Urban Oasis

She looks at her watch. She will have to go home soon, but wants to avoid the rush hour. She decides to continue eavesdropping on bitchy office-workers and other regulars. She mumbles a gratitude to the Algerian waiter as he delivers one last cappuccino to her table before she braves the West End streets.

Underneath a myriad of theatre posters, actors and stagehands energise the air with tall tales and egotistical ranting. She watches as the waiter - dressed like a sailor, in whites with burgundy epaulettes - murmurs something to them. A lanky serious-type responds by raising a dainty glass cup from its saucer, as if to ask for another cappuccino. The waiter dutifully scribbles in his little notebook, walks over to the counter and places the tiny page on the huge pink coffee machine that proudly states the name: W PICCADILLY in gold lettering. The woman wonders how long ago it was that the beginning N and E fell off and whether they lay somewhere behind the counter, still waiting to be reaffixed.

A man behind the counter peers at the note through the spectacles balanced on the end of his nose. He announces grandly, “Uno cappuccino!”

This is Lorenzo. He wears a burgundy cravat neatly tucked into his white shirt. The white hair crowning his high forehead hints at his age. He arrived from Sicily just after the war and was soon put to work here, aged just seven and unable to speak English, whilst his parents waited on customers. Soon after, he had accidentally smashed a plate on the floor. His dread of the owner’s wrath was soon abated when she handed him a KitKat and rubbed his head – then covered in dark, thick hair. It was at that perplexing moment young Lorenzo decided that he liked England. Sixty years (or so) on, all children dining at the cafe are habitually given KitKats from a box on the counter.

Little has changed here since that time - although the decor has aged along with Lorenzo. It is reassuring and a relief from the present-day. Memories older than the woman ooze from the peeling yellow walls to soothe and comfort. This, along with the location (just off the beaten track), the decor and cheap prices give the place cult status. And there never seem to be tourists here.

She splashes a sugar-cube into her frothy coffee and stirs it in, taking care to avoid disturbing the creamy glob of foam and chocolate on top. As she gently places the spoon back onto the table of yellow Formica with its vermicelli design, she revels in the New Piccadilly’s uniqueness. It stands out distinctively against its drab, homogenised surroundings of cloned shops and chain eateries with their temporary, undedicated staff and safe, uncaring menus. Their service is inarguably quick, but somewhat impersonal - and each meal is identical to the ones preceeding and succeeding it.

Here, the menu is a laminated original from the 1950s. The handwritten “special” is paper-clipped onto the top. Defunct and forgotten dishes are merely covered with stickers, their replacements written in bright felt-tipped pen. If you want to deviate from the menu, they are happy to oblige but seem bemused about it.

The woman has enjoyed the “tunny-fish salad” today . She decides against dessert. Usually, for her, this is two scoops of vivid yellow vanilla ice-cream, lovingly punctured with a slightly stale wafer.

She takes a sip from the cup. The soft froth kisses her top lip as she takes in the coffee underneath. A satisfying sigh and she gently clacks the cup back onto its mate. The Algerian waiter smiles familiarly at her, which she returns with a nod of recognition.

She remembers first walking into the cafe fifteen years ago. The Algerian (whose baby-face has not aged by a single day) welcomed her in and ushered her to a booth, armed with a menu. There were fewer posters up back then; instead, just the row of framed cigarette card collections and mirrored advertisements for Coca-Cola. Overseeing all was a stuffed peacock in a glass tank up high on the wall; its final, decorative resting-place.

Another sip; the woman recalls that first cappuccino, long before the stylised likes of Starbucks and their “dry-skinny-mocha-no-whip” nonsense. Cappuccino here comes one way only. Fizzy drinks come sugar-loaded, or, if you don't want the calories you are grateful for a pint glass of tap water (provided for free!).

She smiles to herself. The joys and pains of her real life are punctuated by time spent here thinking, watching, laughing and chatting over many a cappuccino. She had even broken up with someone here. As hard as it had been, when the lover walked away, onto the grey street and into her past, she had felt that she could be in no better company. The Algerian waiter had instinctively brought over a cappuccino and silently smiled. She supposed that, like the all-seeing peacock, the staff had seen it all before.

Finishing the present cappuccino, she winces slightly at the sweet, partially-dissolved sugar, sludging its way from the bottom of the cup and onto her tongue. The theatre-folk cough out the door and head up the street towards the backstage entrance. Their audience would arrive for a pre-show meal soon, bringing a different vibe with them. And when they scuttle out for curtain-up, they will leave an empty hush that remains until closing-time.

The pink neon sign in the window screams “EATS” into the street. It’s now dark and the woman decides that she is ready to leave and head home. The tenseness she had carried in with her earlier is now soothed; every sense has been permeated and nurtured.

She retrieves her coat from the coat-stand near the counter. To her, it is a symbol of faith in human nature and a monument to the kind of people who frequent this place - trusting and trusted.

Seeing her, the Algerian waiter rushes over and hands the bill to the smiling bespectacled lady sat behind the huge till. Effortlessly, she strikes the stiff metal keys with strong fingers and the items are totalled.

Meanwhile, the woman takes an opportunity to drink in the vista behind the counter. The wall is completely covered with postcards of Sicily from every possible angle. She imagines they were sent from family, friends and customers wanting to remind them of the old country.

Cash is exchanged and the change falls into a nearby tip-saucer. Smiles and courtesies are exchanged as the woman leaves. Just outside, she looks back to see the scene continue, framed by the plate-glass windows. Steeling herself for the hustle homeward train journey, the first of the over-dressed, squealing theatre fans bustle past and tumble into the cafe.