FOUND: A New Pleasure

New Zealand Listener, Volume 37, Issue 935, 12 July 1957, Page 8

FOUND: A New Pleasure

by

CALIBAN

‘THE New Zedland social historian of ‘" 50 years hence looks like having to reserve at least a page or two in his book to coffee. And, though no doubt a little premature, it’s already possible to reflect a little on what has so far occurred: on the amazing proliferation in our cities of dimly-lit, "atmospheric" coffee shops (or, to be strictly up-to-date, coffee "bars"). There was a time when such a thing would have been frowned upon universally. Tea (a staple diet) was consumed with as little thought for alternatives as water is used for washing. If you wanted to break the morning or afternoon in two, you made for "tearooms," where you would be presented with tea in a silver service flanked by three plates of food: sandwiches, scones and‘ ornamental eclairs. This was quite a formal ritual. It was also a ritual limited to the daylight hours. After 4.0 p.m., these tearooms, for all practical purposes, ceased to exist. And if in the evening you wanted a rough substitute, a milk bar, a grillroom, or at worst a piecart would have to do. It’s quite true, of course, that a lot of these places-are still with us-that you can still take tiffin in an elegant mirrored hall, and enjoy yourself amid the silver, the floral bone china, and the stiff white linen. You can also still buy a plate of oysters at a grillroom, speedily eat them, and twice as speedily repair to the nearest bar (if open) to crink a glass of stout, in the hope that illusions of continuity will not wholly be destroyed. But it is now possible, and it is becoming increasingly popular, to dispense with tea and cakes, stout and oysters. For, creeping southwards from Auck-

land (whence we are told all good things come), these coffee bars have steadily begun to usurp the function of their more staid and less imaginative antecedents. They have come with liberal quantities of posters displaying the provocations of Cannes and the Champs Elysees. They have come with venetian blinds, Chinese prints, Japanese fishnet, American music, Swedish wallboard, and French waiters. And they have come with a number of recipes for coffee and a welcome disregard for the time. In them you can lounge (in low cane chairs) or perch (on elevated iron and plush stools). No longer need lovers, deep in conversation, pace deserted streets. They may now talk in muted tones over steaming coffee. Now this talking is important, and not only for lovers. In the past, the delicate manipulation of’a silver teapot with a scalding handle, or a fullblooded attack on a steak, tended to reduce conversation to monosyllables like "Quite" and "Huhhh." But go into "La Giaconda" (or any place exotically enough named), and you'll find that after a bucolic "black, please," you have an evening free to discuss anything you like. Admittedly a lot of this doesn’t ring quite true. "La Giaconda" when you see it at noon is just concrete walls draped in muslin, and your waiter isn’t French but Dutch with a French accent, and the concoction masquerading under the elegant name of Capuccino is probably American blend buried beneath an excess of synthetic cinnamon. So we have

to admit that there’s an element of spoof in the whole thing. Is there, howeves, something else behind it? For instance, have New Zealanders decided they like coffee-that tea is not only the cheapest drink in the world, but also the dullest? It’s no doubt true that hitherto we have tended to identify "coffee" with the liquid which goes under that name on railway stations, and which is apparently meant to keep travellers on

the Main Trunk in a state of appreciative wakefulness. Inevitably, then, there are new devotees. Thus we also have to admit that a lot of this rage is genuine. Yet I venture to suggest that "La Giaconda" would keep open even if her coffee cups were filled with vinegar, and her South American open sandwiches with seaweed. You could strip the fishnet off the walls, insist that the waiter drop his Jangue d’oil, burn every poster, break every disc, but "La Giaconda" would still remain. For it seems likely that New Zealand * has found, apart from a new fad and a new drink, a new tongue. In "La Giaconda" you may discuss Suez, the state of three per cents, or the length of your neighbour’s hair. And if you're alone you can listen in quite well to someone else __ talking about Rilke or the condition of the roads.

It is perhaps too hopeful to think that New Zealand will benefit the world by belching forth a crop of latter-day philosophies, but she may benefit herself by helping to make leisure and leisured talk institutions instead of luxuries. On the other hand, this diagnosis may be wrong. The hopes expressed may be frustrated. Red ink may be destined shortly to become de rigeur in her ledgers, but for me, long may "a Giaconda" smile.