The Record Store Café advertises itself on a board at the top of the hill. This far down, past the tattooist and the adult store, I’ve never been.
Café is almost overstatement. The several styles of coffee come from one bean; the menu comprises two savoury and a handful of sweet options. But since I overate yesterday (someone’s birthday), that’s OK.
Yes, it’s principally a record shop; no, they had nothing I wanted. Most of it was house or garage — unimaginative names for genres of nearly-music — or old rock I already own.
The coffee? It was excellent.