"And now, the end is here
And so I face the final curtain.
My friend, I'll say it clear
I'll state my case, of which I'm certain..."
Okay so it would be easy to write this entire blog through the words of Frank Sinatra, but I get the feeling this would be a slight cop out. Plus I would have to refer to myself as a man on several occasions, which at the age of twenty-five I'm pretty convinced I'm not.
The time has come though...I had to say goodbye to the wonderful Edinburgh and with it it's beautiful buildings, all-encompassing festival and ever generous coffee shops. (Generous in the sense that they put up with me.)
There have naturally been many gloriously independent coffee shops that have been left off my list, purposefully or accidentally, and this should in no way be considered a conclusive list. Black Medicine, for example, that came surrounded with recommendations, but was simply too busy, closed or didn't take my fancy at the time. Peter's Yard another with the masses of people enjoying their coffee in the sunshine as recommendation in itself. Captain Taylor's coffee, Fredericks, Wellington's, Eteaket and many more. Yes I feel I have let you down somewhat, but then working 48 hours a week and squeezing in 43 shows during the four week festival lessens my guilt somewhat.
So what have I learnt from my time in Edinburgh? Well many things to be honest, but most of them mushy and self-gratifying so I won't divulge. But what have I learnt from their coffee shops? That they have some fantastic independent business men and women securing their living in the city.
It's apparent of course across London that chains have ousted many of the independents. And its common to see a Starbucks within 200 metres of another, particularly in tourist spots and/or near stations. This chain revolution isn't limited though to the big cities. Even in my small home town with a population of about 11,000 a Costa has found its way onto our High Street. As shops closed and companies went bust that big maroon sign with bold white writing went up. A big fish in a little pond. You may have noticed I'm a fan of the little man. The under dog. Maybe being 5"4 I think I've got something to prove, who knows.
Don't get me me wrong, I'm not blind to the fact that Edinburgh also has its big names. During my explorations I counted three Starbucks, a few Costas and a Cafe Nero. I know they exist, but they are less in your face. You are not forced into one during a coffee emergency. (Yes there are such things as coffee emergencies. I experienced one this morning at Euston Station after an unexpected early start.) Your choices in Edinburgh are varied, which in my mind is beneficial. You are suddenly a person, rather than a number or sales figure.
Listen, I'm getting all sentimental here. Dangerous territory. Those of you reading this who know me as well are well aware of my ability to rant, so I will stop before I start ending my sentences in angry rhetorical questions like "Isn't it?!" or "Why? Just why?"
Edinburgh virgins I urge you to visit this great city and what's more take advantage of the mass of independent shops and sights available. If you're feeling particularly brave leave your phone in the hotel room, put on a backpack and explore the city in peace. It will be worth it!
"I've loved, I've laughed and cried
I've had my fill, my share of losing (money)"
Don't worry I'm not actually going to end the blog with more Sinatra lyrics. In a way I'm not ending it at all. I've kind of got into this whole blogging malarky and as a whole am a bit obsessed with writing. I truly appreciate you all reading this, which is why I'm passing the baton on to you. I'm looking for an idea for a new blog. More specifically I'm looking for your ideas. If you've enjoyed reading my blog and would like me to write about something specific let me know. It may be an idea for one post or maybe for a whole blog. Perhaps you want me to report back on a knitting class, whatever, but I'm interested in your thoughts.
To get in touch email me at lyviablogs@gmail.com! You suggest it (within reason) I'll write about it!
For now...signing off. Roger that. Over and out.
Wednesday, 5 September 2012
Sunday, 2 September 2012
Peppy coffee and convo.
Looking for an independent coffee shop in the New Town is like looking for a needle in a haystack. It's a bloody mission. I know this will probably be met with a backlash of counter arguments, people saying "No it's not. You're just not looking in the right places, they're just not obvious." Well of course I'm not and of course they're not, but I don't want to hunt for my coffee. I'm a vegetarian remember, that sort of instinct left me long ago. Hand me something on a plate and I will eat it off the floor, make me go find the plate and I will cross my arms, shut my mouth and shake my head like a stubborn child.
I'd been walking around the New Town for quite a while, up and across the main few streets. I tried George Street, Rose Street, Princes Street, walked in parallel lines up Frederick Street and down Hanover Street and around St Andrews Square. Nothing. My desire for coffee was increasing as was the ache in my feet. I was basically at the stage of giving up and heading back to the Old Town. I stopped to watch a group of South African A Capella singers advertising their Edinburgh show. This was a momentary distraction as I contemplated heading down Leith Walk away from both parts of town. I'm sure there are places to go down there, but I was running low on time and very aware that Leith Walk incorporates quite a slope. Alright on the way down, not so fun on the trek back up. Sweaty and caffeine high is not a good look for work.
As I'd already walked part way along the street I crossed the road at a lower point walking up to the main crossing. This gave me a view along Waterloo Place, a street I'd never previously looked down. (There is a very expensive wedding dress boutique on the corner, would you look further down?) I took a mini walk down and came across a strange mix of places. There was a cafe/pub, the type of place old men go to reassure themselves they're not alcoholics, slurring their words as they say "I come here for the tea." Next to this was your average off-licence, further up a business-fronted Apex Hotel and squeezed in the middle a barely distinguishable coffee shop called Pep and Fodder. I sighed audibly out of relief and walked in.
The shop itself is nice, but slightly confused. It doesn't quite know if it wants to be quirky and independent or generic and minimal. I'll forgive it though, having spoken to the man behind the counter it's only been open for three weeks (more like six weeks at the time of writing).
There are light wooden tables that line the wall, off-white walls dotted with large pieces of art and a shiny new coffee machine half concealed behind the counter. The man greets me with a warm hello and asks what I'll be having. I tell him "Skinny latte really really hot and no froth please." "So that's like a flat white basically?" he replies. What is it with these people and their flat whites? Unlike the woman from Union of Genius, however, there is no hint of accusation in his voice. It's a simple enquiry. We enter familiar conversation about the difference between flat whites and lattes. "I thought flat whites couldn't be served extra hot though because of the way the milk is heated?" I say. "No, they can be as hot as you want them, they just don't have the top on them like most lattes do." Well that's me told and to be honest I'm happy to accept. Having been told twice and much more charmingly the second time I'm willing to admit I like a flat white. (I still won't order it though, such a stubborn cow).
The man, obviously keen to impress in such a new shop, pours my coffee into a tiny takeaway cup. It looks good. I take a sip. His eyebrows raise in anticipation. I tilt my head and squint my eyes. "It could still be hotter." I say. "Wow" he replies "You do like it hot. No worries." And without me even asking he has started to make a new one. He pours the new one into another cup keen to avoid any froth and gently pushes it towards me to try.
"Perfect" I say.
"You won't be able to taste your dinner" he says.
"Even more perfect" I reply "It will only be chips anyway."
I leave the shop and sip my coffee. It is gorgeous, smooth and creamy. The one problem and I suppose it's quite a big one paradoxically is that the cup is tiny. It's the size of a double espresso cup and for £2.60 I do feel slightly cheated. I need my coffee to last more than a short walk, which in case you're wondering is why I always ask for it extra hot in the first place. With this cup, barely noticeable in my hands, my coffee won't still be there by the time I've reached work. It's such a shame because the coffee is gorgeous and the service was great. I would definitely recommend a visit if you're stuck in the New Town with nowhere to go. I would also recommend to them that they get themselves some bigger cups while they're still new enough to make the changes.
It's easy to see how this place can be missed with a simple painted on sign. They'd be wise to invest in something a bit more obvious, but I'm sure as soon as word of mouth gets around this place will be buzzing. It definitely has great potential and with a more defined style and bigger cups I'll certainly be a mouth to spread the Pep and Fodder word.
P.S Again please ignore the person in this photo. It's still not me, but if that's his car I'll 'ave it.
Frothy Fun Fact of the Day: Not sure about Pep, but Fodder is agricultural foodstuff used specifically to feed domestic livestock, including cattle. So that's what cous cous salad is.
I'd been walking around the New Town for quite a while, up and across the main few streets. I tried George Street, Rose Street, Princes Street, walked in parallel lines up Frederick Street and down Hanover Street and around St Andrews Square. Nothing. My desire for coffee was increasing as was the ache in my feet. I was basically at the stage of giving up and heading back to the Old Town. I stopped to watch a group of South African A Capella singers advertising their Edinburgh show. This was a momentary distraction as I contemplated heading down Leith Walk away from both parts of town. I'm sure there are places to go down there, but I was running low on time and very aware that Leith Walk incorporates quite a slope. Alright on the way down, not so fun on the trek back up. Sweaty and caffeine high is not a good look for work.
As I'd already walked part way along the street I crossed the road at a lower point walking up to the main crossing. This gave me a view along Waterloo Place, a street I'd never previously looked down. (There is a very expensive wedding dress boutique on the corner, would you look further down?) I took a mini walk down and came across a strange mix of places. There was a cafe/pub, the type of place old men go to reassure themselves they're not alcoholics, slurring their words as they say "I come here for the tea." Next to this was your average off-licence, further up a business-fronted Apex Hotel and squeezed in the middle a barely distinguishable coffee shop called Pep and Fodder. I sighed audibly out of relief and walked in.
The shop itself is nice, but slightly confused. It doesn't quite know if it wants to be quirky and independent or generic and minimal. I'll forgive it though, having spoken to the man behind the counter it's only been open for three weeks (more like six weeks at the time of writing).
There are light wooden tables that line the wall, off-white walls dotted with large pieces of art and a shiny new coffee machine half concealed behind the counter. The man greets me with a warm hello and asks what I'll be having. I tell him "Skinny latte really really hot and no froth please." "So that's like a flat white basically?" he replies. What is it with these people and their flat whites? Unlike the woman from Union of Genius, however, there is no hint of accusation in his voice. It's a simple enquiry. We enter familiar conversation about the difference between flat whites and lattes. "I thought flat whites couldn't be served extra hot though because of the way the milk is heated?" I say. "No, they can be as hot as you want them, they just don't have the top on them like most lattes do." Well that's me told and to be honest I'm happy to accept. Having been told twice and much more charmingly the second time I'm willing to admit I like a flat white. (I still won't order it though, such a stubborn cow).
The man, obviously keen to impress in such a new shop, pours my coffee into a tiny takeaway cup. It looks good. I take a sip. His eyebrows raise in anticipation. I tilt my head and squint my eyes. "It could still be hotter." I say. "Wow" he replies "You do like it hot. No worries." And without me even asking he has started to make a new one. He pours the new one into another cup keen to avoid any froth and gently pushes it towards me to try.
"Perfect" I say.
"You won't be able to taste your dinner" he says.
"Even more perfect" I reply "It will only be chips anyway."
I leave the shop and sip my coffee. It is gorgeous, smooth and creamy. The one problem and I suppose it's quite a big one paradoxically is that the cup is tiny. It's the size of a double espresso cup and for £2.60 I do feel slightly cheated. I need my coffee to last more than a short walk, which in case you're wondering is why I always ask for it extra hot in the first place. With this cup, barely noticeable in my hands, my coffee won't still be there by the time I've reached work. It's such a shame because the coffee is gorgeous and the service was great. I would definitely recommend a visit if you're stuck in the New Town with nowhere to go. I would also recommend to them that they get themselves some bigger cups while they're still new enough to make the changes.
It's easy to see how this place can be missed with a simple painted on sign. They'd be wise to invest in something a bit more obvious, but I'm sure as soon as word of mouth gets around this place will be buzzing. It definitely has great potential and with a more defined style and bigger cups I'll certainly be a mouth to spread the Pep and Fodder word.
P.S Again please ignore the person in this photo. It's still not me, but if that's his car I'll 'ave it.
Frothy Fun Fact of the Day: Not sure about Pep, but Fodder is agricultural foodstuff used specifically to feed domestic livestock, including cattle. So that's what cous cous salad is.
Saturday, 1 September 2012
Coffee and spells in this place Dwells.
I must apologise for my complete lack of blog over the last week or two. It has certainly been a busy couple of weeks. Personally I blame a visitor friend of mine who kept me well occupied from 11am to 11pm daily watching shows and some rather questionable free comedy. My usual coffee breaks turned predominantly into cider breaks (If you'd experienced some of the "comedy" we had, you'd understand) and I was unintentionally caffeine deprived for a few days. For any coffee lovers out there who are trying to cut down I highly recommend you take up more drinking, it eases you into the process. Don't try going cold turkey have a whiskey and coke to refresh the monkey on your back in a different way.
Anyway enough of my bad advice for addicts, I luckily have a few coffee shops stored up somewhere in my brain space to tell you about.
A while back I was heading into town for a late shift and decided to finally chance it, the famous Elephant House Gourmet Tea and Coffee Shop. This place I may have mentioned before is famous as, to use their words not mine, the "birthplace of Harry Potter". It was JK Rowling's coffee shop of choice as she sat writing her novels in the back room overlooking Edinburgh Castle. Well that's a nice little claim to fame there and certainly gave the Elephant House paramount exposure. They use it of course to their advantage. In the front window there is a framed watercolour of Rowling herself sitting at a table penning her future book. Underneath this it's the story of how she whiled away the hours inspired by the views of the city around her. This is the reason why during the festival the Elephant House is flocked with people. Tourists old and young and from all over the world congregate and have photos taken standing next to the picture in the window. To me it's quite bizarre to have a picture stood next to a picture, but I think I was one of the rare-breeds that missed out on the Harry Potter hype. Having never read it I can't criticise or applaud her work, but I can absolutely admire her success.
People not only stand waiting for a photo in front of the coffee shop, they also stand in queues that run outside the door waiting for a table for lunch. Again bizarre. I remember passing people in Milton Keynes shopping centre on several occasions queueing to get a table at Pizza Hut and thought "Are you serious? It's Pizza Hut!" But at least Edinburgh during the festival can get extremely busy and you might be in for a wait wherever you chose to eat at lunch.
This is the reason, however, that every time I've walked passed the Elephant House I've kept walking. Don't get me wrong it looks very inviting, but I've never had the time to stand and wait.
On this occasion I walked past and figured I must have got the timing right. Although there was still a queue, it didn't stretch as far as the door and with three people working behind the counter I took my chances. Inside is definitely charming. It has a kind of continental feel about it which comes across as both polished and rustic. The walls are peaches and oranges decorated with small pieces of art. Heavy material lampshades hang from the ceiling and dark wooden tables and chairs are scattered across the floor. The set-up for ordering I suppose is quite similar to Starbucks. You queue up at the front counter to order (lunch orders included) and then wait to be seated. Your drinks are prepared as you wait and food later served to your table. As I watched the ebb of people coming in the set-up seemed a bit chaotic, waiters dashed to the front to block people from helping themselves to a table. In all honesty if I saw a queue at the counter and a few empty tables I would probably make the same assumption that people were queueing for a takeaway service, just like I was. Still once people had got the gist and read the signs it seemed to quieten down the confusion.
As I waited I admired the food in the deli counter to my right. There were fresh quiches, half slices of pizza, vegetable and meat pies and fresh cakes and flapjack slices. Along the back of the counter on the ever popular blackboards were the lunch time offerings and prices. I'm surprised at how popular this place is yet how affordable it remains. Just like when a restaurant gets a Michelin star and ups it's prices by two-thirds, it would be easy for the Elephant House to ask for more simply to sit where J K Rowling barked her bum.
In terms of the service it is proficient and professional. The ladies behind the counter serve with speed, but precision. Less time is given to general chit-chat, but with lines normally out of the door this is probably developed through habit and only a good thing. The lady who takes my order listens carefully to my coffee instructions and offers a nod and a courteous "Sure". To my surprise she also asks if I would like one shot or two in my coffee. This is rare these days, when two shots is the standard. I'm glad to be offered the option and choose the one shot. I watch carefully as she heats the milk and then swirls it in the metal jug. I'm prepared to ask for it hotter or for more milk, but again to my surprise she serves it roasting hot and to the brim. The result is a velvety hot coffee that melts down your throat. Delicious! I genuinely walk along the street with a smile on my face. It's sad how one good cup of coffee can make such a genuine improvement to my day. This place, despite it's popularity as the "birthplace of Harry Potter" clearly has a lot more going for it. There is a really good atmosphere and although it is busy it's not cacophonous. There is a mild hum of conversation and coffee machines rather than a shrill discord present in many larger coffee shops.
Anyway enough of my bad advice for addicts, I luckily have a few coffee shops stored up somewhere in my brain space to tell you about.
A while back I was heading into town for a late shift and decided to finally chance it, the famous Elephant House Gourmet Tea and Coffee Shop. This place I may have mentioned before is famous as, to use their words not mine, the "birthplace of Harry Potter". It was JK Rowling's coffee shop of choice as she sat writing her novels in the back room overlooking Edinburgh Castle. Well that's a nice little claim to fame there and certainly gave the Elephant House paramount exposure. They use it of course to their advantage. In the front window there is a framed watercolour of Rowling herself sitting at a table penning her future book. Underneath this it's the story of how she whiled away the hours inspired by the views of the city around her. This is the reason why during the festival the Elephant House is flocked with people. Tourists old and young and from all over the world congregate and have photos taken standing next to the picture in the window. To me it's quite bizarre to have a picture stood next to a picture, but I think I was one of the rare-breeds that missed out on the Harry Potter hype. Having never read it I can't criticise or applaud her work, but I can absolutely admire her success.
People not only stand waiting for a photo in front of the coffee shop, they also stand in queues that run outside the door waiting for a table for lunch. Again bizarre. I remember passing people in Milton Keynes shopping centre on several occasions queueing to get a table at Pizza Hut and thought "Are you serious? It's Pizza Hut!" But at least Edinburgh during the festival can get extremely busy and you might be in for a wait wherever you chose to eat at lunch.
This is the reason, however, that every time I've walked passed the Elephant House I've kept walking. Don't get me wrong it looks very inviting, but I've never had the time to stand and wait.
On this occasion I walked past and figured I must have got the timing right. Although there was still a queue, it didn't stretch as far as the door and with three people working behind the counter I took my chances. Inside is definitely charming. It has a kind of continental feel about it which comes across as both polished and rustic. The walls are peaches and oranges decorated with small pieces of art. Heavy material lampshades hang from the ceiling and dark wooden tables and chairs are scattered across the floor. The set-up for ordering I suppose is quite similar to Starbucks. You queue up at the front counter to order (lunch orders included) and then wait to be seated. Your drinks are prepared as you wait and food later served to your table. As I watched the ebb of people coming in the set-up seemed a bit chaotic, waiters dashed to the front to block people from helping themselves to a table. In all honesty if I saw a queue at the counter and a few empty tables I would probably make the same assumption that people were queueing for a takeaway service, just like I was. Still once people had got the gist and read the signs it seemed to quieten down the confusion.
As I waited I admired the food in the deli counter to my right. There were fresh quiches, half slices of pizza, vegetable and meat pies and fresh cakes and flapjack slices. Along the back of the counter on the ever popular blackboards were the lunch time offerings and prices. I'm surprised at how popular this place is yet how affordable it remains. Just like when a restaurant gets a Michelin star and ups it's prices by two-thirds, it would be easy for the Elephant House to ask for more simply to sit where J K Rowling barked her bum.
In terms of the service it is proficient and professional. The ladies behind the counter serve with speed, but precision. Less time is given to general chit-chat, but with lines normally out of the door this is probably developed through habit and only a good thing. The lady who takes my order listens carefully to my coffee instructions and offers a nod and a courteous "Sure". To my surprise she also asks if I would like one shot or two in my coffee. This is rare these days, when two shots is the standard. I'm glad to be offered the option and choose the one shot. I watch carefully as she heats the milk and then swirls it in the metal jug. I'm prepared to ask for it hotter or for more milk, but again to my surprise she serves it roasting hot and to the brim. The result is a velvety hot coffee that melts down your throat. Delicious! I genuinely walk along the street with a smile on my face. It's sad how one good cup of coffee can make such a genuine improvement to my day. This place, despite it's popularity as the "birthplace of Harry Potter" clearly has a lot more going for it. There is a really good atmosphere and although it is busy it's not cacophonous. There is a mild hum of conversation and coffee machines rather than a shrill discord present in many larger coffee shops.
Although I'm not sure their coffee could, as they claim on their website, "satisfy your every need" it certainly did taste good. And I can certainly see how writers could sit for hours penning novels in the back room.
If I was to bring visitors up to Edinburgh I would chose to take them here without a doubt and for no other reason than the taste of the coffee and the shop itself. A truly delightful place.
P.S Please ignore the random person in the corner of the photo. It is not me and I would never wear those trousers.
Frothy Fun Fact of the Day: The Harry Potter books have been translated into 67 different languages and the seventh and final book in the series sold 11 millions in it's first 24 hours of release. Go on Elephant House ride that band-wagon and ride it hard.
Monday, 20 August 2012
Award winning blogger writes...
Without a doubt I am so chuffed! I went to a Back to School Disco on Saturday night and who won Silliest Student? Yours truly. I got an award and everything. All those years of being a geek at school have finally paid off and I was awarded a cardboard stick on badge emblazoned with an "S" (for Silly). I earned it though. I was busting some serious moves on the dance floor. I'm talking the running man, snorkeling, the twist, a Dirty Dancing lift thrown in here and there and a couple of twirls and dips. I was partnered with a rather attractive American man with an equal penchant for making an idiot of himself. This is helpful when your dancing for half an hour straight and trying to win a "school" dance contest. Unfortunately we were cheated out of Prom King and Queen. Cheated! I don't think the fake glasses and big side bow helped. I was definitely channelling 1980's American geek-chic. Never-the-less I was pretty damn pleased with myself and this feeling continued for the rest of the weekend. (Sad I know.)
So heading to work early afternoon on Sunday I was still in a good mood. Maybe a bit sleepy, but in a good mood. Unlike usual I'd left the house in good time and was contemplating where to have my coffee. Taking my usual route through the Meadows I bounced back and forth between options in my head. Then as if out of nowhere I thought "Hmmm I've never thought of this place!" My choice was Union of Genius, Scotland's first soup cafe. Soup cafes seem to have been something of a revelation as of late. No longer is soup confined to community centres and given out in polystyrene cups. Nor is it considered a precursor to a big meal or a dinner for emancipated vegans, it is now the main event as this cafe demonstrates. Now even though Union of Genius specialises in home-made, seasonal soups it also offers an impressive array of hot and cold drinks. As an independent Edinburgh shop with a soup philosophy that can easily applied to my morning coffee, "Happiness-inducing liquid warmth" I think it's worth a try.
The shop itself is a tiny box space. If you really wanted to you could swing a cat and it would hit three of the four walls. (Personally I'd swing a pillow.) There is a small table lined with cushioned benches neatly pushed into the bay window at the front and then a small counter at the side to add your own sugars etc. The counter at the back is dotted with soup cauldrons and behind that is the coffee machine and chalkboard with daily specials. I like it. It feels both contemporary and retro.
I order my coffee, learning from experience to ask for no froth before the milk has been heated "the wrong way". What do I get as a response this time?
"Well technically that's a flat white if you don't want any froth." Pause.
"Is it?" I reply with my head cocked slightly to the right like an inquisitive puppy. I know it's not.
"Oh okay I thought a flat white was kind of layers of foamed milk. But..."
"But...yeah. Okay latte no froth. Hot milk. I get it."
Now I may have won a 'Silliest Student Award' but the funny doesn't seem to translate to my face. Instead my face + coffee shop + specifications to coffee = "Come and 'ave a go if you think your 'ard enough!" Maybe I should be a stand up comedian, I seem to have a face to be heckled. I could wear my badge, do a dance and shout crazy demands at people. It would be a smash at the Fringe.
Anyway she made the coffee and filled the cup half way to the top.
"Sorry" I squirm again "Could I get more milk? I just like a lot of milk." Translation: Give me what I paid for and fill up the cup.
She releases a silent sigh as she opens the fridge to get milk in order to heat more. I'm left wondering, did she mistakenly not heat enough milk and rather than admit it hoped I'd except a half cup? Or do they genuinely only offer this much coffee for your £2? If it's the latter, it seems like a two inch waste of their vegware cups to me. I apologise again for being fussy. (A misdirected attempt to ensure no one thinks of me as an awkward customer.) She offers a dismissive "It's okay" as she hands me my cup. And suddenly I feel very deflated. I wouldn't mind if I actually was an awkward customer or if I was rude or aggressive, but I was none of those things. So I added my sugar and left.
The sad thing is it was probably the best cup of coffee I've had in Edinburgh so far. Slightly less hot than I prefer, but still hot enough. Extremely creamy and smooth. A strong, but mild flavour. I could have drunk another one with ease.
I find it hard to judge this place. In it's philosophy it is right up my street. It serves healthy and wholesome food, it's an independent shop that puts an emphasis on using the best local produce and seasonal food and it it is simple and well designed. I genuinely like it and would recommend it in spite of the slightly temperamental service I received. I would like to believe it was just a bad day and on any other occasion the barista would be quite amicable. For all I know she may have been at the disco and lost out on Prom Queen too, that would be a real bummer.
So heading to work early afternoon on Sunday I was still in a good mood. Maybe a bit sleepy, but in a good mood. Unlike usual I'd left the house in good time and was contemplating where to have my coffee. Taking my usual route through the Meadows I bounced back and forth between options in my head. Then as if out of nowhere I thought "Hmmm I've never thought of this place!" My choice was Union of Genius, Scotland's first soup cafe. Soup cafes seem to have been something of a revelation as of late. No longer is soup confined to community centres and given out in polystyrene cups. Nor is it considered a precursor to a big meal or a dinner for emancipated vegans, it is now the main event as this cafe demonstrates. Now even though Union of Genius specialises in home-made, seasonal soups it also offers an impressive array of hot and cold drinks. As an independent Edinburgh shop with a soup philosophy that can easily applied to my morning coffee, "Happiness-inducing liquid warmth" I think it's worth a try.
The shop itself is a tiny box space. If you really wanted to you could swing a cat and it would hit three of the four walls. (Personally I'd swing a pillow.) There is a small table lined with cushioned benches neatly pushed into the bay window at the front and then a small counter at the side to add your own sugars etc. The counter at the back is dotted with soup cauldrons and behind that is the coffee machine and chalkboard with daily specials. I like it. It feels both contemporary and retro.
I order my coffee, learning from experience to ask for no froth before the milk has been heated "the wrong way". What do I get as a response this time?
"Well technically that's a flat white if you don't want any froth." Pause.
"Is it?" I reply with my head cocked slightly to the right like an inquisitive puppy. I know it's not.
"Oh okay I thought a flat white was kind of layers of foamed milk. But..."
"But...yeah. Okay latte no froth. Hot milk. I get it."
Now I may have won a 'Silliest Student Award' but the funny doesn't seem to translate to my face. Instead my face + coffee shop + specifications to coffee = "Come and 'ave a go if you think your 'ard enough!" Maybe I should be a stand up comedian, I seem to have a face to be heckled. I could wear my badge, do a dance and shout crazy demands at people. It would be a smash at the Fringe.
Anyway she made the coffee and filled the cup half way to the top.
"Sorry" I squirm again "Could I get more milk? I just like a lot of milk." Translation: Give me what I paid for and fill up the cup.
She releases a silent sigh as she opens the fridge to get milk in order to heat more. I'm left wondering, did she mistakenly not heat enough milk and rather than admit it hoped I'd except a half cup? Or do they genuinely only offer this much coffee for your £2? If it's the latter, it seems like a two inch waste of their vegware cups to me. I apologise again for being fussy. (A misdirected attempt to ensure no one thinks of me as an awkward customer.) She offers a dismissive "It's okay" as she hands me my cup. And suddenly I feel very deflated. I wouldn't mind if I actually was an awkward customer or if I was rude or aggressive, but I was none of those things. So I added my sugar and left.
The sad thing is it was probably the best cup of coffee I've had in Edinburgh so far. Slightly less hot than I prefer, but still hot enough. Extremely creamy and smooth. A strong, but mild flavour. I could have drunk another one with ease.
I find it hard to judge this place. In it's philosophy it is right up my street. It serves healthy and wholesome food, it's an independent shop that puts an emphasis on using the best local produce and seasonal food and it it is simple and well designed. I genuinely like it and would recommend it in spite of the slightly temperamental service I received. I would like to believe it was just a bad day and on any other occasion the barista would be quite amicable. For all I know she may have been at the disco and lost out on Prom Queen too, that would be a real bummer.
For my latte/flat white/hot coffee with milk I would give Union of Genius a full 10 out of 10. For the way it was delivered to me I'd have to drop it by five points. Union of Genius that it is can work that out, it equals an average 5 out of 10.
And just for kicks...check out the badge!
Frothy Fun Fact of the Day: Sorry it had to be done, this is an "In your face" fact. The definition of a Flat White:
"A flat white is a coffee beverage originating from Australia. It is prepared by pouring microfoam (steamed milk from the bottom of a pitcher) over a singe or double shot of espresso. It is similar to the latte and the cafe au lait."
Okay there is potential at the moment for me to be wrong...
"In a flat white, the milk is steamed to 60-70 C (typically 150-170 F). Steaming the milk to a lower temperature retains the fats and proteins in the milk which retain a sweet flavour, lost when milk is steamed to scalding temperatures."
Concluded. Asking for a latte extra hot rules out any possibility of my drink being "technically" a flat white as they are served at a lower temperature (and from what I can remember only served with full fat milk). Not just a hat rack my friends.
Saturday, 18 August 2012
"Eh, what's up Doc?"
I hate myself. I'm 25 years old. I shouldn't be this anal about the way I drink my coffee. It's rubbish coffee as well. It tastes like someone has spat up ground coffee beans and scattered them on top. Okay, maybe that's a bit harsh, but I burnt my tongue. And my oesophagus. Twice. When I ask for my coffee milky with no froth the woman says "I would have heated the milk differently if you'd said earlier." I apologise and then think "No, hang on. I asked for a latte which should have approximately half a centimetre of frothed milk. I didn't ask for a cappuccino. You heated the milk wrong to start with." Of course I didn't tell her that. I'm far too British. I'm far too passive-aggressive for that.
In cartoon terms I'm a ghastly combination of Scrappy-Do's "Lemme at 'em. Lemme at 'em" and Elmer Fudd's "Be vewy vewy quiet." Like Elmer I'm small in size, short in temper, shorter in attention span, highly gullible and surprisingly a vegetarian. And just like Scrappy-Do sometimes I can be a right "feisty little dog".
My feistiness can often be a cause of embarrassment amongst my friends. I recall a particularly boisterous night of after-party drinks at a bar in Kentish Town when I had a one-on-one confrontation with the bar manager. As my friends squirmed I stood defiant in the "I'm in this business" kind of way. And what happened? We got a free chocolate brownie as an apology thank you very much.
Today though I don't feel like hunting wabbits. It's far too early. Maybe I just have a mild case of wrong-side-of-the-bed syndrome.
The coffee shop I'm in is Caffe Lucano on George IV Bridge. It's more of a cafe/restaurant offering breakfasts and lunches of the Italian variety. I've heard good things about the food, but unfortunately their coffee was not to my taste. It was very bitter without any of the velvety quality of a strong coffee.
Now just like a good old theatre review feel free to employ your own level of scepticism to my opinion. It is just one amongst a million and as the place is often very busy I would imagine it has its own charm. I might consider going for a bite to eat, although it's already quite far down on my list. But for a take-away coffee I think I'll keep looking.
In cartoon terms I'm a ghastly combination of Scrappy-Do's "Lemme at 'em. Lemme at 'em" and Elmer Fudd's "Be vewy vewy quiet." Like Elmer I'm small in size, short in temper, shorter in attention span, highly gullible and surprisingly a vegetarian. And just like Scrappy-Do sometimes I can be a right "feisty little dog".
My feistiness can often be a cause of embarrassment amongst my friends. I recall a particularly boisterous night of after-party drinks at a bar in Kentish Town when I had a one-on-one confrontation with the bar manager. As my friends squirmed I stood defiant in the "I'm in this business" kind of way. And what happened? We got a free chocolate brownie as an apology thank you very much.
Today though I don't feel like hunting wabbits. It's far too early. Maybe I just have a mild case of wrong-side-of-the-bed syndrome.
The coffee shop I'm in is Caffe Lucano on George IV Bridge. It's more of a cafe/restaurant offering breakfasts and lunches of the Italian variety. I've heard good things about the food, but unfortunately their coffee was not to my taste. It was very bitter without any of the velvety quality of a strong coffee.
Now just like a good old theatre review feel free to employ your own level of scepticism to my opinion. It is just one amongst a million and as the place is often very busy I would imagine it has its own charm. I might consider going for a bite to eat, although it's already quite far down on my list. But for a take-away coffee I think I'll keep looking.
I would recommend checking out Caffe Lucano's menu. It looks pretty good food at reasonable prices.
And it's a pretty colour.
Frothy Fun Fact of the Day: The Google search engine has been translated into many different languages, Elmer Fudd dialect included.
Friday, 17 August 2012
Drug Free!
When I say drug free I need to clarify. Other than alcohol and the occasional headache-numbing paracetamol I don't do drugs. Neither do I hang out in any drug-dealing dwellings. The drug I am referring to on this occasional is caffeine. Today I had no coffee and thus no caffeine. Real handy for a coffee blog I know. But instead of leaving you wanting, I figured, hey I'm in Edinburgh during the Fringe there must be something I can talk about it. And there should is. As a perpetual day-off loner it is quite easy to overhear and oversee some pretty entertaining things. Not distracted by chat here are a few observations I have made of general Fringe assemblage.
1. If you're not sure if a show has ended this is generally a bad sign. Useful tip in this situation: don't ask the man on the way out if that was "seriously the end?" They don't appreciate it.
2. Theatres at the Fringe generally have a lingering background smell that is a noxious combination of electric cables, sweat and farts. For some reason as soon as you get a whiff you have to take a deeper sniff to identify the prominent smell.
3. Posh middle-class white guys like to imitate spoken word hip-hop artists. Note: You will never be as cool, so stop flagging your arms and nodding your head. It's embarrassing for us all.
4. Teenage thespians love to use big words in sentences often randomly and without reason. For example, "Irrespective" is a very good word, but it doesn't belong in your average conversation.
5. Grumpy old men that moan about having to wait outside in a queue should be quiet and remember their umbrellas next time.
6. Too be a good actor you have to be fearless. To be be a good audience member you have to relish in that actor's fearlessness and only then will you be part of something special.
7. If you film yourself up close pouting in sunglasses on your iPhone you're a t**t. If you do this waiting to get into a theatre while your friends are having a conversation around you you're a double t**t.
8. In Edinburgh it's possible to watch nine men strip onstage, dance and make out before 4pm in the afternoon. Who knew?
9. Women in public toilets always look quite angry. On a side note to this: always double checked the toilet sign-age at each venue. It is all too easy to walk into the gents by mistake, as pointed out by a man and cleaning woman on two separate occasions today just before I reached the urinals.
10. A kebab shop is a choice of restaurant rather than takeaway and kebabs can be eaten before a night out. I'm not sure if this is Scottish or Fringe custom.
11. Lacking coffee I often begin to crave wine or cider. This is an observation of myself obviously, but I just want to check this is normal?
12. People will always walk at their very slowest down a small street when you are in a rush.
13. Quote overheard today: Young Girl says to Mother "As I always say, some people are put on this world to confuse me. Just like you." Not only are you right Young Girl, but you're in for a whole world of confusion. Bring on puberty, employment and independence.
14. Under the threat of being sued for not being allowed into a show as a latecomer managers come up with the best comebacks, my manager for example. "Sir you were late. If you're late for a train, you miss the train. It's the same thing." Boo ya!
15. If you book several shows in one day, by the end of the day you will have easily walked five miles or more and still have a numb bum. It's an odd combination.
And those my friends are my top fifteen observations of today. Sorry there was no coffee shop to talk about this time, but I start work at 8:45am tomorrow so be assured coffee will be involved and along with it a lovingly slapdash review.
1. If you're not sure if a show has ended this is generally a bad sign. Useful tip in this situation: don't ask the man on the way out if that was "seriously the end?" They don't appreciate it.
2. Theatres at the Fringe generally have a lingering background smell that is a noxious combination of electric cables, sweat and farts. For some reason as soon as you get a whiff you have to take a deeper sniff to identify the prominent smell.
3. Posh middle-class white guys like to imitate spoken word hip-hop artists. Note: You will never be as cool, so stop flagging your arms and nodding your head. It's embarrassing for us all.
4. Teenage thespians love to use big words in sentences often randomly and without reason. For example, "Irrespective" is a very good word, but it doesn't belong in your average conversation.
5. Grumpy old men that moan about having to wait outside in a queue should be quiet and remember their umbrellas next time.
6. Too be a good actor you have to be fearless. To be be a good audience member you have to relish in that actor's fearlessness and only then will you be part of something special.
7. If you film yourself up close pouting in sunglasses on your iPhone you're a t**t. If you do this waiting to get into a theatre while your friends are having a conversation around you you're a double t**t.
8. In Edinburgh it's possible to watch nine men strip onstage, dance and make out before 4pm in the afternoon. Who knew?
9. Women in public toilets always look quite angry. On a side note to this: always double checked the toilet sign-age at each venue. It is all too easy to walk into the gents by mistake, as pointed out by a man and cleaning woman on two separate occasions today just before I reached the urinals.
10. A kebab shop is a choice of restaurant rather than takeaway and kebabs can be eaten before a night out. I'm not sure if this is Scottish or Fringe custom.
11. Lacking coffee I often begin to crave wine or cider. This is an observation of myself obviously, but I just want to check this is normal?
12. People will always walk at their very slowest down a small street when you are in a rush.
13. Quote overheard today: Young Girl says to Mother "As I always say, some people are put on this world to confuse me. Just like you." Not only are you right Young Girl, but you're in for a whole world of confusion. Bring on puberty, employment and independence.
14. Under the threat of being sued for not being allowed into a show as a latecomer managers come up with the best comebacks, my manager for example. "Sir you were late. If you're late for a train, you miss the train. It's the same thing." Boo ya!
15. If you book several shows in one day, by the end of the day you will have easily walked five miles or more and still have a numb bum. It's an odd combination.
And those my friends are my top fifteen observations of today. Sorry there was no coffee shop to talk about this time, but I start work at 8:45am tomorrow so be assured coffee will be involved and along with it a lovingly slapdash review.
Frothy Fun Fact of the Day: One of the most popular cures for baldness in 17th century Edinburgh was to rub the burnt ashes of a dove's dung on your head. They run a good festival, let's just remember that.
Thursday, 16 August 2012
C'est Bon in this Bonnie wee shop.
I really wanted to think of a cool story to start today's blog to reflect the coffee shop I went into today, but alas my mind is blank. So instead I'll skip all the rubbish and get straight to the review. What a novelty.
Bonningtons Eaterie has been on my radar for a while. I've wanted to visit for about two weeks, but have always missed the opportunity. My habit for leaving the house ten minutes late never helps.
The cafe has a very inviting shabby chic quality about it. It's stylish enough to make you want to go in, but still very down to earth. Inside is a Smorgasbord of different furniture and a miss-mash of styles. A black leather sofa lines the window. A large solid wood communal table occupies the left side of the shop with Fringe posters decorating the wall unobtrusively behind it. The counter takes the form of a delicious looking deli and as I walk up one of the baristas is freshly preparing a potato salad. I order my coffee, chat to the baristas about the fortunate weather we having and admire the tasty looking sandwiches laid out in front of me. This place feels very homely. It's got the type of atmosphere the bigger chains try to achieve with generic leather sofas and potted plants. But whereas in bigger chains you feel like an endless number in a queue (writing my name incorrectly on a cup does not change this) in Bonningtons you feel like you are being talked to as a person and with genuine interest.
I got my coffee, turned to the jam jar full of sugars and opened it up. My coffee was a little low on milk so I asked for a top up. Not only did I get a top up I got it in the shape of a smiley face drawn with milk into the top of my coffee. I know they were quiet, but that is a sweet touch. Just as it was getting my sugar from a jam jar as I said hello to the little Jack Russell sat on a cushion on the end of the bench next to me. According to his owner he's got so many girlfriends on the go always popping in. I said
"Well he shouldn't sit so close to the sugar then."
From the way his owner spoke and from the dog's obvious comfort on his spot, I'd guess they were regulars here. As I was talking to the woman and her dog (yes I spoke to the dog too) a man came out from behind the counter and introduced himself as the owner. Two owners in two days lucky me! What a nice man and perfectly suited to the coffee shop he owes, friendly, laid back and artisan. And before you say anything I can use this word now as I've found out what it means.
Bonningtons Eaterie has been on my radar for a while. I've wanted to visit for about two weeks, but have always missed the opportunity. My habit for leaving the house ten minutes late never helps.
The cafe has a very inviting shabby chic quality about it. It's stylish enough to make you want to go in, but still very down to earth. Inside is a Smorgasbord of different furniture and a miss-mash of styles. A black leather sofa lines the window. A large solid wood communal table occupies the left side of the shop with Fringe posters decorating the wall unobtrusively behind it. The counter takes the form of a delicious looking deli and as I walk up one of the baristas is freshly preparing a potato salad. I order my coffee, chat to the baristas about the fortunate weather we having and admire the tasty looking sandwiches laid out in front of me. This place feels very homely. It's got the type of atmosphere the bigger chains try to achieve with generic leather sofas and potted plants. But whereas in bigger chains you feel like an endless number in a queue (writing my name incorrectly on a cup does not change this) in Bonningtons you feel like you are being talked to as a person and with genuine interest.
I got my coffee, turned to the jam jar full of sugars and opened it up. My coffee was a little low on milk so I asked for a top up. Not only did I get a top up I got it in the shape of a smiley face drawn with milk into the top of my coffee. I know they were quiet, but that is a sweet touch. Just as it was getting my sugar from a jam jar as I said hello to the little Jack Russell sat on a cushion on the end of the bench next to me. According to his owner he's got so many girlfriends on the go always popping in. I said
"Well he shouldn't sit so close to the sugar then."
From the way his owner spoke and from the dog's obvious comfort on his spot, I'd guess they were regulars here. As I was talking to the woman and her dog (yes I spoke to the dog too) a man came out from behind the counter and introduced himself as the owner. Two owners in two days lucky me! What a nice man and perfectly suited to the coffee shop he owes, friendly, laid back and artisan. And before you say anything I can use this word now as I've found out what it means.
"A skilled worker who practises some trade or handicraft."
So not poncy after all. I would gladly call this place artisan. And as I sipped my coffee and left the shop that hug I wanted the week before seemed to envelop me. Not only from the coffee but from the people who made it. People like this are what independent coffee shops are or should be all about. No. Scratch that. They are what coffee shops should be about. Full stop. Starbucks bring a pen and paper and take note.
Frothy Fun Fact of the Day: In Italian "latte" actually just means milk and the word "barista" literally translates as bartender. So if you ordered a latte in Italy you'd get a bartender serving you a glass of milk. Rock on!
Have beans. Has beans. Lost beans.
I started writing this post on Tuesday night after a Magners, whisky and diet coke. I got about five lines in, shut the laptop and went to bed. Today I am writing this post after four glasses of wine, a red bull and a shot of vodka. Admittedly it was last night, but its effects are still dancing around quite strongly in my head and stomping bags under my eyes, so forgive any incoherence (other than my usual babbling).
On the day in question I was considerably more chirpy than I am right now sitting in day old clothes with a stolen teapot in my bedroom.
I decided to be more adventurous in my coffee shop hunt venturing away from my daily work commute. Having passed a few lovely looking places on my way out of the theatre one night I headed towards the lower end of the Royal Mile which gradually becomes Cannongate. (One thing I love about Edinburgh is how streets just merge into one another. They just become different streets with seemingly no warning or evidence.) Along this street it is easy to see how JK Rowling was supposedly inspired to write Harry Potter. It's evident in every stone brick, every street alley and every clock tower. It is mysterious, quaint and all together beautiful. It's like stepping back in time.
As I retraced my walk out of the theatre I decided to turn down one of the side streets. I passed a few cafe bistros that looked more appropriate for dining until I came across Jo-Jo's Bakery. It's a cute little shop tucked into a corner with danish baked goods and cakes advertised in the window. I went in and ordered. The lady behind the counter made some qualms about burning the milk but apart from that seemed quite pleasant.
About ten seconds later another woman walked into the shop after me and asked for a latte to drink in but in a takeaway cup. This is when disaster struck. I was suddenly thrown into a whirlwind argument. The answer this lady got was unexpected;
"Well you can have a takeaway cup, but you can't drink the coffee in here then."
Bearing in mind we were the only two customers in the shop.
"Excuse me?"
"The cups cost me 40p each so if your going to drink coffee in here I can give you a proper cup."
"Well I won't be staying long which is why I might need a takeaway cup."
"Well then you can go straight away."
"Excuse me?"
"The cups cost me 40p so you can't sit in with it."
"But I don't know how long I'll be here for."
The lady behind the counter now scrapping out the used ground coffee from under the machine into the bin shrugs.
"Are you being serious?"
"Yes. (Sigh) The cups cost..."
"Oh you know what this is not good customer service, just forget it" and she walks out.
Like a wild animal having lost its prey the woman turns on me.
"I mean I'm not being unfair here am I? Is it unfair?" The scrapping becomes more violent.
"The cups cost me 40p each. She was ridiculous wasn't she? I mean should I just let anyone sit in? The cups cost me 40p each you know?" There is a short silence as I realise these questions aren't rhetorical.
"I really don't know. I'm sorry."
"It's just her reaction. I mean would you let someone drink in with a takeaway cup? The cups cost me 40p each."
I can't quite see the reason why the cups costing 40p effects this decision, but she obviously can.
"I'm really sorry. This is actually making me quite uncomfortable. I think I'll leave it too." I excuse.
She gives a twitchy pent-up sigh as I tread carefully towards the door. Just as I step outside I hear a shrill;
"Well fine! I'm PREGNANT!"
I carry on walking, but can't help but laugh. What a surreal thirty seconds that was. Slightly disturbed but with a smile on my face I head back to the Royal Mile and pop into Has Beans coffee shop. What a difference. This place feels like a haven in comparison. Tucked into the historic brick work it's all dark wooden chairs and murky coloured walls with a faint smell of cooked bacon. A definite throwback to the 90's. I used to be a bit snobby about places like this, but as I have learnt they often do the best coffees and perfect toasties and fry ups. This is just that example. The coffee was perfect. Hot, creamy, not too much froth and for £1.95 a bargain! The two girls serving were equally lovely. At one point the owner, with his rounded bacon filled belly, came upstairs greeted me with a friendly "Hello" and went about organizing the fridges. Good on ya boss man!
I left the shop with a smile on my face and not because I'd just found out someone was pregnant.
If you're into your high trend coffee lounges this place might not suit, but for a touch of homely retro (it reminded me of eating prawn cocktail sandwiches in the Christian Centre Cafe with my mum as a kid) definitely pop into Has Beans. After all, if Les Dennis and David Hasselhof can bring shows up to Edinburgh we all love a Has Been.
Frothy Fun Fact of the Day: Not all pregnant woman are twitchy and crazed.
On the day in question I was considerably more chirpy than I am right now sitting in day old clothes with a stolen teapot in my bedroom.
I decided to be more adventurous in my coffee shop hunt venturing away from my daily work commute. Having passed a few lovely looking places on my way out of the theatre one night I headed towards the lower end of the Royal Mile which gradually becomes Cannongate. (One thing I love about Edinburgh is how streets just merge into one another. They just become different streets with seemingly no warning or evidence.) Along this street it is easy to see how JK Rowling was supposedly inspired to write Harry Potter. It's evident in every stone brick, every street alley and every clock tower. It is mysterious, quaint and all together beautiful. It's like stepping back in time.
As I retraced my walk out of the theatre I decided to turn down one of the side streets. I passed a few cafe bistros that looked more appropriate for dining until I came across Jo-Jo's Bakery. It's a cute little shop tucked into a corner with danish baked goods and cakes advertised in the window. I went in and ordered. The lady behind the counter made some qualms about burning the milk but apart from that seemed quite pleasant.
About ten seconds later another woman walked into the shop after me and asked for a latte to drink in but in a takeaway cup. This is when disaster struck. I was suddenly thrown into a whirlwind argument. The answer this lady got was unexpected;
"Well you can have a takeaway cup, but you can't drink the coffee in here then."
Bearing in mind we were the only two customers in the shop.
"Excuse me?"
"The cups cost me 40p each so if your going to drink coffee in here I can give you a proper cup."
"Well I won't be staying long which is why I might need a takeaway cup."
"Well then you can go straight away."
"Excuse me?"
"The cups cost me 40p so you can't sit in with it."
"But I don't know how long I'll be here for."
The lady behind the counter now scrapping out the used ground coffee from under the machine into the bin shrugs.
"Are you being serious?"
"Yes. (Sigh) The cups cost..."
"Oh you know what this is not good customer service, just forget it" and she walks out.
Like a wild animal having lost its prey the woman turns on me.
"I mean I'm not being unfair here am I? Is it unfair?" The scrapping becomes more violent.
"The cups cost me 40p each. She was ridiculous wasn't she? I mean should I just let anyone sit in? The cups cost me 40p each you know?" There is a short silence as I realise these questions aren't rhetorical.
"I really don't know. I'm sorry."
"It's just her reaction. I mean would you let someone drink in with a takeaway cup? The cups cost me 40p each."
I can't quite see the reason why the cups costing 40p effects this decision, but she obviously can.
"I'm really sorry. This is actually making me quite uncomfortable. I think I'll leave it too." I excuse.
She gives a twitchy pent-up sigh as I tread carefully towards the door. Just as I step outside I hear a shrill;
"Well fine! I'm PREGNANT!"
I carry on walking, but can't help but laugh. What a surreal thirty seconds that was. Slightly disturbed but with a smile on my face I head back to the Royal Mile and pop into Has Beans coffee shop. What a difference. This place feels like a haven in comparison. Tucked into the historic brick work it's all dark wooden chairs and murky coloured walls with a faint smell of cooked bacon. A definite throwback to the 90's. I used to be a bit snobby about places like this, but as I have learnt they often do the best coffees and perfect toasties and fry ups. This is just that example. The coffee was perfect. Hot, creamy, not too much froth and for £1.95 a bargain! The two girls serving were equally lovely. At one point the owner, with his rounded bacon filled belly, came upstairs greeted me with a friendly "Hello" and went about organizing the fridges. Good on ya boss man!
I left the shop with a smile on my face and not because I'd just found out someone was pregnant.
If you're into your high trend coffee lounges this place might not suit, but for a touch of homely retro (it reminded me of eating prawn cocktail sandwiches in the Christian Centre Cafe with my mum as a kid) definitely pop into Has Beans. After all, if Les Dennis and David Hasselhof can bring shows up to Edinburgh we all love a Has Been.
Frothy Fun Fact of the Day: Not all pregnant woman are twitchy and crazed.
Tuesday, 14 August 2012
It's well "proper" coffee, innit!?
This post will be short, but not so sweet. You lucky little things.
On many occasions I have walked into a coffee shop and within thirty seconds walked back out again. Either it was really busy, I didn't like the look of the barista or I didn't want to pay a premium price for an espresso cup worth of coffee. This time I lasted about two minutes. Maybe a minute and a half. The coffee was fairly expensive, but I was on Cockburn Street just off the Royal Mile so it was to be expected. I walked into Southern Cross cafe on the long, steep, winding cobbles. The cafe itself is nicely decorated with large windowed panels and as you enter there is a blackboard running the entire length of the counter. On it scribbled in chalked artisan hand writing where the drinks and daily specials. It felt very cosmopolitan. It would belong very well on the streets of London or Oxford.
The staff sashayed between the counter and tables with ease and uniformity. As I arrived the man behind the counter was careful plating two small glasses of milky coffee onto white plates. Oh dear. I don't like this already. This is what I call "posh coffee". Far more ego than substance. My mind immediately flashed back to a small coffee shop in Lincoln. An artisan coffee shop, whatever that means. A place where they only heat the milk to the "correct" temperature and don't do semi-skimmed, skimmed, soya or any other choice of milk. You get what you're given and told to like it. It's "proper" coffee. What it was was cold and considerably higher in fat content than I enjoy.
I realise I have just used a lot of parenthesis in the last paragraph. This is me expressing my sarcasm. Imagine a teenage boy going "So yeah books are cool". This is the level of sophisticated sarcasm I am employing.
So back to Edinburgh and I ask for a "skinny latte really really hot"
"Ew, yuck!" I hear behind me as a waiter drops an empty tray on the counter. The two men share a chuckle.
"I know. I know it's terrible." I respond with a grimace. "I just have to have it really hot."
The man starts making the coffee. I'm already a bit dubious. Someone who doesn't respect a customer's desire to have a really hot latte will undoubtedly not make it as hot as they want it. This isn't me being negative, it's me talking as the voice of experience. Something won't let them go against their own stringent philosophy that coffee should be served at an exact temperature.
Anyway, then I notice the milk by the side of the machine. It's whole milk. Flash back! Flash back! Flash back! I'm going to get a cold, fat coffee.
"Have you got any semi-skimmed milk?" I ask.
"No" the man replies.
"Okay, I think I'll leave it thanks" I say and hurry out of the shop before I have time to notice their faces. I'm sure they were delightful as I left, but I wasn't going to chance it.
So if you like your coffee "proper" served warm with full fat milk and a teaspoon of condescension visit Southern Cross Cafe along with stack loads of tourists. And if you fancy a train ride and end up in Lincoln desperate to be told you can't have your coffee how you like it, pop into Cafe Aroma. They both do the job!
http://www.yelp.co.uk/biz/southern-cross-cafe-edinburgh
The reviews on here are pretty good, so maybe I'm just a spoil sport.
Frothy Fun Fact of the Day: This isn't so much a fact as a recommendation. Apparently the ideal temperature to serve a latte is between 150-160 degrees Fahrenheit. I ask for mine at 180, wowser!
On many occasions I have walked into a coffee shop and within thirty seconds walked back out again. Either it was really busy, I didn't like the look of the barista or I didn't want to pay a premium price for an espresso cup worth of coffee. This time I lasted about two minutes. Maybe a minute and a half. The coffee was fairly expensive, but I was on Cockburn Street just off the Royal Mile so it was to be expected. I walked into Southern Cross cafe on the long, steep, winding cobbles. The cafe itself is nicely decorated with large windowed panels and as you enter there is a blackboard running the entire length of the counter. On it scribbled in chalked artisan hand writing where the drinks and daily specials. It felt very cosmopolitan. It would belong very well on the streets of London or Oxford.
The staff sashayed between the counter and tables with ease and uniformity. As I arrived the man behind the counter was careful plating two small glasses of milky coffee onto white plates. Oh dear. I don't like this already. This is what I call "posh coffee". Far more ego than substance. My mind immediately flashed back to a small coffee shop in Lincoln. An artisan coffee shop, whatever that means. A place where they only heat the milk to the "correct" temperature and don't do semi-skimmed, skimmed, soya or any other choice of milk. You get what you're given and told to like it. It's "proper" coffee. What it was was cold and considerably higher in fat content than I enjoy.
I realise I have just used a lot of parenthesis in the last paragraph. This is me expressing my sarcasm. Imagine a teenage boy going "So yeah books are cool". This is the level of sophisticated sarcasm I am employing.
So back to Edinburgh and I ask for a "skinny latte really really hot"
"Ew, yuck!" I hear behind me as a waiter drops an empty tray on the counter. The two men share a chuckle.
"I know. I know it's terrible." I respond with a grimace. "I just have to have it really hot."
The man starts making the coffee. I'm already a bit dubious. Someone who doesn't respect a customer's desire to have a really hot latte will undoubtedly not make it as hot as they want it. This isn't me being negative, it's me talking as the voice of experience. Something won't let them go against their own stringent philosophy that coffee should be served at an exact temperature.
Anyway, then I notice the milk by the side of the machine. It's whole milk. Flash back! Flash back! Flash back! I'm going to get a cold, fat coffee.
"Have you got any semi-skimmed milk?" I ask.
"No" the man replies.
"Okay, I think I'll leave it thanks" I say and hurry out of the shop before I have time to notice their faces. I'm sure they were delightful as I left, but I wasn't going to chance it.
So if you like your coffee "proper" served warm with full fat milk and a teaspoon of condescension visit Southern Cross Cafe along with stack loads of tourists. And if you fancy a train ride and end up in Lincoln desperate to be told you can't have your coffee how you like it, pop into Cafe Aroma. They both do the job!
http://www.yelp.co.uk/biz/southern-cross-cafe-edinburgh
The reviews on here are pretty good, so maybe I'm just a spoil sport.
Frothy Fun Fact of the Day: This isn't so much a fact as a recommendation. Apparently the ideal temperature to serve a latte is between 150-160 degrees Fahrenheit. I ask for mine at 180, wowser!
Sunday, 12 August 2012
Full of beans tied up up with wedgies.
I've come to a realisation today. I've been doing the festival all wrong. I haven't read Lyn Gardner's tips on the festival and I am stood in a cafe that offers the Metro for free. How did I only just find out about this? Not that the Metro is a literary phenomenon, but you certainly miss it when it's gone. A bit like a sore throat. When it eventually goes you realise you miss your sexy, gravelly voice.
I also realised today that I am a tea-drinker's coffee drinker. I don't like tea, but just like a tea drinker likes a subtle wake up drink in the morning, I too can't take the whack of a too-strong coffee.
I am currently stood in Bean Scene on Nicolson Street. (Third realisation this morning; it is very difficult to go exploring for new coffee shops when your shift starts at 8:45am.) I walk past this place a lot, but to be completely honest have never felt inspired to go in. It's just a bit beige and I mean that in both a literal and metaphorical sense. This morning, however, craving caffeine and having walked past three closed coffee shops, I went in. Inside was pretty beige too, but there on the counter shining like a Bible was the Metro. Other than the Guardian online I feel like this is the only other connection I have to London.
I ordered my coffee. Problem number one hits. If there is one thing I hate it is poor customer service. Where they see the customer as an inconvenience. I was that inconvenience, or more specifically an interruption to their conversation. Shame on me! Bad customer wanting a coffee in a coffee shop.
This is probably the time when I should mention I have actually been banned from my local Costa coffee. Yes, my rock and roll moment happened in a Costa. After a tedious, wearying and aggravating ten minutes of terrible customer service I threw the biggest diva-like fit you can imagine. There was shouting, endless drinks and spilt coffee. The exact details I can't remember. Just like those murderers claim on documentaries that they blackout, I too walked out of the shop thinking "What the hell just happened?" I'm feisty I know, but I've never been banned. And just like that fourteen year old girl saying the F word for the first time I thought "I don't do that. That's not me!" Well f**k it, it is now!
So as you can imagine customer service is a bit of a hot topic for me. The girls in Topshop talking about Katie's boyfriend being a d**khead or Darren not folding the T-shirts properly do not get a thank you from me as they pack my bag. Now the two ladies in Bean Scene weren't rude, just a bit dismissive. They uttered grunts instead of worded answers.
Problem number two: the coffee while perfectly hot and full to the brim was very bitter. I know some people like this. Bitter is often what coffee is about, but for me it was just like a smack in the face. And at 8:45am I'd rather have a hug with a tight squeeze at the end to wake me up. Neither the service or the coffee offered me that.
I walked along Nicolson Street, the punch of coffee lessening as I did so. Then realisation number four came. Yes it was a day of realisations. As I watched a young girl pull a wedgie out I thought "I can't do that!" At twenty-five if I pulled a wedgie out in the middle of the street people would just think I was disgusting. Surely that's ageism? At what age do you have to stop publicly picking wedgies and at what age can you start again? Surely at seventy you're entitled to an unconcealed nicker pick, but why at twenty-five when you inevitably need it most is it not allowed?
This realisation was probably most noticeable today as just the other day wearing a pair of skinny jeans that were quite obviously a size too small for me I had a severe wedgie dilemma. And unlike this little girl on the street who freely plucked her nickers from her bum I had to hide inconveniently between a potted plant and my flatmate.
Hm I seem to have digressed, I apologise. If there are four things you should have learnt from this post they should be;
1. With a Costa ban as proof I hate bad customer service.
2. I think we should all be entitled to pick wedgies (except middle-aged men with sweaty, hairy backs and builder's bums. We already give them enough allowances.)
3. I become easily distracted, a flaw that has perhaps lead to my quarter-life crisis (that's a whole other blog)
4. Unless you want below average customer service, a bit of beige and a metaphorical smack in the face I wouldn't advise going to Bean Scene. For coffee with a side of early morning TLC go elsewhere.
Frothy Fun Fact of the day: Wedgies have a whole Wikipedia page dedicated to them with different descriptions for different kinds of wedgies. Unlike the UK where wedgies are mostly accidental, in the US they are practically a sport. For example, The Melvin is a variant where the underwear is pulled up from the front. Ouch!
I also realised today that I am a tea-drinker's coffee drinker. I don't like tea, but just like a tea drinker likes a subtle wake up drink in the morning, I too can't take the whack of a too-strong coffee.
I am currently stood in Bean Scene on Nicolson Street. (Third realisation this morning; it is very difficult to go exploring for new coffee shops when your shift starts at 8:45am.) I walk past this place a lot, but to be completely honest have never felt inspired to go in. It's just a bit beige and I mean that in both a literal and metaphorical sense. This morning, however, craving caffeine and having walked past three closed coffee shops, I went in. Inside was pretty beige too, but there on the counter shining like a Bible was the Metro. Other than the Guardian online I feel like this is the only other connection I have to London.
I ordered my coffee. Problem number one hits. If there is one thing I hate it is poor customer service. Where they see the customer as an inconvenience. I was that inconvenience, or more specifically an interruption to their conversation. Shame on me! Bad customer wanting a coffee in a coffee shop.
This is probably the time when I should mention I have actually been banned from my local Costa coffee. Yes, my rock and roll moment happened in a Costa. After a tedious, wearying and aggravating ten minutes of terrible customer service I threw the biggest diva-like fit you can imagine. There was shouting, endless drinks and spilt coffee. The exact details I can't remember. Just like those murderers claim on documentaries that they blackout, I too walked out of the shop thinking "What the hell just happened?" I'm feisty I know, but I've never been banned. And just like that fourteen year old girl saying the F word for the first time I thought "I don't do that. That's not me!" Well f**k it, it is now!
So as you can imagine customer service is a bit of a hot topic for me. The girls in Topshop talking about Katie's boyfriend being a d**khead or Darren not folding the T-shirts properly do not get a thank you from me as they pack my bag. Now the two ladies in Bean Scene weren't rude, just a bit dismissive. They uttered grunts instead of worded answers.
Problem number two: the coffee while perfectly hot and full to the brim was very bitter. I know some people like this. Bitter is often what coffee is about, but for me it was just like a smack in the face. And at 8:45am I'd rather have a hug with a tight squeeze at the end to wake me up. Neither the service or the coffee offered me that.
I walked along Nicolson Street, the punch of coffee lessening as I did so. Then realisation number four came. Yes it was a day of realisations. As I watched a young girl pull a wedgie out I thought "I can't do that!" At twenty-five if I pulled a wedgie out in the middle of the street people would just think I was disgusting. Surely that's ageism? At what age do you have to stop publicly picking wedgies and at what age can you start again? Surely at seventy you're entitled to an unconcealed nicker pick, but why at twenty-five when you inevitably need it most is it not allowed?
This realisation was probably most noticeable today as just the other day wearing a pair of skinny jeans that were quite obviously a size too small for me I had a severe wedgie dilemma. And unlike this little girl on the street who freely plucked her nickers from her bum I had to hide inconveniently between a potted plant and my flatmate.
Hm I seem to have digressed, I apologise. If there are four things you should have learnt from this post they should be;
1. With a Costa ban as proof I hate bad customer service.
2. I think we should all be entitled to pick wedgies (except middle-aged men with sweaty, hairy backs and builder's bums. We already give them enough allowances.)
3. I become easily distracted, a flaw that has perhaps lead to my quarter-life crisis (that's a whole other blog)
4. Unless you want below average customer service, a bit of beige and a metaphorical smack in the face I wouldn't advise going to Bean Scene. For coffee with a side of early morning TLC go elsewhere.
Frothy Fun Fact of the day: Wedgies have a whole Wikipedia page dedicated to them with different descriptions for different kinds of wedgies. Unlike the UK where wedgies are mostly accidental, in the US they are practically a sport. For example, The Melvin is a variant where the underwear is pulled up from the front. Ouch!
Wednesday, 8 August 2012
That's one handsome cup of Joe!
The Grassmarket in Edinburgh is known as the place to be. You say "Grassmarket" and it's followed by "Ooh I love that place." And then a load of place names that you get the sense you should have been to already. Indeed it is lovely and lined with voguish restaurants and hearty pubs along the wide pedestrian stoned pavement. When the sun is out the outdoor seating is packed with a mix of ladies what lunch, young couples and middle aged men happily nursing pints.
I've walked along this street twice now and both times have got to end only to think "Okay, this is the end." Admittedly I've never been one to understand a hype. TOWIE. Seriously? Shoreditch. Don't get it. iPhones. Blurgh! So if I don't see the potential in a trendy, upmarket location this means absolutely nothing.
In terms of coffee shops this probably isn't the best spot in Edinburgh. It's more post-dining coffee. However, scouting up and down the street I came across a tiny white shop called Blackcherry's. Low on time and inspiration I walked in. The place was deserted except for the man sat behind the counter. He was a young man with a nice smile and seemed very willing to help. I imagine he was quite thankful for the new distraction. As I have realised there is only so many times you can read the Fringe programme before realising you have nothing new to read.
Anyway there isn't much really to say about this place. It's cute, it's small and I've heard they do a nice light lunch, even with fierce competition across the road.
The man made my coffee in comfortable silence concentrating on heating up the milk fully. We exchanged thank you's and your welcomes and an awkward moment of passing a plastic spoon to throw in the bin. Ordinarily this exchange would be a simple hand to hand spoon pass, however, I was very aware that I had licked the handle of the spoon to clear it of froth. I don't think he was aware of this which made the exchange even more awkward as I twisted the plastic teaspoon upside and around my wrist in order to offer him the un-licked tip. It's fine, I laughed it off as I felt my face turn beetroot red. It was only then that I noticed this man was quite attractive. Me alone with hot man equals not good. No I don't launch myself at them and drag them into the back room to have my wicked way with them. Instead I turn into a sixteen year old girl, fumble over words and trip over furniture. Or in this case try not to make them touch my saliva. I'm sure he did by the way.
Anyway I found myself distracted by his attractiveness and didn't bother to check the coffee before leaving. Luckily it was a good coffee, lacking in a bit of flavour but hitting the spot and very hot, which I suppose is apt. As usual I daydreamed about him chasing me out the shop and declaring his love for me, but well aware this wasn't (is NEVER) going to happen I made my way to work.
If I was allowed to score extra points for barista attractive Blackcherry would get an extra deux points. Screw it this is a blog there are no rules I can score how I like! As an independent coffee shop it's mid-range but with the extra two points it goes from an average five to a reasonable seven. So if like me you're a novice to what is cool but find yourself on Grassmarket one I day I recommend crossing the road and checking out Blackcherry. While I can't promise a hot man, I can promise a hot coffee at a decent price. Babbling and stumbling optional.
For more details visit: http://www.list.co.uk/place/102298-blackcherry-cafe/
Frothy Fun Fact of the Day: Along with Greyfriar Bobby another popular story in Edinburgh is that of Maggie Dickson, a fishwife who was hanged in the Grassmarket in 1728 for murdering her own baby. After the hanging, her body was taken back to her home town. On the way she awoke. Under Scottish law she had served her punishment and was allowed to live. Only later were the words "until dead" added to the sentence of hanging. In the legend she is often referred to as Half-Hangit Maggie.
Cor blimey no wonder there are so many ghost tours in this city with stories like that!
I've walked along this street twice now and both times have got to end only to think "Okay, this is the end." Admittedly I've never been one to understand a hype. TOWIE. Seriously? Shoreditch. Don't get it. iPhones. Blurgh! So if I don't see the potential in a trendy, upmarket location this means absolutely nothing.
In terms of coffee shops this probably isn't the best spot in Edinburgh. It's more post-dining coffee. However, scouting up and down the street I came across a tiny white shop called Blackcherry's. Low on time and inspiration I walked in. The place was deserted except for the man sat behind the counter. He was a young man with a nice smile and seemed very willing to help. I imagine he was quite thankful for the new distraction. As I have realised there is only so many times you can read the Fringe programme before realising you have nothing new to read.
Anyway there isn't much really to say about this place. It's cute, it's small and I've heard they do a nice light lunch, even with fierce competition across the road.
The man made my coffee in comfortable silence concentrating on heating up the milk fully. We exchanged thank you's and your welcomes and an awkward moment of passing a plastic spoon to throw in the bin. Ordinarily this exchange would be a simple hand to hand spoon pass, however, I was very aware that I had licked the handle of the spoon to clear it of froth. I don't think he was aware of this which made the exchange even more awkward as I twisted the plastic teaspoon upside and around my wrist in order to offer him the un-licked tip. It's fine, I laughed it off as I felt my face turn beetroot red. It was only then that I noticed this man was quite attractive. Me alone with hot man equals not good. No I don't launch myself at them and drag them into the back room to have my wicked way with them. Instead I turn into a sixteen year old girl, fumble over words and trip over furniture. Or in this case try not to make them touch my saliva. I'm sure he did by the way.
Anyway I found myself distracted by his attractiveness and didn't bother to check the coffee before leaving. Luckily it was a good coffee, lacking in a bit of flavour but hitting the spot and very hot, which I suppose is apt. As usual I daydreamed about him chasing me out the shop and declaring his love for me, but well aware this wasn't (is NEVER) going to happen I made my way to work.
If I was allowed to score extra points for barista attractive Blackcherry would get an extra deux points. Screw it this is a blog there are no rules I can score how I like! As an independent coffee shop it's mid-range but with the extra two points it goes from an average five to a reasonable seven. So if like me you're a novice to what is cool but find yourself on Grassmarket one I day I recommend crossing the road and checking out Blackcherry. While I can't promise a hot man, I can promise a hot coffee at a decent price. Babbling and stumbling optional.
For more details visit: http://www.list.co.uk/place/102298-blackcherry-cafe/
Frothy Fun Fact of the Day: Along with Greyfriar Bobby another popular story in Edinburgh is that of Maggie Dickson, a fishwife who was hanged in the Grassmarket in 1728 for murdering her own baby. After the hanging, her body was taken back to her home town. On the way she awoke. Under Scottish law she had served her punishment and was allowed to live. Only later were the words "until dead" added to the sentence of hanging. In the legend she is often referred to as Half-Hangit Maggie.
Cor blimey no wonder there are so many ghost tours in this city with stories like that!
What be this thing you call a blog?
Once upon a time in a land far far away there stood a castle. This castle was grand and beautiful with magnificent brick work the colour of dust. Each stone seemingly telling it's own story while make sure each story that unfolded in it's walls stayed secret.
The castle had stood there for many many years watching as his city changed around him. Buildings were built, people moved in, trees grew and died and new ones were planted. People visited the castle, exploring his many layers. Academics read books and philosophers drank wine while their tales of Edinburgh seeped into the walls.
Now the castle seemed to disappeared within the landscape as colourful structures all pink and purple enclosed it. The castle was sad. He was too old for this, too wise. He'd seen it all before and had began to simply close his eyes to it.
One day a young girl walked up to the castle taking in it's beauty. She stared at it for a moment breathing in amongst the excitement surrounding her. The castle began to slowly open one eye sensing the young girl's presence. The girl moved forward towards the first step. The castle slowly opened his other eye wincing as he did so. He looked at the girl. She continued to look at him, her mouth carelessly open in awe. Then he smiled. It was a wistful, welcoming smile. The girl climbed the step and walked through the open door.
The next day the girl returned to see more building hiding the lovely castle. She didn't worry for him this time. They were all constructed in his honour, to take him back to days long passed. They were celebrating a history. Walled gardens now surrounded him with ale houses and medieval cooking pots. People rejoiced with meat and liquor giving cheers to the castle beside them. Barrels stood weighted with pints of cider and wooden stools gave relief to hungry well-wishers. The castle would be surrounded by friends for the next thirty days and thirty nights. Musicians would play, singers would sing, clowns would joke and magicians would play tricks. The girl wondered through the grounds beneath and headed home giving the castle a happy nod.
She left him alone for a few days as he becomes accustomed to his new surroundings. Eventually she returned in the early hours of one morning. The gardens were quiet with only a few people crunching gravel under their feet. The castle was asleep. The girl too felt tired. It didn't feel right to be up so early and she wasn't yet prepared to face the day. She walked in the walled gardens eyeing the medieval huts as she passed until she came across a tall, thin peasant woman sheltered under one of the smaller huts. She was selling her goods and wares, beverages and breakfast treats. The girl looked up at the woman's stall sign "The Motley Brew" and then looked down the list of drinks. In the unfamiliar tranquillity of the city's morning she ordered a very hot skinny latte and breathed in the scent of vanilla flapjacks. The peasant woman was very good to the young girl and spoke to her with kindness. The young girl was a peasant too after all living in a strange new land with strange new people who spoke a strange new language.
The peasant and the young girl spoke about the wonders of the city and the entertainment that was on offer every night. It was like living in a circus, you just waited for the elephants to start parading down the street. The young girl took her steaming cup of coffee and left the gardens as they continued to wake. She paused just outside humming cool air into the cup before taking a sip. The coffee felt like oxygen in her mouth floating up towards her eyes and snapping them open. She crossed the path and walked into her workplace suddenly confronted with a mob of angry patrons. She smiled her best smile, put her coffee cup down and walked into the middle of the crowd, a sacrificed goat to slaughter.
The castle yawned a big yawn and fluttered his eyes open. He looked over a the young girl with her misplaced coffee cup and chuckled. "Now you know how I feel" he whispered sympathically breathing hot air onto the coffee cup to keep it warm. "An empty castle is like a cold coffee, such a waste."
So this ladies and gentlemen has been a slightly different sort of blog as you might have guessed. With myself playing the part of the young girl, the Teviot House playing the part of the castle and a girl working at the festival playing the part of the peasant. Although this places isn't strictly an indepedant cafe that remains throughout the year it is at the epicentre of the fringe just beside the Gilded Balloon venue, one of the main venues at the festival. And thus in my opinion requires some kind of review. And it gets a good one. Good location, good coffee and good staff. The perfect morning pick me up for early festival starts. I probably wouldn't head there for the afternoon or evening, because the crowds certainly pick up then. You'll have to get through an Indiana Jones like path of flyering people before getting anywhere near the inside, which can sometimes get tedious.
The story itself was based on truth. I fell in love with the Teviot Row House the moment I saw it along with many other houses dotted across the outskirts of the city. And like the majority of buildings throughout the city it has now been dominated by various logos, pictures, posters and colours. In the circumstances this is far from a bad thing. The beer gardens and tents bring life to the city and its great to see such a buzz of people enjoying themselves and the this wonderful festival. You have to expect at some point you are going to need one of the several stalls on offer, whether it's late night burgers, sneaky donuts or that all in important coffee. And in situations like this it's good to know where to go. A lot of the coffee stands around the venue hike up the prices (£2.80 or more for a latte). 'The Motley Brew' located in the Gilded Balloon beer garden seems to have stayed sensible offering a regular latte for £2.20. Not quite £1.30 but a good price for a decent coffee overlooked my a truly beautiful building.
Frothy Fun Fact of the Day: The Teviot Row House is the oldest purpose built student union in the world. Those Scots know have their priorities right, well done them!
The castle had stood there for many many years watching as his city changed around him. Buildings were built, people moved in, trees grew and died and new ones were planted. People visited the castle, exploring his many layers. Academics read books and philosophers drank wine while their tales of Edinburgh seeped into the walls.
Now the castle seemed to disappeared within the landscape as colourful structures all pink and purple enclosed it. The castle was sad. He was too old for this, too wise. He'd seen it all before and had began to simply close his eyes to it.
One day a young girl walked up to the castle taking in it's beauty. She stared at it for a moment breathing in amongst the excitement surrounding her. The castle began to slowly open one eye sensing the young girl's presence. The girl moved forward towards the first step. The castle slowly opened his other eye wincing as he did so. He looked at the girl. She continued to look at him, her mouth carelessly open in awe. Then he smiled. It was a wistful, welcoming smile. The girl climbed the step and walked through the open door.
The next day the girl returned to see more building hiding the lovely castle. She didn't worry for him this time. They were all constructed in his honour, to take him back to days long passed. They were celebrating a history. Walled gardens now surrounded him with ale houses and medieval cooking pots. People rejoiced with meat and liquor giving cheers to the castle beside them. Barrels stood weighted with pints of cider and wooden stools gave relief to hungry well-wishers. The castle would be surrounded by friends for the next thirty days and thirty nights. Musicians would play, singers would sing, clowns would joke and magicians would play tricks. The girl wondered through the grounds beneath and headed home giving the castle a happy nod.
She left him alone for a few days as he becomes accustomed to his new surroundings. Eventually she returned in the early hours of one morning. The gardens were quiet with only a few people crunching gravel under their feet. The castle was asleep. The girl too felt tired. It didn't feel right to be up so early and she wasn't yet prepared to face the day. She walked in the walled gardens eyeing the medieval huts as she passed until she came across a tall, thin peasant woman sheltered under one of the smaller huts. She was selling her goods and wares, beverages and breakfast treats. The girl looked up at the woman's stall sign "The Motley Brew" and then looked down the list of drinks. In the unfamiliar tranquillity of the city's morning she ordered a very hot skinny latte and breathed in the scent of vanilla flapjacks. The peasant woman was very good to the young girl and spoke to her with kindness. The young girl was a peasant too after all living in a strange new land with strange new people who spoke a strange new language.
The peasant and the young girl spoke about the wonders of the city and the entertainment that was on offer every night. It was like living in a circus, you just waited for the elephants to start parading down the street. The young girl took her steaming cup of coffee and left the gardens as they continued to wake. She paused just outside humming cool air into the cup before taking a sip. The coffee felt like oxygen in her mouth floating up towards her eyes and snapping them open. She crossed the path and walked into her workplace suddenly confronted with a mob of angry patrons. She smiled her best smile, put her coffee cup down and walked into the middle of the crowd, a sacrificed goat to slaughter.
The castle yawned a big yawn and fluttered his eyes open. He looked over a the young girl with her misplaced coffee cup and chuckled. "Now you know how I feel" he whispered sympathically breathing hot air onto the coffee cup to keep it warm. "An empty castle is like a cold coffee, such a waste."
So this ladies and gentlemen has been a slightly different sort of blog as you might have guessed. With myself playing the part of the young girl, the Teviot House playing the part of the castle and a girl working at the festival playing the part of the peasant. Although this places isn't strictly an indepedant cafe that remains throughout the year it is at the epicentre of the fringe just beside the Gilded Balloon venue, one of the main venues at the festival. And thus in my opinion requires some kind of review. And it gets a good one. Good location, good coffee and good staff. The perfect morning pick me up for early festival starts. I probably wouldn't head there for the afternoon or evening, because the crowds certainly pick up then. You'll have to get through an Indiana Jones like path of flyering people before getting anywhere near the inside, which can sometimes get tedious.
The story itself was based on truth. I fell in love with the Teviot Row House the moment I saw it along with many other houses dotted across the outskirts of the city. And like the majority of buildings throughout the city it has now been dominated by various logos, pictures, posters and colours. In the circumstances this is far from a bad thing. The beer gardens and tents bring life to the city and its great to see such a buzz of people enjoying themselves and the this wonderful festival. You have to expect at some point you are going to need one of the several stalls on offer, whether it's late night burgers, sneaky donuts or that all in important coffee. And in situations like this it's good to know where to go. A lot of the coffee stands around the venue hike up the prices (£2.80 or more for a latte). 'The Motley Brew' located in the Gilded Balloon beer garden seems to have stayed sensible offering a regular latte for £2.20. Not quite £1.30 but a good price for a decent coffee overlooked my a truly beautiful building.
Frothy Fun Fact of the Day: The Teviot Row House is the oldest purpose built student union in the world. Those Scots know have their priorities right, well done them!
Monday, 6 August 2012
They be some hustlers baby!
Today I feel slightly cheated. I was in a bit of a rush and
thought what a perfect opportunity to try out one of the central coffee
destinations. After all these will be some of the most frequented during the
festival, the streets as they are now lined with hoards of good-timers. A few
doors down from our offices is a petite if not slightly generic place aptly
named “Coffee House”. Well that’s just what you need when you want a coffee, a
“Coffee House”. Not a flat, not a cramped apartment or bungalow, a whole house!
So in I went into a tunnel of wood-panelled MDF and cream
painted walls. The shop’s dark red logo printed around the fridges and stamped
on sandwiches. I was greeted by a jolly lady who had moments before been
jollily giving a frantic German woman directions up the Royal Mile. The kind of
crazed tourist so consumed by her fear of going astray that she literally walks
behind the counter to share the barista’s view of the map.
I accessed my options. Of course I knew what I was going to
order, but it’s always nice to see what’s on offer. I ordered and had a
pleasant conversation with the server. I always like it when they’re not busy
and can afford a chat. No more than small talk though other they might become
distracted.
I looked around at the pictures and artwork when I noticed
something. In tiny letters interwoven in the circular logo was the word “Garfunkel’s”.
Garfunkel’s. I was in a Garfunkel’s house, as in Garfunkel’s the restaurant
chain with locations across the UK. The sneaky little devils. They hustled me
into their tiny shop located three doors down from their restaurant on Royal
Mile. Just like those buggars at Coca Cola who take up the majority of the
bottled drinks industry without you even knowing it. There you are sipping your
fresh, chilled water basking in the sunshine when you see that all too familiar
logo reflected in beams through the watery side of the bottle. They got you
good. Equally pre-coffee I was aware I’d been had. Technically I shouldn’t be
reviewing them. Pah! I should spit in their doorway and herald them “Traitors!”
But I won’t. I will let them off purely because they have such great staff and
I want to tell you about them. You hear that Mr Garfunkel? To quote the words
of Yul Brenner from the great Cool
Runnings, “This doesn’t mean that I like you.” (Attach Jamaican accent as
required).
Having worked in the restaurant/bar/theatre/customer
services industry for many years I know there is often very little thanks involved.
In fact you will spend 90% of your working day apologizing for things that aren’t
your fault. This is a genuine fact invented by me. Nevertheless it’s the reason
I always like to overly thank people who are genuinely great at their jobs, no
matter what industry they work in.
Once I’d got my coffee I noticed it was a little light to
the touch, so reaching for my sugar I politely asked for more milk. As the lady
approached with the cold milk jug, I said “Oh no, hot milk please.” This is
when the phenomenon happened. She passed me the hot milk and said “Sure, help
yourself.” I stuttered for a moment. This is unheard of. Of course they are not
supposed to do this in case you burn
yourself and sue, but all too often I have thought “Just let me do it myself! I
know how!” So I grabbed a tiny plastic spoon, held it at the top of the jug to
stop the froth and poured it gleefully into my cup. Lovely!
With an extra spring in my step I thanked both ladies,
wished them a great day and walked into the soggy Scottish High Street. The
coffee tasted great. Probably not for the true coffee drinker though. Its caffeine
kick was more of an accidental step on the toe, very mild and smooth. It
reminded me of a Starbucks before they followed the great London trend of
making a double shot latte their standard.
Now I couldn’t find a picture of the actual Coffee House,
only the restaurant itself which boldly states that’s it’s a Garfunkel’s
establishment, so you’ll have to trust me that this one gives no inkling.
Instead I found this delightful framed poster which is one of
many that lines the walls of the interior. For some reason it took me a long
time to figure out what it meant. Rather than thinking what you’re supposed to
think of baked beans or broad beans I couldn’t get the image of Mr Bean out of
my head. I simply thought “Well those aren’t really comparable are they?” But
now I get it.
So in conclusion, because of their chain status I simply
cannot recommend the Coffee House but I suggest instead some great independent cafe
snap these staff up, put them behind the counters and never let them go!
Frothy Fun Fact of the Day - Coffee beans are not actually beans. They don't belong to the legume family. They are actually the pits from the coffee berries. So what the sign should say is "Coffee our favourite kind of berry" and it would have saved me from much Mr Bean confusion.
Tuesday, 31 July 2012
If you can't take Mohammed to the mountain, don't.
"Oh my god I have spent so much money!" This is the thought that was pounding in my head. Days off are dangerous, especially in uncharted territory. Of course I needed to book tickets for the Fringe. This was an inevitable cost and it's preview week where everything is around a fiver. I am nothing if not a bargain hunter. But as a result this meant my day had started with an expense of £52. £52 for nine shows I think I can justify that, especially when tickets for War Horse can reach a sky-rocketing £85 for one.
It's Sunday. God's day of rest. Lyvia's day of shopping. Admittedly I was suppose to be sightseeing, but I was wearing the wrong shoes and I'd forgotten my camera - what else was I suppose to do?
If I didn't have a palpable hatred of football, fake eyelashes and general misogyny I swear I should have been a WAG.
I decided to fill my afternoon with some good old-fashioned vintage and charity shop shopping. If there is one thing Edinburgh is good for it's charity shops. Streets are lined with them, Nicolson Street in particular, which is where I was headed. One after another people wanting to save the children, feed the animals and help the homeless. And I single-handedly was attempting to do the same. Six shops down and two tops and a pair of shoes later I was feeling pretty weary. It was getting on 4pm. I hadn't had lunch and I needed a pick me up. It was coffee time.
Luckily I was in a good spot. I assessed my surroundings. In my periphery I could see three cafes. No bias remember, I did a quick "eeny-meany-miny-mo". Kilimanjaro was mo. Kilimanjaro Coffee, a big name to live up to in a rather unsuspecting building. I walked in and instantly wanted to walk out. "I know these places" I thought. But then bitch Lyvia kicked in and shouted "No Lyvia! You stay here and order a damn coffee!" You see the problem is I'm really not a coffee snob. Columbian, Peruvian, Ethiopian I can't tell the difference. I don't even know what defines an Arabica bean! So when I walk into a place like this I get the feeling I'm being judged, rightly or wrongly.
The cafe wasn't particularly busy, but for the first few moments I was ignored over shouts for "Panini!" and other items of food ready for the awaiting customers. A man came to serve me, his nonchalance already concerning me. I ordered my usual and toyed between a large or a small. On one hand I didn't want to fork out £2.35 for a large (a regular and 20p more expensive than Starbucks), but then the small just looked too small. I went for large.
For some reason the man himself couldn't make it, so wrote it all down on a piece of paper for someone in the kitchen. I watched her make it. For some reason I felt I needed to. She poured it in leaving an inch and a half of the cup empty. Before she had time to close the lid I protested "Sorry, can I have more milk? To the top please?" She looked at me dumb-founded and replied "Ergh, yeah. That's just the way we make it." I want to snap back "What by ripping people off and giving them half a cup?!" Instead I just stepped back humbly. Because she hadn't made enough milk she had to go about heating more. Whole milk. The hippy used whole milk. I was very good and didn't say a word. I left with my coffee in hand, £2.35 in their till and a slight fury in my chest. I walked into the charity shop next door and tried to forget about the experience. Then I tasted the coffee. It, like myself was bitter. It took the purchase of two jumpers to finally get over the experience, when I had drunk the contents and put the remnants in the bin.
This place might use the finest coffee beans, from the finest lands and maybe they excel in swirling leaves into the tops of their coffees I don't know, but that does not a good coffee make. A good coffee is a good addition to your day. A little treat. And this I'm afraid was neither.
If you want to give it a bash by all means do, you can find details below;
But personally I'd rather climb the real Kilimanjaro that walk into this place again!
Frothy Fun for the Day: Kilimanjaro was first climbed on October 5, 1889 by German geologist Hans Meyer, Marangu scout Yoanas Kinyala Lauwo and Austrian Ludwig.
Monday, 30 July 2012
That's dedication in dog Years.
It's my first Saturday in Edinburgh, the morning after my birthday and I'm happy in the knowledge that I have one more day of work until my day off. Off I trot crossing the appropriate roads to reach Rudi's. Rudi's is closed. Bugger!
This is actually the moment when the idea for this blog popped into my head. Under the realisation that I may indeed and on occasions have to try new places. I couldn't be bias and I couldn't be boring. So blame the owners of Rudi's, I know I do.
I decided to simply continue my journey and see what appeared. Not much further down as I approached the foot of George IV Bridge I had made up my mind. A funky, orange fronted sandwich shop called Bobby's was my next port of call. Standing vividly in front of Greyfriars Kirkyard, the graveyard surrounding Greyfriars Kirk and nestled in between art shops and pubs of the same name, Bobby's is an inviting shop. I imagine art students being suckered in my the sign's typography and the fashionably framed chalkboard denoting 'Today's Specials'.
There is something shabby-chic about the outside of the building that is suddenly lost as you walk through the door. Not that it's terrible, it's just more corner shop cafe than I was expecting.
Now I admit I walked into Bobby's already slightly put out. I knew I was going to pay an extra £1 for a coffee that was probably of the same or sub-standard to my bargain cup just down the road. Nevertheless it wasn't this man's fault, this man who was casually drinking a coffee and reading the Saturday papers at the counter. I always find it reassuring when you see someone drinking their own home-made coffee, they trust it's flavour and I trusted the look of it.
And as the saying goes "Can I have a skinny latte really really hot please?" Again no raised eyebrows, a simple side step towards the coffee machine. He made the coffee, we had a little chat, I looked at the chalkboard stealing cheeky glances towards the frothing milk. It was all very civilised if you ask me.
I asked him nicely for a little extra milk after he'd pour the milk. He obliged. Again very civilised. So I had to pay an extra £1 for the coffee, but what I got in return was creamy and hot and just what the doctor ordered.
When I started writing this post it occurred to me there was nothing particularly memorable about my visit to Bobby's, but that's a lie. It was memorable for the fact that there was absolutely nothing wrong with it. Good coffee, good customer service from a man that welcomes the advent of the Fringe. What more could a girl want? Oh yes...a gorgeous man to accidentally bump into me spilling my drink, thus offering to buy me another one and us living happily ever after just like all those black and white movies. But back to reality and back to Edinburgh. Is Bobby's spectacular? No. Would I recommend it? Yes. If for no other reason than to support your local arts festival supporter. And because it is named after one of the heroes of Edinburgh's epic history, Bobby the dog. Yes, a dog. See Frothy Fun Facts for details.
Frothy Fun Fact of the Day: Bobby's the sandwich shop as well as The Greyfriars Bobby pub are both named after Greyfriar Bobby himself, the little Skye Terrier who was remembered for guarding his masters grave for fourteen years after his master's death. Everyday Bobby who accompanied his master, John Gray, on his evening patrols as a Police Constable could be found sitting next to his grave. Attempts were made to move him from the graveyard, but everyday he returned, ever the loyal best friend. A sculpture was commissioned in 1873 and now a proud bronze statue of Bobby stands at the junction of George IV Bridge and Candlemaker Row just opposite the gates of the graveyard.
This is actually the moment when the idea for this blog popped into my head. Under the realisation that I may indeed and on occasions have to try new places. I couldn't be bias and I couldn't be boring. So blame the owners of Rudi's, I know I do.
I decided to simply continue my journey and see what appeared. Not much further down as I approached the foot of George IV Bridge I had made up my mind. A funky, orange fronted sandwich shop called Bobby's was my next port of call. Standing vividly in front of Greyfriars Kirkyard, the graveyard surrounding Greyfriars Kirk and nestled in between art shops and pubs of the same name, Bobby's is an inviting shop. I imagine art students being suckered in my the sign's typography and the fashionably framed chalkboard denoting 'Today's Specials'.
There is something shabby-chic about the outside of the building that is suddenly lost as you walk through the door. Not that it's terrible, it's just more corner shop cafe than I was expecting.
Now I admit I walked into Bobby's already slightly put out. I knew I was going to pay an extra £1 for a coffee that was probably of the same or sub-standard to my bargain cup just down the road. Nevertheless it wasn't this man's fault, this man who was casually drinking a coffee and reading the Saturday papers at the counter. I always find it reassuring when you see someone drinking their own home-made coffee, they trust it's flavour and I trusted the look of it.
And as the saying goes "Can I have a skinny latte really really hot please?" Again no raised eyebrows, a simple side step towards the coffee machine. He made the coffee, we had a little chat, I looked at the chalkboard stealing cheeky glances towards the frothing milk. It was all very civilised if you ask me.
I asked him nicely for a little extra milk after he'd pour the milk. He obliged. Again very civilised. So I had to pay an extra £1 for the coffee, but what I got in return was creamy and hot and just what the doctor ordered.
When I started writing this post it occurred to me there was nothing particularly memorable about my visit to Bobby's, but that's a lie. It was memorable for the fact that there was absolutely nothing wrong with it. Good coffee, good customer service from a man that welcomes the advent of the Fringe. What more could a girl want? Oh yes...a gorgeous man to accidentally bump into me spilling my drink, thus offering to buy me another one and us living happily ever after just like all those black and white movies. But back to reality and back to Edinburgh. Is Bobby's spectacular? No. Would I recommend it? Yes. If for no other reason than to support your local arts festival supporter. And because it is named after one of the heroes of Edinburgh's epic history, Bobby the dog. Yes, a dog. See Frothy Fun Facts for details.
Frothy Fun Fact of the Day: Bobby's the sandwich shop as well as The Greyfriars Bobby pub are both named after Greyfriar Bobby himself, the little Skye Terrier who was remembered for guarding his masters grave for fourteen years after his master's death. Everyday Bobby who accompanied his master, John Gray, on his evening patrols as a Police Constable could be found sitting next to his grave. Attempts were made to move him from the graveyard, but everyday he returned, ever the loyal best friend. A sculpture was commissioned in 1873 and now a proud bronze statue of Bobby stands at the junction of George IV Bridge and Candlemaker Row just opposite the gates of the graveyard.
More info can be found out about this little guy below.
And if this has given you even more reason to visit Bobby's (the sandwich shop) follow this link!
Sunday, 29 July 2012
Rudi rocks beyond the 70's
This was an absolute diamond of a find. I was on my way to work one morning. I passed through the Meadows, walked over the newly scribbled chalk compass, beyond the man selling the Big Issue, glazed over posters advertising up and coming comedians, saw Starbucks to my right, one minute later saw Starbucks to my right and so looked left. There it was. This little shackle of a shop. Dark green exterior, pale yellow sign and completely inconspicuous size. I'd walked past it several times. The only thing that stopped me was the chalkboard outside advertising coffees for £1.30. £1.30! Well that's just ridiculous I thought. Maybe a filter coffee, but a latte for £1.30? That's surely unheard of. "It must be crap!" I thought, looked inside and carried on walking.
The next day I went through the same routine. 9:30am this is the ideal coffee time and one that I savour. I walked through the Meadows. Passed the Big Issue seller. Passed Starbucks number one. Passed a man in a gorilla suit playing the drums (this is the fringe I'm talking about). Passed Starbucks number two and there it was again. Rudi's sandwich shop standing proudly and discreetly with it's £1.30 coffee temptingly watering my mouth. I hesitated outside for a few moments. My feet were doing that thing where they try and walk away but something further up in your body stops you from doing it. For those of you that don't know me I am a born worrier and continual over-thinker. The idea of going into a new, unverified coffee shop is filled with the same doubt as a normal person's trepidation of getting into a cab in India for the first time. Instead of "How do they drive on these roads?" I think "How do they froth their milk?!?!" It's a stressful world I live in.
Anyway before I had time to think about the possible waste of a quid I walked inside. Rudi's is fundamentally a sandwich stop, takeaway only. There is enough space inside for about four averagely sized adults. Three if they're all a fan of hamburgers. I tucked in behind a woman leaning on the glass counter. From the way she was talking to the man behind it was clear she was a regular. This is reassuring, unless she also works on a construction site then I have my doubts. This isn't me being snobby by the way. I've simply noticed that builders and related workers seem to be connoisseurs of tea and therefore are less fussy about their coffees.
The woman got her two Americanos, said her thank you's and left. My turn and here it comes. "Can I have a skinny latte really really hot please?" I've stopped saying extra hot, because they never make it extra hot. Instead "really really hot" makes me sound pleading and therefore they are more likely to accommodate. That along with the cringe on my face as I say it. There was no sigh, no look of perturbance to my specifications. He just cracked on and made it.
Well, well done is all I can say to him. It was an absolutely perfect cup of coffee. Just how I like it, skinny and very hot. I happily sipped all the way to work and still had some left by the time I was sat at my desk. Now here is the point I have to mention another particularity about how I enjoy my coffee. It has to be full to the brim. I don't see the point in ordering a coffee and getting half a cup. In fact I think it's a blimmin' outrage. I only recently learnt in Starbucks that you have to ask for it "wet" to have it free from froth, but somehow asking for a "wet latte" makes me feel even more stupid and fussy than I already do. Surely all coffee is wet? You spill it on you, you get wet. Anyway instead I used to measure it by the weight of the cup. As soon as I pick up my coffee I know instantly whether it needs more milk in it, much to the annoyance of many a barista. On this occasion, though, I was happily surprised. The cup was more than adequately heavy. Again, well done man.
I returned the following day and was served by a woman, his wife I would assume. Again a bit of fear clotted in my throat. It's a new person. It's a new person who could ruin my coffee and thus ruin my morning and thus ruin my day. Genuinely this is how my mind operates! But yet again I was pleasantly surprised. A damn good coffee made to order. One point for a good coffee, two points for a repeat performance!
So I would have to give this humble little sandwich shop a honker of a score. It's just out of the Old Town Centre, but well worth a visit, particularly if you fancy a nice stroll in the Meadows after coffee in hand. It looks like they also do some pretty good-looking sandwiches at equally reasonable prices.
Now while they appear to sell merchandise T-shirts they are yet to own a website, so those of you with a handy festival map scrunched neatly into your bag, Rudi's can be found at:
30 Forrest Road
EH1 2QN
I'm also going to be really geeky and add a "Frothy Fun Fact" to each post. So today's Frothy Fun Fact: Rudi is actually the name of a "punk rock/power pop" band from Belfast that was formed in the 70's, hence the title of this post. Whether this has any relation to the name of the coffee shop I have no idea. I prefer to think of Rudi as an old Italian man who emigrated to Scotland with high hopes and a passion for pastrami and good coffee. I'll let you choose.
You can take Starbucks out of the girl...
My name isn't Ed. My full name isn't Edward. I'm not even a man. In fact my name is Lyvia and I am spending this summer in the beautiful city of Edinburgh. Home to the Edinburgh Castle, birth place of Alexander Graham Bell, inspiration behind Harry Potter, the land of many a fine whiskey and most notably home to perhaps the most famous arts festival in the world, the Edinburgh Fringe.
This is my first time at the Fringe as well as my first time visiting Edinburgh as well as my first time in Scotland. It is a month of firsts and I am a virgin to all that is Scottish (except perhaps alcohol and Scotch tape).
Now obviously I'm not the only person to find themselves migrating north for the summer. Edinburgh's population has been known to triple during the month of August, from international travellers and nearby city dwellers to emancipated students. The city's cobbled streets becoming a battleground for those looking for culture, entertainment and a general post-show piss up.
I arrived a week in advance of the festival during which much of the city is still covered in tranquillity. There are no hoards of tourists to bustle past on the way to work. After work drinks are sipped in ones and twos instead of fives and sixes. Gardens transform into tents and stadiums and empty buildings become a breeding ground for technicians fixing lights and putting up signs. What you get is a concoction of impending and excited anticipation. Those that have worked the festival before are all too aware of what is to come. Those that haven't wait patiently for the tornado to hit, with the warning from veterans "Just you wait!"
And so this is what I am doing. I'm waiting and I have approximately 63 hours left.This week I dread to think about the amount of money I have spent. Between evening drinks, lunches out, general supplies and accommodation I have a nagging feeling that before arriving I should have taken out a bank loan. And that's before the festival has even started. But no one comes to the festival to make money, at least no one I know. Visitors and performers alike haemorrhage money pints at a time.
The city itself has many alluring qualities, from beautifully unique shops to independent restaurants, from historic landmarks to contemporary industry. It is like a village, in a town surrounded by a city and as the festival starts each part of it comes alive. Unlike London's already claustrophobic inhabitants who fear the threat of any event because of the disruption it will cause to their overcrowded streets and houses, Edinburgh residents seem to welcome the return of the festival each year. For them it offers job opportunities, increased revenue, a month's worth of entertainment and pride in their gorgeous city.
So here I am in this new and welcoming city and I've decided to write a blog. Now, what, you might ask would a ex-drama student who works in theatre find to write about during a month of the biggest open-access arts festival in the world? Dumb question. Coffee of course. That's right! Who wants to hear about the shows? Working at the box office I know there are over 2500 shows in over 250 venues across the city and that's not even counting the International or Jazz and Blues Festival. On top of that there are probably over 250,000 young and trendy theatre-goers who have decided to write a blog with reviews and fun show facts. Too much effort if you ask me. So instead I have taken my weary caffeine-drenched self out of London filled with it's Starbucks, Costa's and Cafe Nero's on every corner, plonked myself in Edinburgh and given myself a challenge. I will not go into a chain coffee shop for the entire month of August.
Don't get me wrong I am no coffee snob, but I am one hard customer. I am fussy. I am particular and as such am normally instantly apologetic. But for those of you out there like me you'll understand the importance of a good coffee, however you take it.
I predict there will be plenty of people this festival and the next one and the one after that who will be drinking their body weight in pints, be them pints of beer, wine or vodka and will work through the hangover only to repeat it the following night. I also predict there will be plenty of people soaking up the sights, sounds and atmosphere in Edinburgh dashing from show to show. And what do these people have in common? Their need for a good cup of coffee.
During the month of August, therefore, I will venture to get my daily cup each day from different independent coffee shops. Upmarket, low-market, organic, central, suburban or with a side of kebab I will try them all and report back.
So tune in festival-goers, Caffeinated Ed is on a mission! This is the coffee drinker's guide to surviving the Fringe.
This is my first time at the Fringe as well as my first time visiting Edinburgh as well as my first time in Scotland. It is a month of firsts and I am a virgin to all that is Scottish (except perhaps alcohol and Scotch tape).
Now obviously I'm not the only person to find themselves migrating north for the summer. Edinburgh's population has been known to triple during the month of August, from international travellers and nearby city dwellers to emancipated students. The city's cobbled streets becoming a battleground for those looking for culture, entertainment and a general post-show piss up.
I arrived a week in advance of the festival during which much of the city is still covered in tranquillity. There are no hoards of tourists to bustle past on the way to work. After work drinks are sipped in ones and twos instead of fives and sixes. Gardens transform into tents and stadiums and empty buildings become a breeding ground for technicians fixing lights and putting up signs. What you get is a concoction of impending and excited anticipation. Those that have worked the festival before are all too aware of what is to come. Those that haven't wait patiently for the tornado to hit, with the warning from veterans "Just you wait!"
And so this is what I am doing. I'm waiting and I have approximately 63 hours left.This week I dread to think about the amount of money I have spent. Between evening drinks, lunches out, general supplies and accommodation I have a nagging feeling that before arriving I should have taken out a bank loan. And that's before the festival has even started. But no one comes to the festival to make money, at least no one I know. Visitors and performers alike haemorrhage money pints at a time.
The city itself has many alluring qualities, from beautifully unique shops to independent restaurants, from historic landmarks to contemporary industry. It is like a village, in a town surrounded by a city and as the festival starts each part of it comes alive. Unlike London's already claustrophobic inhabitants who fear the threat of any event because of the disruption it will cause to their overcrowded streets and houses, Edinburgh residents seem to welcome the return of the festival each year. For them it offers job opportunities, increased revenue, a month's worth of entertainment and pride in their gorgeous city.
So here I am in this new and welcoming city and I've decided to write a blog. Now, what, you might ask would a ex-drama student who works in theatre find to write about during a month of the biggest open-access arts festival in the world? Dumb question. Coffee of course. That's right! Who wants to hear about the shows? Working at the box office I know there are over 2500 shows in over 250 venues across the city and that's not even counting the International or Jazz and Blues Festival. On top of that there are probably over 250,000 young and trendy theatre-goers who have decided to write a blog with reviews and fun show facts. Too much effort if you ask me. So instead I have taken my weary caffeine-drenched self out of London filled with it's Starbucks, Costa's and Cafe Nero's on every corner, plonked myself in Edinburgh and given myself a challenge. I will not go into a chain coffee shop for the entire month of August.
Don't get me wrong I am no coffee snob, but I am one hard customer. I am fussy. I am particular and as such am normally instantly apologetic. But for those of you out there like me you'll understand the importance of a good coffee, however you take it.
I predict there will be plenty of people this festival and the next one and the one after that who will be drinking their body weight in pints, be them pints of beer, wine or vodka and will work through the hangover only to repeat it the following night. I also predict there will be plenty of people soaking up the sights, sounds and atmosphere in Edinburgh dashing from show to show. And what do these people have in common? Their need for a good cup of coffee.
During the month of August, therefore, I will venture to get my daily cup each day from different independent coffee shops. Upmarket, low-market, organic, central, suburban or with a side of kebab I will try them all and report back.
So tune in festival-goers, Caffeinated Ed is on a mission! This is the coffee drinker's guide to surviving the Fringe.
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