Sunday, August 27, 2017

Portuguese Cake

I'm sitting writingin a rather lovely cafe.

The council have a community centre with a cafe run by the sour kind of people who end up running council cafes, delighting in portioning out council bacon into council bread and served with council coffee and council sweetener.

It has been taken over by a Portuguese Woman who meets with splendid eyerolls the regular arrivals of Doreen (I'm guessing the name, but it fits) from the community centre. "We have an extra health and safety induction that all staff need to go on in order to facilitate our BS91202"
(portuguese eyeroll)
"It would be an hour out of your day. We've picked a quiet time for the centre. Lunchtime."
(portuguese eyeroll)

Actually, the cafe is quiet. It doesn't deserve to be. It deserves to be heaving.

I rediscovered it by accident - I lost my wallet the other week, so have found somewhere other than the British Library or my occasional treat cafe to do work in.

The prices are ludicrous. A proper coffee is £1.80. Or, for £1.80 you can have a coffee and a delicious custardy portuguese pastry. "You do not have to take the cake, of course."
(portuguese eyeroll)

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