He's currently in Tilba, a small village down the south coast of New South Wales, about, he says, five or six hours drive from here, but it's hard to say precisely, considering the stops he's made along the way, one even taking him inland, he says, a hundred kilometres or so. Why exactly he did not say. Instead he preferred to talk about coffee.
- So it's early and wet and I order a long black, and it's good, it's real good, with what I think is a little chocolate hovering in the background of my palate, and where the hell am I anyway but at some tiny stop called Tilba, actually make that Central Tilba, as there's an even smaller village a couple of clicks further along called Tilba Tilba. They must have run out of names or something, or liked the word Tilba so much that they added a second, who knows. So I'm scouring the papers, national, local, whatever I can get my paws on, when I finish a cup and then see a new white one coming along with some gentle smiling kindness attached. We made an extra by mistake, the lady says, if you can handle another, and don't mind it with milk. Later a third comes along, maybe they have someone new on the machine, or someone's ordering coffee and then suddenly realizing they hate the bean intensely and much prefer the leaves of tea, who knows.
It reminds me of something I scribbled on a napkin a couple of years back after stopping one early morning in the small town of Milton, not too far north from where Louis now found himself, if I wasn't mistaken. Her eyes - are two coffee beans. I need a barista - quick sharp.
- Ah Milton. Stopped there too. For lunch. At a place called Brill. I was strangely starving for once. A small sign was near the table explaining what makes a good cup of coffee and why it therefore might take a little longer in coming than other places. Pride was mentioned I think, and that's fine, but give me my coffee when I order it more or less, and not when I'm already some way through my steak sandwich. Furthermore, if it says caramelized onions comes with the dish then don't go slipping in a few raw rings in the hope I won't notice. You don't think I'll notice? Two lovely words, caramelized and onion, put together, and you think it'll slip my attention? The cut of the steak was commendable nonetheless, but there was all the same an underlying sadness to the meat that I'm putting down to the missing stated ingredient. By the way, how's the piano playing coming along?
He meant reviewing the Piano Bar. I hadn't got it going yet. Not a word. It seemed so foreign to try to write such a thing. Louis' distaste for the place was apparent pretty much from the start. Suffice to say, he is not a fan of piped music, at least not unless you can actually choose something to play yourself and not have to risk the mood and taste of the bar staff.
- Certainly comparisons can often be odious, but hey, they can be fun too, so in this case let's throw caution to the wind, let's throw caution up against a wall or up on the roof of an abandoned building, or in some hole we have dug with our bare hands, the rich moist soil deep under our fingernails, where caution can sleep a while, or until we're ready for a wash.
- All right Louis, lead the way.
- Fine, I'll get you rolling, but Sisyphus I am not. Why not start with the last call, or the lack of last call? At what point did this become a thing of the past, or is it something that has been adopted in Australia only? There we were, sipping our pints, and you get up to order another couple only to be told the bar was closed. It wasn't long after nine. Looking around, there were about six or seven others in the place, scattered around, and quietly minding their own business. You asked about being notified of the last call and you were told what, that such a thing is not allowed in said establishment because it encourages excessive drinking. We looked around again and noticed no barbarians at the gate that we could speak of. No ice-fuelled lads out on the tear either, or any gang of ruddy faced goons celebrating some fellow soon to face the firing squad of marriage, oh no, just some patrons whiling away the last few hours of the weekend before Monday came a knocking again. If they say it's the law, if they say their hands are tied, that they're just doing their job, following orders and all that malarkey, well fine, let's look at that then. You can use that crap on the tourists if you want to, or the casual consumer of your wares, but what about at least treating your local regulars with at least some modicum of respect. Now in no way at all am I suggesting that you are in any way a local. What did you say, that you'd been living there for near on five years or so? You'd probably need at the very least a decade under your shirt before they permitted you to even hold that particular stamp, but all the same, considering the size of the town for starters, your mug should be somewhat recognizable, particularly within the walls that serve up your favorite tipple. Now would it be too much to expect one of those girls, when they're clearing glasses or whatever, to discreetly let you know that the bar would soon be closing and that if you wanted another drink it best be ordered before the till gets shut?
Then something distracted Louis, the flow of words slowed to a trickle, he said he spotted a face he thought he recognized, and would get back to me later.
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