i am the idiot reading "ulysses" at a cafe near you: coffee tips and a book review

"To tell the truth he was mean in fortunes and for the most part hankered about the coffeehouses..."

For a while now, I have been jealous of people who get up to "serious business" in cafes.

Fountain pen in one hand, designer notepaper in the other, they brusquely march in the front door.  In one smooth, well-practiced motion, their coat, scarf and beard are discarded upon a large communal table, a coffee order is nodded to the barista, and serious business begins.  If business happens to be ultra-serious on that particular day, they will not sit at the communal table, but instead acquire a table all to themselves.  Regardless, within thirty seconds of entering the cafe, pen is scribbling furiously on paper.  Hand is bunched against head.  Facial expression can only be described as "earnest yet solemn".

I, meanwhile, am usually wearing the facial expression of a confused weasel while I try to figure out whether the cafe is a joint where you order at your table, order at the coffee bar, or a strange hybrid somewhere in between.  I long for the mitigated calm of those with serious business.  And I stand in awe of how long those with serious business are able to take up table space without feeling the need to order lunch.

But I have always prided myself on being a do-er, not a gonna-do-er—and thus began my search in earnest for a solution to my jealous ills.  How could I discover the smug confidence of one with serious business, without actually having any serious business to carry out?

 "The keeper of the shelter in the middle of this tête-â-tête put a boiling swimming cup of a choice concoction labelled coffee on the table..."

For starters, I decided that my coffee order was all wrong.  I needed to re-tool my coffee order to acheive maximum arrogance, with a dash of smug.

What I settled on was the long macchiato—the ponciest form of coffee you can order in a cafe.  Why?

First of all, it usually comes in a smaller-sized cup.  Drinking from a smaller-sized cup makes it easy to extend one's pinky finger when raising the cup to your mouth.  This is poncy.

Secondly, it takes a lot of unappreciated effort to make.  "Yes, barista", you say.  "I want you to pull a shot of espresso.  Then I want you to put hot water into it.  Then I want you to steam up a jug of milk.  Then you must put only the tiniest amount of that steamed milk into my coffee."  And then, you say, "and after you do all of that, I am going to reach for my spoon and stir the whole thing up!  To hell with your handiwork, sir!"

Thirdly, not everyone likes it.  It is too milky for black coffee drinkers.  It is far too black for milky coffee drinkers.  I had a very rocky relationship with the long mac, far from love at first sight.  I ordered one here and put sugar in it to "compensate for less milk", as my reasoning went.  Error.  One perfectly good long mac ruined.  Next, I ordered one here and swilled it down, expecting the usual warm milky temperature I'm used to.  Error.  Burned mouth.

My friends convinced me to give it one last try.  "Sit down", they said, "stir it... and sip it".  My lord.  It worked.  And the fourth pillar of poncyness came to me—drinking a proper long mac simply puts a smug grin on your face.

All I needed now was something to do whilst sipping.  Something that takes forever to do.

"Mr Best said brightly, gladly, raising his new book, gladly, brightly..."

I don't know why it didn't occur to me earlier.

Since early March, I have been reading James Joyce's Ulysses.  I was drawn in by the quote on the back cover which claimed that this book was the "greatest novel of the century". 

Lies!  All lies.  Since reading that quote upon opening Ulysses over two months ago, I've griped to countless people about this book, most of whom turn a whiter shade of pale at the very mention of its name.  Nobody I'd spoken to had dared to finish it.  Even the woman who sold it to me wore a look of concern on her face.  Unfortunately, I am stubborn as a mule when it comes to finishing books I've started (and more importantly, paid for).  I also have a bad habit of convincing myself that it'll do me good to read the "classics".  Case in point: forcing myself through the Canterbury Tales a year or two ago, which, from memory, involved little else other than oodles of sin, a handful of sex, and a talking French chicken.

But I had heard good things about Joyce's magnum opus.  Someone told me it was about the Irish revolution (note: IT IS NOT).  So when I got roughly one-third of the way through Ulysses and found that the highlight of the book up to that point was the purchase of a sausage, I was less than impressed.  I was even less impressed when I looked up a summary of the book and found out that I had somehow missed several key plot points—such as a chapter devoted to masturbation, and another chapter devoted to taking a poo in an outhouse.

I was ready to admit defeat; to (gasp) put the book down... forever.  And then it hit me.  What if I combined the powers of the long mac with the dense colossus that is Ulysses?  Would black espresso softly marked with milk help me to comprehend Joyce's stream-of-consciousness style, his surprise shifts into Middle English, his structuring of entire chapters like legal cross-examinations or stage plays, his inserts of shopping lists, budgets and musical scores into the text? 

In short, might I need to read and sip like a snob to fully appreciate an outlandishly snobby book?

Yes.  After this point, everything changed.  I strode into cafes with my voluminous tome and a facial expression so smug, it was almost indecent.  I parked myself at whatever table I desired.  I was ready to hear more about the wanderings of Stephen Dedalus, Irishman of no fixed address.  I cocked one leg upon another, made sure the book's cover was clearly visible, and proceeded to read and sip.  Read and sip.  Read and sip and there I was and was the cover showing there could she see it I've got the book answer the phone answer the phone can you get there very distracting I wonder the eyes leave the page can he see can I see read and sip.

James Joyce imitations aside, I now (with long mac in hand) press on with Ulysses.    I now relish in it; scoff at its indulgence, chuckle at its sex jokes.  People come up to me to chat about the book.  Some say it's next on their reading list, others laugh at (and with) me for the stupendous feat of reading the damn thing. 

I've done it.  I've finally got serious business to attend to.  I've got Ulysses—and only ten pages left to read.

About bloody time.

let's eat, grandma! / let's eat grandma!

Lately, I have been thoroughly confused. A few days ago, I walked into a late-night kebab shop, in search of meaty evening fare. I found that most of the menu items that were agreeable to me were grouped under a single heading, which read:

SOUVLAKI'S

I was perplexed. While the kebab shop appeared to be a public establishment from the outside, the reality was that most of the tasty items on the menu were in fact the property of a man named Souvlaki. As I did not know this Hellenic gentleman, I was not about to eat the food that was clearly marked on the menu as belonging to him. I quickly left.

Luckily, there were other twilight dining options available. I soon came across a storefront emblazoned with:

"The Best Burgers in Town"

I stood outside, puzzled. What to make of this unattributed quotation? Who had said these words? Perhaps this was a famous quote that I, stupidly, did not recognise due to starvation. Needless to say, I was not prepared to go inside not knowing the origin of these (apparently!) famous words—there is no faster way to look the fool.

I remained hungry that night.

uncle tobys are "sorry i feel that way"; i oatally understand these feelings

In late October I was quite shaken up by a deeply flawed box of cereal. This week, I received a reply to my concerned correspondence.

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Hi [redacted],

Thank you for contacting us regarding UNCLE TOBYS Oat Crisp Almond 415g.

We are sorry that you felt the product was misrepresented on the packaging.

Our company adheres to a strict code of ethics when it comes to the labelling and representation of our products. In this we are bound by the requirements of the Food Standards Code, and the Trade Practices Act.

Our policy in this regard is that we will not make misleading or inaccurate statements or representations about the composition of our products. In this particular case we believe we have complied with the requirements of food labelling law, and the Trade Practices Act.

The other range of our cereals that contain clusters are the UNCLE TOBYS Plus Protein and UNCLE TOBYS Plus Omega 3 Lift.

Thank you for taking the time to contact us.

Sincerely,

[redacted]
CONSUMER SERVICES ADVISER

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Dear [redacted],

Thank you for your prompt reply. I am glad to hear that you are sorry I felt that "Oat Crisp" was misrepresented on the packaging. Although it may surprise you to hear that I have managed to get myself into a fair share of arguments in the past, I am always satisfied when they end with someone telling me that they are "sorry you feel that way"—when I hear this, I can leave the conversation with a smug smile upon my face, knowing that I have more than adequately won the battle. This is particularly the case with ex-girlfriends.

Indeed, "I am sorry you feel that way" may be one of the greatest expressions of regret and sympathy ever imagined in any human language. I have attached a painting of "Maud Muller", the heroine of American poet John Greenleaf Whittier's tragic 1856 poem of the same name. I have no doubt that the faces of the relevant Uncle Tobys executives are similarly racked with guilt at the way I feel about "Oat Crisp":


Additionally, I fully accept that "Oat Crisp" complies with all the requirements of the Trade Practices Act—because that particular piece of legislation no longer exists. This (as I am sure you are aware) is great news for business; I personally am in the process of setting up a dog-walking company where I don't actually walk the dogs, but simply rent them out to nursing homes for the day as companionship animals. Although I will profit twice while the dogs receive no exercise whatsoever, my business (like yours) will also fully comply with the Trade Practices Act.

Finally, I wish to thank you for recommending other cereals that contain clusters. I will pick one up this afternoon. In return for your recommendation, I would like to leave you with one of my favourite Japanese haiku, composed by the old master Yosa Buson (1716-1784). Perhaps when you receive customer complaints in future, you can just simply send this poem as a reply. It is totally appropriate, as it is regretful, and deals with food:

At the over-matured sushi,
The Master
Is full of regret.