An Old Fashioned English Caff


You can’t beat an old-fashioned English ‘caff’
The scurrying, clattering, chattering staff
Typhoo puddles on wobbly tables
The builder-banter, the wide-boy-fables
The cackles of Winifreds, Ethels and Mabels
The Radio babble, the Street talk…
The clang of a waitress dropping your fork…
Frothy coffee in a bowl-shaped cup…
With a handle so small that you can’t pick it up!
Chipped lumps of Demerara
Being plopped into Albert’s tea by his carer
Diners trying to desperately force…
A flatulent, plastic tomato to spit out the sauce
The screaming scrapes of the chair legs
The lard-arsed smell of frying eggs
Bean-smeared plates with bacon fat on
The sausage cook with a sous chef’s hat on
The ‘Full English’ that won’t quite fit on the plate
Maintaining the country’s mortality rate
Teabags mocking their use-by date
Fried bread being served as a hangover cure
By a dexterous waiter whilst mopping the floor
Frozen butter pats that can’t be spread
Without making a right pig’s ear of your bread
Bakewell Tarts and Pukka Pies
Crinkled chips with a thousand eyes
Thin white toast with burnt bits
Rock cakes that survived the Blitz!
You can’t get all this in the Savoy or the Ritz
Feeding: workers, shirkers, paupers and princes
Trend setters and blue rinses
Night shift workers, ways and strays,
The Old Bill and the latest Krays
Fulfilling every culinary need
From Lizard Point to Berwick upon Tweed
Consoling the Lonely from Margate to Bath…
You can’t beat an old-fashioned English ‘caff’


Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.