café-going as an assumed daily activity like brushing your teeth or walking the dog. Nowhere is there even a hint of the Metropole’s social dynamic. People don’t go to cafés alone because they’re unlikely to bump into a friend in a similar position. It is surprising that, of all people, students can’t master the art of stylishly idling the day away. The Oxford student’s life is certainly a tale of woe. He or she will, in a typical week, sit at their desk working until the early hours nearly every other day. Such a lifestyle is tiresome and many rely upon a much-loved stimulant to help keep them alert. In Oxford, coffee is the industrious student’s most common companion during the long, long winter nights.ARCHIVE: 5th week MT 2005