The Great Coffee Shop Tour

The Great Coffee Shop Tour
Just outside of Liverpool Street station is a small florist that can't really accommodate three customers  very comfortably without it seeming crowded and yet, today, it has a que running from the front desk, through the shop, out the door and onto the street. It is Valentine's day and everyone in  this que happens to be male.
Striding past in a knowing manner, I have the smug self satisfied purposefulness of someone who doesn't have a Valentine to worry about this year and is okay with that. I don't need love, I already have something that I'm emotionally dependent on, causes heart flutters, a warm tingling sensation and a loss of focus: Caffeine, thus it seems only right that I go on a coffee shop tour of some of the best independent coffee shops in London on this day.

I am, for my sins, a fully trained barista and a bit of a coffee snob. I can tell the difference between an African and South American bean, I can tell you if that's the right amount and consistency of froth in your latte and I know when the coffee has been burnt. Whilst waiting for my train I stop off by the shop I work at and get myself a coffee of which I am all too familiar with. At my peak I used to have around 5/6 cups of this coffee a day, now tapering back to a mere 2/3, and I know exactly how to make it to my ideal taste. A Union Roastery blend called 'Organic Natural Spirit' it is a rather rich and luxurious blend that is of medium roast, body and acidity and it is my base coffee for which I will judge everything else. Rummaging in my interior coat pocket, I pull out a well thumbed book of independent coffee shops in London and head for the first one I've marked out as a good place to stop.
There are about 9 Taylor St shops dotted throughout London from their high-end mayfair cafe to their flagship store by Monument but having entered the city from Liverpool Street station I cross the road to the Espresso bar, that sits almost directly opposite the station, on New Street. Crammed into the space of your average saloon car (that may be a slight exaggeration) there is a bar, a small glass cabinet, filled with extraordinary looking baked good, and an array of caffeine paraphernalia for sale so that you may enjoy your 'hit' to your own habitual liking. It is almost an exact replica of the sort of curio shops you might find at seaside towns that sell bongs, glass pipes and rolling papers (purely on an 'academic' level of course,  for the perpetually...curious) but with the plasticky piping and garish lava lamps supplanted with polished wood and ceramic brewers and a much more middle class clientele whose addictions are far more socially acceptable.
Perched on a stool sipping my flat white and musing over how incredibly sweet the coffee is, even without sugar, I notice the sideways glances of suits as they shuffle forward in the que easing their way to caffeine as I tap my feet together, staring at the scruffy Adidas they were in. Time to move on maybe.


I decide to head towards the West-End, home of theatre land and a renowned tourist trap, it's bound to have some good coffee shops knocking about even if the price does increase exponentially. Wandering through the back streets of Holborn into the Covent Garden area lead me to Notes. A more up-market bistro than a coffee shop but they do a flat white that will twist your senses every which way. Not as sweet as Taylor Street Barista's but with an incredible full body and far more accommodating when it comes to space, which lends to a certain relaxed atmosphere which meaning I have no qualms about sitting there for nearly an hour with just the one drink,  I scrawl out some ideas I've been working on. An impeccably dressed lady takes a seat on the table next to me and and flicks her lanyard impatiently as she waits for her food. I peer for a moment at the card around her neck, realising that it says 'London Fashion Week' which would explain the dress sense.

I always feel embarrassed by people who know about fashion, it's a strangely complex notion to me that I both care about greatly and, alternately, could not give a damn. I am by absolutely no means a fashionista, if anthing I'm more the sort of person who will pick up whatever he threw on the floor the night before but at the same time, I do like to look good. These two attitudes may seem a little at odds with eachother but it's nice to know that the crumpled jumper on the floor at least looks relatively decent when I pull it on the next day.
My fashion friend glances over and casts her eye up and down before offering the sort of pitying smile you might give to a toddler who can't pronounce a long word correctly and I realise that, once more, I'm tapping my feet together. Yet again my clothing has given me away as an imposter to the regular crowd who grace these sorts of coffee shops and I shuffle off out into the cold air considering my next move.


Arty types can, more often than not, get away with looking a little bit scruffy and it was whilst traversing the back alleys where Soho becomes Covent Graden, but no one's really sure at what exact point, that I remembered somewhere nearby should be a poetry cafe.


A small rusty sign marks out the 'Poetry Place' which seems to be inhabited by small rusty people, undoubtedly poets, every last one of them. Adorned with posters & flyers promoting readings, jams and other events and decorated with quotes and 'art inspired by..' there's a real sense of homeliness and creative activity lurking beneath the surface. Shelves crammed with volumes, anthologies and collections creak under the collective weight of the words they hold and burst forth with ideas and inspirations. It's just such a damn shame that the coffee they serve is god-awful!


Spirited on by the bitter taste in my mouth, I'm desperate to find something that will replace it with a far more pleasant sensation. Fortunately, someway down Monmouth Street sits Monmouth coffee, a beautifully, divinely, wondrously formed little cubby hole of caffeinated delights so charming in it's simple and rustic presentation, from the way they weigh their beans to the layout of the pastries, that it is no wonder it is horrendously busy.
The coffee they serve is smooth, rich and sweet and has an almost chocolatey essence about it but my spirits are slightly dampened by the fact I have to enjoy it from the doorway opposite the shop as its popularity has meant there is no room to sit and barely enough to stand and order. Alas, at the moment of my leaving the shop the heavens decide to open and offer up a deluge upon me.


Scurrying further into the rats nest of Soho I seek refuge in T-A-P, an elongated bar of wood and low-level lighting that makes it feel more like a nightclub crossed with wagamamas rather than a coffee shop but I sit my sodden carcass down and sip another flat white which, by this time, is contributing quite heavily to my shakes. I'm freezing, wet and under the influence of a hell of a lot caffeine so it's understandable, if not a little worrying. I consider my predicament and feel it may well be worth heading home but I glance at the time and realise it's fast approaching rush-hour. I don't like to brave such masses of commuters at the best of times but when feeling a little 'peaky' I'm disinclined to do so at all.

Flat White is a coffee shop very near one of my favoured tattoo parlours and I take a breather in there risking another coffee-shot whilst the time ticks by. Such is my addicts nature, I can't seem to help myself. It's good coffee but I'm beyond the point of caring and the bright lights are reflected off the white tables and shiny, picture frames piercing my skull and making the veins behind my eyes throb with a fierce intensity.
Stumbling out into the grey twilight I get a little lost on my way back to the train station and look around for somewhere to sit down. I also need to pee, I have had 7 coffees at this point. Looking at the street names I acknowledge that I'm very near a place I know called Kaffeine, the last thing I need right now is another coffee but I'm desperate to use their facilities and it would be rude to not buy anything, especially since you have to walk right past the counter when you go in.
Sufficiently relieved I slump in a corner with a barely touched drink, I tentatively slurp at it but I've lost all desire and someone brings over a jug of water. I must look pretty strung out at this point. It's definitely time to go home.


Collapsing into a seat on the train I'm physically exhausted but unable to let my eyes close, caffeine will do that to you. The thought of coffee turns my stomach and the smell of it on my clothes makes me feel a little nauseous. I hope I feel better by tomorrow because if the smell of coffee makes me feel ill now, spending all day in a coffee shop is possibly not the best environment to be working in.