The Café That Was Slightly Too Pleased With Itself

I really wanted to like this café. It had a beautiful riverside location and the décor was very pleasing, with lots of wood and stone. The menu ticked all the hipster boxes, with signature sandwiches and a selection of ales. And it had featured on a television programme, which in our fickle age matters far more than it should.

Young Staff

We placed our order with a dewy-cheeked waitress who tapped the order onto a tablet, and settled down with some of the café’s many newspapers. As we read, we could see the owner wandering around, full of bonhomie as he chatted to customers. He had quite a lengthy conversation with a lady at the table next to ours, who was clearly known to him.

A moment later, the lady’s food arrived. I looked down at our empty table and realised fifteen minutes had passed since we placed our order of two drinks and two slices of cake. I better do something about this, I thought. But just as I was forming this thought, the food arrived. It was served my another dewy-cheeked youngster. His tentative movements and timid voice gave the impression of someone new to the job.

We ate our slices of cake. The lemon drizzle cake tasted of lemon, which is rarer than you might think. The problems didn’t really start until we went to pay. The till was situated at the entrance to the cafe, a narrow walkway. It was behind a high counter, and there were people clustered at the counter. This meant we had to press ourselves against the wall opposite the counter, to keep out of people’s way.

Wrestling with the Till

And we had to wait a while. The till was being manned by a teenager with the same kind of fade haircut (long on top, shaved underneath) as my nephew. And he looked to be little older than my nephew. He was wrestling with the till, which was refusing to process a card payment from a woman in the queue ahead of us. Eventually, the owner was summoned. He pressed a few buttons, then said, ‘Happy?’ to the boy and disappeared.

young waiter
A café populated by very young staff.

Meanwhile, we were still trying to keep out of the way of the stream of people passing in and out. We thought that the girl standing next to the woman at the counter was accompanying the woman, but in fact she had been sent to pay for her table’s food. And there was a problem with that as well – a soup that had never arrived. Which again required decision-making powers that were a little beyond the boy’s scope, as to whether to strike off the missing soup or offer to serve it after all. All this meant meant further waiting. Our own payment was straightforward, but by then the damage was done.

We didn’t complain. When you see the face of your nephew in the people serving you, it’s hard to be mad. But I felt the owner needed to spend less time wandering blithely around the café, coasting on its reputation, and more time on those small details that separate the good cafes from the great ones. The most important of these details is care: care of your customers and care of your staff. And because of this lack of care, I was leaving an otherwise pleasant café with a sour taste in my mouth.

 

Assault on a Café Window

This post is part of an occasional series I’m going to call Retail Ramblings, where I chronicle my encounters, good, bad and ugly, with retail and service personnel.

I sat in the window of a small city-centre café with a friend, having coffee. While we chatted, I kept an eye out for my husband, who planned to join us. A few moments later, I spotted him through the window, his back to me.

cafe window
Sitting in the window of a café

I expected him to turn around and come through the door, but he stayed still.  Why wasn’t he coming in, I thought, puzzled.

I had failed to spot the phone in his hand, and thinking he mustn’t have seen us, I rapped on the window three times. The loudness of the raps startled me. I felt vibrations travel along my arm. ‘I thought the Apocalypse was coming,’ my husband said, when he came through the door.

I turned to the owner of the café, who was at the counter, just a few inches away from our table. ‘Sorry I banged on your window like that,’ I said. ‘You must have thought it was going to break into a million pieces.’ My tone was light and banterful, and I expected an equally banterful response: oh, I thought I was going to have to call the glaziers. Or a verbal shrug: don’t worry about it. It’s made of strong stuff.

What she said, without a trace of humour in her voice, was:

‘If you had broken that window, I would have bust you.’

Needless to say, I haven’t returned to that cafe.