Mocha or Malt?

Tonight saw me going out with Juliet. We went to the noodle market at Hyde Park celebrating the Good Food month for October and had some… well… good food.

I should probably suggest to everyone to go down there. Go. Now. If you're thinking of what to do tonight and you were going to avoid the city because you fear a giant marshmallow monster would gobble you up and make you his marshmallow bitch, then seek help immediately. Otherwise if you have no excuse, check out the noodle market. It's only on for two more days and the eating's cheap and very tasty. I highly recommend.

Anyway, Juliet and I were out after dinner, after strolling through the Art & About entries, when we decided that we needed to warm up. Coffee. That sort of warming up. You know.

So we wandered around town trying to find a coffee shop.

An open coffee shop.

Maybe even one with a book shop in it, connected to, or nearby.

An open book shop.

What the hell is it with places in Sydney? I feel like I'm back in Modesto and everything closes at 7! Oh wait, it does.

Why does everything close at 7 in the city? It's almost as if the clock strikes seven and the culture just gets drained from the city, like water in a bath.

Another odd thing is how many coffee shops there aren't.

Seriously, there are not a lot of coffee shops. Sure, we've got Gloria Jeans' House Of God (just a sprinkle of Jesus inside every cup) and Starbucks. There's also Krispy Kreme and Macca's f you're going for the ultimate in coffee desperation.

But where are the coffee shops?

Have people traded mocha for malt?

I'm wondering if they have. There are loads more bars, pubs, and nightclubs than I think there ever have been and a stroll down one of the main streets in Sydney seems to yield options for alcoholic beverages but virtually none for the caffeinated conversation starter.

And that's just sad.

What ever happened to the romance of sitting across from someone, staring into their eyes or just enjoying a nice cup of coffee, tea, or hot chocolate and just realising that it's nice to be able to share the aroma and taste with someone?

It seems as though we're throwing it away just to get laid. To dress up and look like total dingbats while we shed our wallets in the hope that Mr. Happy or Lady Labia gets a little attention tonight.

We eventually settled at the Queen Victoria Building at a place called Jet. The menu was nice and Juliet had a small pot of English Breakfast, I had a hot chocolate with Drambuie, and we shared a babychino. It was nice, relaxing, and easy. We chatted and chilled.

It's the way conversation should be. Not yelling at each other while downing rocket fuel that was made so badly it really does taste like rocket fuel. Not trying to go deaf just to hear "CAN WE GO SOMEWHERE QUIETER?" so she can tell you that it's been fun but she'd rather not go home with you tonight, only to never be heard from again.

Where's the romance in that?

After Juliet headed home, I took the bus back home. My bus goes straight up Oxford Street and I found it interesting to note that while Oxford Street has its fair share of nightclubs, it also has a fair amount of coffee shops. So the city is bustling there but not actually IN the city.
Something tells me Newtown and Balmain would each have similar situations.

I don't know. Perhaps it's the 15 ml's of Drambuie talking but there's something kind of wasted about a loss of coffee shops to the nightclub movement.


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