‘Soft or crispy?’ comes the call from across the counter.
Robert’s voice is highly pitched, nasal - reminiscent of your scariest auntie - and it holds real authority. He is always carrying plates, flipping square sausages or taking hurried phone calls and you share your order with the feeling that he has more important things to be getting on with. ‘Any sauce wi that?’ he exhales, arching an eyebrow in your direction, sorting paper bags.
Every time you visit, you leave this place with a weird snippet of a wider story. You’ve realised, much to your surprise, that it’s usually a story that hints at a softer side of Robert. A story that reveals the able but nurturing face of someone who matters to lots of people in this community. Strong, yes, but also dependable, as open as the sign on the door.
The first time you went to the café after you moved here, he shouted across the art-deco style counter towards an elderly man sitting at a table, filling out papers. ‘What have you done that for? I told you to wait and I’d fill it out with ye! You’ve not to be so presumptuous!’. The man mumbled something about thinking he would just write his address down to start, but then he stopped and said ‘Right ye are, Robert. I’ll just wait’ and put down his blue betting pen.
Another time, Robert announced dramatically to the whole café: ‘There’s a bag back here. Who has put it there and why?’. A man in a bunnet hat and large glasses raised a hand, as if addressing a teacher. You’ve noticed that this man often restocks the vending machine and fills up the salt and pepper shakers on the tables. You don’t get the impression that he really works there, just that the café is where he spends a lot of his time, so he’s taken to mucking in.
‘That’ll have been me, Robert. Moira asked me to bring it in for her so she could pick it up when she’s passing later’.
‘Well, we all know Moira is the blue-eyed girl who gets exactly what she wants!’ Robert retorted, amid a hiss of fizzing sausages on the grill. You conceal a smirk - the theatrics are so funny.
The last time you visited, you overheard a nervous, older woman with a two-wheeled shopping trolley tell Robert that she doesn’t like her new flat, because she’s too short to see through the peephole and can’t check who is chapping her front door before opening it. She was also worried that her new letterbox was too narrow, and that her dookit box with her medication wouldn’t fit through it. She didn’t want her delivery of pills to be left lying out in the close, where anyone could steal them.
‘Terrible that they’ve got you stuck up there Margaret’ he sympathised.
You reflect on how rare it is to enter businesses these days and feel that you’re entering a place where people know and look out for each other in a way that is totally separate from the transaction of money in exchange for services. When you think of Robert and the feeling of undeniable community and home he has fostered in the cafe, it seems almost miraculous. How much might this place mean for lonely people, for older people, for people who don’t have a network of family around them or the technology to connect online? For those who don’t have the means to join gyms or social clubs, but could stretch to spending a couple of pounds to relax, eat and know they’ll find consistency and open heartedness?
You can almost imagine a bureaucratic grant-giving organisation coming up with the concept of a ‘outcomes-focused community hub’ which combines reasonably priced food with access to ‘network building services’ and ‘support with service referrals’. Yet here it’s happening organically every day, without the need for thanks, stripped of jargon, and led by people who live in the area and know it best. Something so valuable but immeasurable. Something so natural, but that we somehow struggle to treasure these days.
A place to leave your handbag, knowing it’ll be kept safe for you. A place to share your problems, to get help filling out important forms, to feel that you have a home in the world. A place to laugh, to meet neighbours, to enjoy a hot cup of tea and a roll in the cosy heat of your favourite café. A place to roll your eyes and smile as Robert shouts witty quips, shares genuinely good advice and serves up tasty breakfasts.
How essential to find such unselfish softness, in a world that can feel too crispy.