Attendant Cafe
“The cancer of time is eating us away.”
Henry Miller
Sometimes, life feels like lilo — which one lazes on, drifting across a pool fleeting whims. At other times, it is waterboard that one is strapped to — subjected to a ceaseless stream of demands, requirements and obligations. One of these torrents has been suffocating me for the last few months; which is the reason I haven’t written to you in a while.
Summer’s last beams, which transmute London’s streets into burmite walkways, should have driven me towards a dainty cafe with street side seating — populated by amorous couples and sacharine families. Instead, I have descended into the bowels of the Attendant coffee shop; situated underground in a former public urinal.
Despite the quirky proposition, Attendant does not overwork its selling point and preserves a sense of dignity. The booths, which were presumably subjected to thousands of urinary torrents when the toilet was operational, have been refitted tastefully — although they are slightly small and a hint of the voyeuristic claustrophobia of a men’s bathroom remains.
Likewise, the menu is tasteful and does not mirror the outlandish concept. This is something to be thankful for: I do not think I could have tolerated a selection themed around excretion.
I settle on a smoked salmon bagel and an orange, pistachio and rosemary cake.
The smoked salmon bagel is simple but inflected with delicate touches that elevate it beyond its humble parts. Chives, a hint of lemon and a suggestion of mustard lurk in the layers, providing a tartness that counterbalances the smooth saltiness of rye, cream cheese and salmon. It is sufficiently warmed to eliminate any staleness that the air could have inflicted on it since the Café opened; but not enough to spoil the salmon between the soft bread textured with a sprinkling of flax and seeds.
The cake is also well pitched. Beneath the sweet icing and gritty pistachio lies a fragrant sponge. The flavour is complex, sustained and satisfying: beginning with a poppy seed hit that blooms into a citric orangeness. It contains multitudes more than its modest appearance suggests.
In many ways, Attendant’s exterior is the opposite of its offerings. It is a sensationalist cafe that is humble and poised when you enter — while its sandwiches and cakes appear reserved but contain glittering sensations when they are consumed. I tend to approach any quirky café in London with intense scepticism, but Attendant has restored my faith — showing me that it is possible to have both a selling point and a soul.
The staff were friendly and monumentally kind. They dealt with a broken card machine with grace when I arrived. Rather than despairing and demanding onerous countermeasures to be taken, they tell me to sit and say that we will sort it out at the end. When I eventually come to pay and the reader is still broken, they trust me to bring cash back without taking a tithe to ensure my return.
Although some may be alienated by the proposition, Attendant was a welcome return to café culture — and a comfortable home for a writer who’s mind feels like a cesspool most of the time.
