Cafe Putain
Nostalgia’s a bitch.
Cafe Putain? I text James.
Yup. He texts back.
Gregor? I ask.
Of course.
Cafe Putain is our tradition. The pre-work sanctuary, our dank start to a surreal evening. Dank in appearance, only, for with those two I would meet in a sewer.
Gregor’s already seated outside, chit-chatting with the owner, who hovers in misguided politeness. Gregor has probably been sitting here for hours, marking or writing or just hanging out in a cafe because that’s what intellectuals do. The owner, a Southern European-looking Australian, makes a timely escape from Gregor’s banter as James and I arrive. The only reason we meet here is because of proximity to Peel Street, where the three of us work, alongside our odious boss, Larry. We all love our job, teaching foreign students English, even if it means also inhaling Larry’s pervasive bouquet of odours.
I walk into the cafe to order, always the same thing, an iced coffee — or, at least, some strange mimic of it. They’ll bring it to the table, says the lady behind the counter, the owner’s wife. It will be, as always, day old, refrigerated espresso, mixed with milk, topped with similarly old cream, but even so, I prefer having something to keep my hands occupied. James, never one to ascribe to social conventions, generally orders nothing, content with our company alone (and his iPhone).
The cafe is a “fine” establishment, an almost slimy place marking the start of dodgy Hindley Street. Its clients are older, nonjudgmental of the mediocre food and surroundings, just there because that’s where they go, when they want to eat on Hindley.
Gregor’s already started some wordy diatribe on sex, or philosophy, or religion, and I lend half an ear as I lean back, trying to find a comfortable position in the worst-designed chairs, ever: mid-back support, then a gaping hole until the seat begins. Mind-blowingly unpleasant, but it does keep us present.
It’s a warm afternoon in late summer, the sun streaks through the trees on King William, as Hindley Street bustles with its unique mix of frequenters — dirty downtown, office drones, yuppies, and international students. Ah, my Adelaide. The waves of different people roll toward one another: dirt from the west, money from the east, meeting but not mixing, like ocean meeting glacial runoff, dark and light. James attempts to interject in one of Gregor’s frequent pauses, but too late; Gregor’s thoughts are collected, and he drives on, like a freight train of pure information. James and I exchange a knowing look, as a group of chattering Chinese students push past us. I spoon off some melting cream, as Gregor’s food arrives. Here’s our chance! James jumps in on an unrelated tangent, and we’re off on a different adventure.
