Il Caffè della Nostalgia

I was in need of lunch, having spent the morning at the British Museum, but it was half-term break and the institution’s cafes were overrun and noisy. So, I decided to take my chances on the streets around Tottenham Court Road. The tactic paid off: I happened across Eve’s, one of those old-style, family-run Italian caffs that – before they were ousted by rent increases – used to be the mainstay of breakfast and lunch for London’s teeming army of office workers. In the early 70s, in Victoria, where I was employed as a junior statistician at a market research company, our office crew would dine at just such a caff. We usually had the set menu – soup, followed by meat and two veg, then apple pie and custard – washed down with cups of tea (the caffs were unlicensed). Meanwhile our bosses would be with clients in a very different kind of Italian joint, one that dished up minestrone, Milanese di pollo, tiramisu, Chianti and espresso. Afternoons in the office were usually unproductive for workers of either status.

Walking into Eve’s, I was transported back in time to a generic London-Italian caff. The décor and furnishings seemed unchanged since the 1950s, the strip-lights original 1960s and the proprietor a large, loud, friendly man with a mission to serve lunch as efficiently as possible. Only two things had changed: the proprietor, being a second-generation immigrant, had no trace of an Italian accent; and the menu was updated to take on board modern trends i.e. the inclusion of some Italian dishes. I was made to feel welcome, found a familiar-looking Formica-topped table and ordered pasta Bolognese and a side salad. The notion of drinking tea before, with or after such a meal did not appeal, so I stuck it out with water.

Being alone, I had time to contemplate my museum experience. I had gone specifically to see the new Albukhary galleries, funded by a wealthy Malaysian family and stocked with artefacts from the “Islamic world” which, because of its geographic spread, includes a few surprises. For example, I did not expect Devon to feature among the exhibits, yet there is a cabinet full of African gold that was recovered from a wreck in Salcombe Bay. Coins in the hoard date from 1171 to 1631, many of which were struck by Sultan Ahmed El-Mansour, some-time conqueror of Timbuktu and a contemporary of Elizabeth I. The treasure was found in the wreck of one of the ships of the Barbary pirates of north Africa, who frequently raided the south Devon coast, capturing people, either to ransom or sell as slaves.

Having had my fill of geometric patterns and tiny figurative paintings of Mughal princes, I passed into the adjacent gallery, which is devoted to Britain’s Anglo-Saxon era. It contains, among the displays of weaponry, more hoards of precious metals. The main ones are identified by intriguing names – Sutton Hoo and Cuerdale – which are the places where they were discovered, in Suffolk and Lancashire respectively. Now, having finished my Bolognese and begun to tuck into a chunk of apple strudel (another innovative addition to the menu), it occurred to me that I ought to acquire a metal detector and stash it in the campervan. During my meanderings around Britain I have often come across unusual topographical features, some of which just might be ancient burial mounds stuffed with treasures. I would like to find a stash, donate it to the B.M. and call it ‘The Wonderman Hoard’.

Just as I was about to google metal detectors, the proprietor approached from behind and boomed at me, “Did you enjoy it, sir?” “Just the job,” I replied, “but it would have been better with a glass of Chianti”. “You should have said,” he replied. “I always keep a bottle under the counter.” Who knew? Hidden treasure is all around us.

Unsustainable Toaster Consumption

This week, I got into a bit of a paddy over a new toaster. I had bought it because I liked its style and it was going cheap in a closing-down sale. “What’s wrong with the old one?” said my partner. “Nothing, but…” So, then I felt guilty about squandering the Earth’s resources on profligate consumption. Of course, it could be argued that the people who work in the Chinese toaster factory are grateful to the likes of me. Not so, say those who point out that factory workers are wage-slaves, working for a pittance, victims of the globalising capitalists who have destroyed traditional ways of life by eliminating diversity, beggared whole nations by privatising the people’s assets and wreaked havoc on the natural environment in the process – all the while denying responsibility and avoiding taxation. Still, I have switched to buying eco-friendly laundry-liquid, sold from a barrel. One tries to balance one's account. Meanwhile the toaster remained sullenly in its box while we went away for a couple of days.

In Oxford, with a few hours to spend, I visited the Ashmolean Museum to see some of the objects that were missing from Crete when I was last there. As a matter of interest, I asked an attendant about the correct pronunciation of Ashmolean – whether the stress should be on the second or third syllable. He explained that he could not advise me as English was not his first language: he was more concerned with the outcome of the Brexit ‘negotiations’, which might result in his repatriation. I did learn, however, that the museum was named after Elias Ashmole, who, in 1677, gave his cabinet of curiosities to the university. I would be interested to know just how curious Elias Ashmole was. Would he, if he were alive today, be collecting works by Jeff Koons, the artist currently exhibiting at his eponymous museum? They certainly are curious. There is imagination, skill and craftmanship in all the pieces, but do they conjure art or spectacle? One device that Koons repeatedly employs is a “gazing ball” – a hand-made glass sphere incorporated into the piece. Apparently, its reflective property “…affirms the viewer. It affirms the right here, right now, and from that point you can start to time travel. You can play with metaphysics.”  Whatever: but when I learned that for every gazing ball perfected in his studios, hundreds of flawed ones are discarded as waste, ‘profligate use of resources’ came to mind.

The next day I was in Banbury, where the local museum is just that – local. Nevertheless, it tells an interesting story of the history of the place, a town that prospered due to its strategic location. Prosperity, however, like its big brother neo-liberal capitalism, has its downside. For the sake of economic progress, many historical buildings were demolished, and The Castle Shopping Precinct has obliterated all signs of the impressive castle that once was at the heart of the town. There is still a stone cross at the centre of Banbury but it is not the fabled original: that was destroyed in 1600 by our very own, home-grown Daesh – fanatical Puritans who objected to the idolatrous images engraved upon it. Banbury was a Puritanical hot-bed, as marked by a cartoonist of the time, who portrayed a Banbury Puritan “hanging his cat on Monday for the sin of killing a Mouse on Sunday”. Still, I had a pleasant lunch-time experience at Ye Olde Reine Deer Inn, where I enjoyed traditional food in an unspoiled, period setting, minus ye olde English offhand service.

On returning to our two-toaster home, I tried out the new one and found it to be operationally inferior. So, it is now back in its box and destined for a new, no-toaster home. I consider it a re-cycling of sorts.

Love Is All You Need?

It is not easy to “love thy neighbour”, especially when it’s not reciprocated, but I suppose that is the point of this Christian exhortation. Anyway, one tries. It is not necessary to subscribe to Christianity to realise the logic of getting along with the neighbours. ‘Live and let live’ is the secular equivalent recipe for peace and harmony. (I have always thought that “love” is not quite the right word to use, by the way. Love seems too intimate and intrusive a concept to be appropriate to neighbourly interactions. I daresay it is possible for love to occur, though its romantic implications could lead to complications. It is far more likely – and, perhaps, advisable – that relations are established on friendly, cordial or respectful grounds.)

This week, I attended the funeral of the father of an old friend, a man I had liked and respected. The sadness and sense of loss was mitigated, as it often is, by the social aspect of the event: the coming together to grieve for the departed, salute their achievements and face up, together and publicly, to the inevitability of life’s cycle. In this respect, the funeral was – for me, at least - an apposite and satisfying event. There was, however, one fly in the ointment: an aggressive vicar. The main service was held, appropriately, in the parish church which, to an atheist guest like me, is a bit of a challenge. But I am used to being invited to ceremonies in churches, synagogues and mosques (once) and have found a way to overcome my aversion. I focus on the idea that the main event is not the worship of a god, but the celebration of the human condition, facilitated by the institutions of religion. As one rabbi put it, “we worry more about the purity of dogma than about the integrity of love”. I am, therefore, always glad to be invited and hopeful that there is an understanding that active participation in the religious rites is neither expected nor required of outsiders.

Which brings me to the aggressive vicar. In previous experiences of christenings, bar mitzvahs, weddings, funerals et cetera, I have followed the crowd and stood, sat, bowed my head or knelt as and when required. I have never felt uncomfortable refraining from praying or singing. After all, I usually don’t know the form and, when I do, only from residual (and fallible) memory. I gave up on the belief a long time ago. This time, however, I had the feeling that the vicar disapproved of my restraint. I was convinced that he was willing me to open my mouth and sing along to the hymns – even though I was not the only one mute. Perhaps I was being paranoid and the other refrainers got the same treatment. He might have been scanning the room for unbelievers, determined to make them feel that the wrath of his god would punish us for refusing to see the light and truth. Whether this was my imagining or not, he most certainly had a heavy-handed way of proselytising his god-fearing agenda, so much so that I felt he was co-opting the spirit of the ceremony to promote his religious agenda.

The vicar was at the door as we filed out of the church, shaking hands with everyone who passed, while keeping an eye on the collections going into the plate. There was no way to avoid shaking his hand as I passed. To do so would have caused offence where none was intended and so I brazened it out, looking him in the eye and thanking him, in a love-thy-neighbour gesture, for the service. I swear he glared at me in return.

High Street, Low Season

I’m feeling a little depressed just now. Not because it’s the height of the SAD season, but because I have been reading about the dictatorships of Gaddafi in Libya* and Omar al-Bashir in Sudan**. The needless cruelty inflicted on millions of people by small cliques of kleptocrats is despicable, but the connivance of outside powers that support them to protect their (our?) national “interests” is equally despicable and shameful. I suppose I should count myself fortunate to be living in a democratic state that is relatively free and stable – notwithstanding the calamity of Brexit, the erosion of social democracy by neo-liberalism and the annihilation of personal privacy by Facebook, Google, Amazon et al.

So, I have been lapping up whatever joy is to be found in January. Renowned though it is for being a bucket of misery – the come-down after the party – there are bright spots, not least those cold but sunny days when to be outdoors is to feel invigorated. Then there are the sales. Everyone likes a bargain, though I have learned not to buy stuff just because it is cheap and attractive. It may be an age-related syndrome, but I really don’t need more stuff (no presents, please). I do, however, relish the January restaurant deals. Many a friendship is celebrated over a meal, with the added frisson of a discounted bill. Even the venerable Heaton Moor Jazz Appreciation Society has now re-scheduled its annual lunch, having suffered for many years the indignities of the December hustle over scarce time-slots, expensive seasonal menus and ridiculous paper hats.

But I worry about the High Street. Not all the sales are seasonal: some are actual closing-down clearances. Retailers are suffering as demographics change: older people buy less stuff and younger people buy more. And everyone buys online now. Many high streets are looking derelict, though they say that a transformation is in the offing and a mix of business, residential, leisure and retail will bring them back to life in the end. But it’s a long-term process and, meanwhile, in affluent areas, coffee bars are leading the charge – a situation which benefits consumers by encouraging competition, though superior coffee or lower prices will only sustain a competitive edge so far. There are already lap-top friendly places that provide for informal business meetings and networking: perhaps it won’t be long before the leisure market is targeted and coffee comes with live music, cinema or other performance arts.

As for the shops, there is some hope. There is still an appetite for showrooming and a hands-on approach to selecting purchases. When it comes to clothes, I, for one, prefer to try before I buy. A shirt that look appealing on a model in a photograph often doesn’t flatter its subsequent owner – as I have discovered once too often. Then there are certain technical products that are best approached with a little knowledgeable advice from salespeople. A case in point is the Amazon Echo, an internet-connected, voice-enabled loudspeaker. I know that I don’t need more stuff but, having seen them at the shop, reduced in price, I concocted a case for needing one. It ran thus: it would be useful in the kitchen, where wet, greasy hands are the norm and spectacles are not always to hand when it is necessary to change the station on the fiddly little radio. But how does it work? In the shop, I was given a demonstration.

So, I now have hands-free entertainment and comms in the kitchen and all at a low price – not counting the hidden costs of having donated even more of my personal data to Amazon, Spotify, Google et al. and having colluded – however obliquely – with the unscrupulous forces of capitalism that maintain repressive dictatorships for the sake of strategic alliances.

*Lindsey Hilsum: Sand Storm

**Jamal Mahjoub: A Line in the River