Ever since I arrived in London I wanted to write a guide-book about its “authentic” cafés. But it proved to be an elusive and difficult task. So, here is what would have been an introduction to that book and a few stories/essays about some of those special places that might not even exist any more.
Yes, I admit it; I spend a lot of time in cafés…and I like (good) coffee. To start with, to find a good cup of coffee in every neighbourhood, yet alone on every street corner, at the beginning of nineties, ( upon my arrival in London), simply wasn’t the case. Initially I would look for a place to take a break and reflect, to appreciate the ambience and often the company, but I also wanted a refuge, a place where I could become invisible, safe, yet fully involved and connected with ongoing activity in the world of the café around me. Such places were rare, and wherever they existed, they would have been the social and cultural centre for the whole neighbourhood, an open secret known only to the regulars who know how to nurse a cup of coffee, like true existentialists.
Through cafés, I discovered that this city has many different authenticities and layers, and has a moody relationship with coffee; Londoners had have been known to fall in and out of love with coffee drinking several times since the introduction in the mid-seventeenth century of this, then, new fashionable drink. Each time this fashion was re-introduced, a new dimension was added to the social and cultural life of London.
The first coffee houses provided the location for the birth of the “Age of Reason” or the Enlightenment across Europe. “In 1654, Cirques Johson is said to have started selling the favourite new drink, coffee. Thus, Queen’s Lane Coffee House is reputed to be the oldest coffee house in Europe” – reads a sign on the wall of this establishment – in Oxford (!). Now, what about the “Botteghe delle Acque e dei Ghiacci” in Venice or the “Blue Flask” in Vienna and many other known and unknown places who also claim this fame?
Whatever the truth about the oldest café is, a certain Pasqua Rosée opened the first coffee house in London in 1652(!), followed by numerous others during the 17th century. The male population flocked in, the learned and the elegant, to debate issues of the times and to conspire. But drunkards, thieves, pimps and “working” ladies also found their way in, and so Londoners turned to their other favourite drink – tea.
By the late 19th century, when the coffee houses became popular again, Britain was at the peak of its imperial power and industrial development, and alcoholism was a growing problem. Think of Hogarth’s drawing “Gin Lane” in London. The Temperance Societies suggested coffee houses to office workers and shop girls as an alternative to the pub. However, unlike European cafés, those in London didn’t offer any sweet pastries or any other food to sustain the blood-sugar levels of their customers and prolong coffee drinking. Thus the amount of coffee they could sell was limited and so were the profits. This eventually led to the second decline in coffee houses, and so Londoners returned to their national drink – tea.
The third coffee revolution came with the invention of the espresso machine, the birth of British cool, and London’s swinging sixties; Bar Italia in Soho and the cappuccino. To make a profit, the cappuccinos would be diluted, but everyone had a good time and other substances fuelled the party.
By the early nineties’ most of London’s cafés served filtered coffee, brewed in the morning to last all day, as well as those diluted cappuccinos. My quest for a cup of good coffee began at this time. Although Londoners will never be as fanatical about perfect espresso as the continental Europeans, where it is all a matter of pride, honour, life and death, London’s coffee drinking has come a long way in the past 30 years. Today there are plenty of coffee connoisseurs and enthusiasts, and plenty of money to be made in the café business. Today good coffee can be found all over London but it is not a cheap drink. Coffee houses are here to stay, with the new breed of coffee-chain outlets appearing constantly, besides the well established, such as literary prize giving Costa Coffee and the American style cafés, Starbucks and Coffee Republic; even those who pride themselves on being Black Sheep. Their number is ever increasing; there are now several thousand in London.
My original idea was to present London through a patchwork of cafés with character, of which some were established, owned and maybe still run by continental Europeans: a city-guide with coffee as a scent of London. Some of these cafés are tucked in London’s neighbourhoods, but never far away from one of the many secrets of this city such as Highgate Cemetery, Freud’s Museum or Dulwich Picture Gallery.
Immigrants from other parts of Europe (and the rest of the world) have largely formed and influenced the concept of coffee drinking in London and the whole sub-culture that comes with it, by merging foods, life styles and habits, to create today’s modern fabric of the city. At the end, this is just a collection (a snapshot) of living stories about London that can inspire you to map your own route around the city. In an increasingly profit driven market (was it ever different?), many cafés in London change hands, style, or disappear relatively quickly. Those which stay tend to have some connection with immigrants or have their own exquisite British style and taste, though they are not always just a café, but also a bar, an eatery or a patisserie or a splendid room in an architectural wonder; whatever, my advice is, just find yourself a table and get that cup of coffee!
Olga and I meet in café Delancey. We talk about the news in our lives. She tells me about her translation work for a Canadian woman of Russian descent, whose family was divided between the Bolsheviks and Mensheviks; whose grandmother was born in 1900, witnessing everything that Europe and the world created in the last century.
I think of Olga’s passion for hot chocolate, as she admires the one she drinks, and the book on cafes of London that I should write soon. The title will be
Europeans in London
We talk about Moscow and Bosnia and our mothers.
She tells me about her trip to Ireland, taking a train from Belfast to Dublin, and mentions
Timur and Sveta, our artist friends and their latest exhibition.
We wish ourselves a good year and we walk out happy.
The coffee (and the chocolate) was good.
27th December 2000.
Camden Town crossroad is always a bit crowded, rough and manic – makes you wish for one of the cafes on the more relaxed and secluded areas of nearby Primrose Hill or Belsize Park.
Gansa isn’t exactly a café. It’s more a bar, rather a tapas bar. But not exactly.
Just a side step from the never stop fare of Camden Street Market.
It’s a kind of place you are happy to know exists, happy to visit.
The first time I was there with Rad. We lit cigarettes despite his lung cancer.
We talked about my film. I remember a French barman, a Breton; I thought I would have him play in the film. But I didn’t write a barman into my script.
They play loud music, so you might have to ask them to turn it down. And they’d do it.
Tonight I was there with Ewan. He also wants to make films; we had a lot to talk about.
His grandparents on his mother’s side are Polish. His grandfather went across Europe during WW2, from Hungary to France to find his love from grand orchards of even more grandiose Mittleeurope, eventually coming to England.
An epic that deserves Oscars. More than Dr Zhivago did. We hope to write it soon.
Ewan talked about his grandfather’s notes and filming his grandmother’s story on video.
I loved being surrounded with all these people of the past and the present.
As if everyone there was a foreigner. And everyone expects you to be a foreigner.
A bearded Spanish guy on the stool next to me wished me a good stay in England.
This barman was a foreigner too, another Frenchman, though I wouldn’t have had him in the film. The waitresses were Spanish and I could see beautiful Latin faces around the tables behind us, reflected in the bar’s mirrors.
Though I was happy seeing an English party walking in. That made me feel at home and safe. They also looked like foreigners, anyway. I enjoyed watching the barman making cocktails for them and chatting to an attractive, young French woman next to us.
For a moment I felt that Rad was still with us.
8th January 2001.
Maison Bertaux
When in the early hours editors emerge out of cutting rooms in Soho in search of a morning coffee, Maison Bertaux is an almost inevitable destination. Every self-respecting student, artist, actor, filmmaker and accidental wanderer visits this place, with the most unique character amongst cafes of London and with equally unique pasties and cakes.
In the very same year in which the Paris Commune ended in blood, Monsieur Bertaux arrived in Soho and opened a patisserie and bakery. The Census of 1871 recorded that at number 28 Greek Street W1, apart from Francis Bertaux, were living, Jacob Weber the baker, two tailoresses and two professional girls.
Maison Bertaux is still at the same address and over the years the patisserie has become a landmark of Soho. On the ground floor there are two small train-carriage type tables with chairs, and an explosion of shapes and colours of the most irresistible cakes is contained by a display cabinet. The walls are filled with memorabilia and information on London life and a staircase at the back offers a glimpse into a small, busy kitchen. The stairs lead to a first floor room that has pale walls and small tables and windows that overlook Soho – completing an almost surreal ambience.
For the last 15 years, the café has been owned and run by, Michelle Wade, an actress par excellence. Michelle began working here as a Saturday girl with madam Vignaud and, after graduating from The Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts and a brilliant start to her acting career, Michelle decided to buy the then failing café. It is Michelle who puts her flair and passion into the everyday functioning of this café. She has staged performances of various aspects of French history in the café, involving staff, her friends, guests and onlookers. She says that Maison Bertaux is a franglaise patisserie, embodying celebration and joy of life, and it is still a soft touch for exiles – a refuge for refugees.
This patisserie is constantly evolving and can be read like a history book. The original oven, which used to supply the whole area with bread, is tucked into the basement under the pavement, and is still in working order. In 1938, this oven was replaced by more modern baking facilities on the second floor. The marble tops in the basement, on which dough was made, are now used as office desks for Michelle.
Between the two wars, for a short period, Maison Bertaux was also a restaurant and hearty, hot meals were prepared in the miniscule ground floor kitchen. For the keen observer its whole past is preserved in the walls, surfaces, and mirrors and in the recipes of its cakes. The cakes are made entirely in the patisserie, without any pre-made ingredients, sponges or mixes by chefs trained in- house. Completely fashioned by hand, the cakes come in irregular shapes and sizes. Michael Young has been the head chef for 32 years. Anna, who has just retired, was working there for 36 years, and the “youngest” employee in the bakery has been there for 12 years.
Daquise
The significance of this café goes beyond its culinary qualities and uniqueness. Behind its seemingly quiet, subdued appeal, is an extraordinary history. Huddled next to South Kensington tube station, tucked away from the busy life of our modern times, the café was established in 1947, and run for many years by Mr Dakowsky, who was Polish and his French wife whose maiden name was Quise. Hence, Daquise. In the fifty-or so years since opening, this café with traditional Polish food has become an independent institution.
Through its large window one can see the Victoria and Albert Museum and many of London's tourists accidentally turn up here. There are no engraved plaques to indicate where the great and the good sat; yet this place has seen many of them. "The generation of those who came to live in London when the café was first opened has almost gone", pan Stepan who I arranged to meet here, tells me. He was one of young Polish soldiers who found a new life in London after fighting with the Allied troops during the Second World War. "When I think of those years of war, of horror and misery", he says, "staying alive was our true heroic achievement. Being able to start anew was a gift of a new life. We would come here every Sunday after mass in the nearby Brompton Oratory, to meet with friends, eat and exchange news. Here you can find the best apple cake in the world. There were queues to get in. I first met my wife here and we got married in 1953." Talking to pan Stepan is as smooth as the vodka we drink. We sweep across European history - he talks with the passion of a man who has lived a great life and he is even more thrilled by the epics of the past. After a while a couple whose story contributes beautifully to the fabric of this place joins us at our table. They are Rodi and Kristina. As a child, Rodi lived in the neighbourhood, and was troubled by ill health. His busy Anglo-Dutch parents left it to his nanny to find suitable food for him, and she found Daquise. Kristina was one of post-war generation of Polish children who awaited a trip to Daquise every Sunday for a treat of a doughnut, a reward for behaving well all week. Life arranged for them to meet here some years ago. Rodi and Kristina now live in Scotland and come back here at least twice a year. Today was one of their visits and, as it turns out, a day for telling tales.
Life changes a lot, so much so that no one seems to care any more. Maybe that's why people return to this place that changes very little. The interior is from well back in the past. Dominating features are two paintings of an impressive display of English cavalry (which I at first took for Hussars). Its village-craft décor creates an air of a guesthouse in a provincial Central European town where time has stopped; yet one is in the heart of London. Time might have stopped and that's probably the strongest quality of this place. You will still hear the hum of people speaking Polish in Daquise, but during my last visit, I overheard at a table next to mine, two ladies well into their eighties, talking about computers and Windows updates. So much for time stopping here.
Mozart
The story behind café Mozart is as complex as any of the recipes of its cakes.
“When my mother married my father”, says Vanessa Schon, proprietress, “she inherited a whole collection of recipes assembled by several generation of women in my father’s family. Making Viennoise tortes and cakes never followed precise instructions, but was a creative process for each woman. There were no exact measures of what went in, rather notes, like shopping lists, reminders of what were used as ingredients.” Yet it is Vanessa’s vision that brought those cakes out of the family kitchens and into the café. Café Mozart is a tribute to mothers. Its essence is a legacy of long gone Viennoise ladies from her father’s family and her mother’s passion for recreating wonderful cakes from their notes. The interior of the café is Vanessa’s father’s reconstruction of the ambience of his childhood.
“And so”, Vanessa continued, “It was my turn to master the secrets of Viennoise tortes and cakes under my mother’s supervision. ‘The taste is not good’, she would say, and I kept making them again and again. Unlike French desserts, they are less known beyond Central Europe, their popularity spread eastwards and was therefore influenced by Oriental and Jewish cuisine.”
Those with specific dietetic requirements will be glad to know that many of Vanessa’s incredible creations are wheat and flour free.
The café is an elegant but unpretentious place, situated on the hidden side of Hampstead Heath, with walls panelled in dark wood and decorated with sheet music of its namesake, that genius who loved only music more than cakes (or was it the other way around). Yet, you can still find the nation’s favourite here – full English breakfast – in this non-smoking, children friendly, no-nonsense (“We reserve the right to refuse service without reason”) landmark of London’s cafés.
“We had to marry several European culinary traditions to cater for our clientele”, says Vanessa, “And we keep refreshing our menu.”
And complements come not only from locals, but from many of those who in their travels find the sacher torte finer than that served in the Sacher hotel in Vienna, or the rugelach to remind them of their childhood.
Copyright Edin Suljic 2000-2024.
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