Is there ever such a thing as too late for a coffee date? Not if you ask me. For my first proper night in Praha, @godfish had the wonderful initiative of escorting me to a favored coffeehouse that he intuited I'd like (certainly not wrong there). Allegedly, most people have a fear of descent, and would rather, if given a choice, remain at ground level than go down, even if it means only a few steps, to enjoy their drinks. Not me.
I love a good descent, be it not too steep, and make it not quite so slippery that my feet lose the ground completely. There's something about vanishing, being swallowed whole by the mouth of the Earth, saying your farewells, and landing safely in the underbelly, that appeals to me tremendously. Many of my favorite coffeehouses and pubs are below ground. Does that say something about me? This propensity towards stairs? Going down instead of going up, me, a cozy hobbit, earth-ground dweller.
Ahoj, Pražírna.
A coffeehouse-roastery combo that opened warm and inviting, layered in pretty art and plenty of charm, that housed us for the next couple of hours. Surrounded by dates and strangers, friends chatting long and wearing their skirts impressive and bombastic like they're all demure and all hair-tied-up. Trying to look like you don't try, in the words of Michael Stipe, coffeehouses are always this secretive little place where you can observe people in that awkward, inbetween stage of being not quite "done up" for the world, but not completely casual either.
Friendly. Loose. Solitaire-playing, allegedly, or perhaps just reading a book.
While the selection itself left a bookworm like yours truly a little underwhelmed, the combination of coffee and books, as ever, is unbeatable. My favorite coffeeplaces on this Earth all combine the two. And is that a coincidence, or unhealthy obsession?
I waited for this serious, quiet gentleman to leave for the bathroom, so I could sneak a picture of his briefcase and the secret files it contained. Or mayhaps just the atmosphere. You know, the vibez. Sank myself into his chair once he'd gone for good and vanished. Though you may feel like you're reading this now, I'm still actually here. Lost between two pillows and a deluge of running-stale crumbs.
I feel it's unfair to go for something overly bland and milky when visiting such places, so of course inquired after the house blend. It's always a tad awkward being a foreigner, not knowing when to speak your broken, muddy English and when to rely on locals to translate your most secret wants.
Though initially taken aback, the waitress (are they called waiters in coffeehouses?) came back with notes and a huge, attractive smile that lit up her eyes and highlighted her whole gorgeous face, explained the differences between two blends - one in the espresso, one in the filter. It being already past dark, I opted for the filter.
A Nicaraguan fruity blend, allegedly, from the Jinotega region, that immediately buzzed you with a dose of papaya, mango and passion fruit. I never know what to expect from fruity blends, like, are they reliable, and is my demeanor too dark for them to actually work?
While I wouldn't buy something like this for daily use, I love it as a furtive little waltz into someone else's life. I can be a dried dates and molasses kinda gal from time to time, don't you think?
What I really liked was the dark roasty aftertaste that lingered around the dredges of my backwards mouth long after the coffee had taken its own irretrievable descent. In my opinion, coffee should be dark, meaningfully roasted. Should leave you knowing what's what, and that life can get a little bitter around you. It often does.
But not in places like this. Hidden a little way under the earth, surrounded by sweater-weather chats and late night cozies, pouring generous helpings of coffee, sharing tastes and views and wantings and secrets. Sharing life. Waiting for life. Wondering about life. All in the space of a few singular, furtive hours.
It's the perfect weather, not too cold, but cold, and not raining, but rainy, not quite sad, but a tad melancholic -- for this kind of coffeehouse. Could spend hours coffeehouse, steal-me-away, that I am, caffeinated mouse.