I miss time when a cafe was happy to be a caff!

Double Vision with Charlie Adley

Every Saturday morning we’d collectively come to, moans, groans, coughs and oh-nos, lads scattered rag tag style all over the Guru’s flat. Some of us might have scored a bed to sleep in and possibly – but most probably not – more than a mattress.

As we gulped mugs of strong hot sweet tea, we stretched our aching and abused young bodies. Every single one of us could really have done with a shower, but instead we ran our hands through our messy bedheads of hair, in an effort to make ourselves vaguely presentable to the outside world.

Then it was jackets on (only biker and donkey need apply) and out into the West London Streets, practicing our orders.

There was both humour and anticipation in the uttering of these lists. We were heading down to the Chippenham Cafe, a proper caff with its name each side of Coca-Cola logos.

I’m not a fan of the term ‘Greasy Spoon’, because it whiffs a little of the English Class System, so to me, the Chippenham was a caff, pure and simple, and for that period of time in the early ’80s, it was our caff.

Just as certain special pubs have become my local at various points, so too particular caffs pepper my past, like pin-stickers on my map of life.

One by one we’d line up, ready to tell the dyed blonde with the bursting cleavage our particular order. Nobody just ordered a Full English. That was for amateurs. She bent over, resting her elbows on the counter, clutching her pad and pen, and with the speed of dealer at Vegas somehow managed to write down all our different ingredients, one by one, barely pausing for breath.

“Two eggs, two bacon, one sausage, mushrooms, beans, tea and two slice.”

“Right love.”

“One egg, two bacon, mushrooms, beans, black pudding, tomato, tea and two slice.”

“Comin’ up, love.”

“Two eggs, two bacon, chips, beans, tea and two slice.”

“Lovely. “

“Two eggs, beans, mushroom, hash brown, tea and two slice.”

“No bacon, love?”

“No thanks, I’m a veggie.”

“Oh yeh, I remember now.”

The entire breakfast was a ritual, from the walking to the caff to the ordering and consuming. There is something about Saturday morning and blokes and cooked breakfasts.

To read Charlie’s column in full, please see this week’s Galway City Tribune.