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.

http://unionofgenius.com/

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.

"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.

 

http://www.caffelucano.com/

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.

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.

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.

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.

"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. 

http://www.bonningtonseaterie.co.uk/

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.

http://www.yelp.co.uk/biz/has-beans-edinburgh

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.

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!

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.

http://www.beanscene.co.uk/

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!

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!

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!

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.