A Fat Purple Fig

Coffee for the day was at a little hole-in-the-wall takeaway that we had spotted on our way back from Mary’s tattoo. I think it probably gained inclusion by looking terribly authentic, amidst many that seem to specialise in cream.

For little more than a corridor, it was a lovely mix of concrete, steel and exposed bulbs:

I ended up with a vanilla latte. I would NEVER normally drink a vanilla latte, but it was easy to point to, so there you go. I didn’t even specify ‘Mad Scientist Blenz, pleaz’.

Mary and I were undecided about the cigarettes. I thought they were for sale, she thought they served decorative purposes. They briefly made me want to smoke (soft packets!). We both agreed that under the stairs was an odd spot for them. In Sydney, they’d have all been stolen on the first night.

My vanilla latte was so sweet, it tasted just like a (super-sweet!) warm vanilla milkshake. Mary’s espresso was ‘ok, but strange tasting’. Extra points for the creative names given to their blends. Plus, the guy who served us was tall, and seemed to enjoy having the opportunity to practice his very limited English. This happens so rarely, we may even go back. He did give us a punch card, so perhaps he’s expecting us.