There was a time when poets were rockstars. Hell, there was a time when rockstars were rockstars. Pete Doherty? Give over. Now, Byron had a track record. Partying and eating life all day, writing from midnight (and remember how good that writing was), and a true outlaw and exile with at least two capital offences under his belt (or below it). Mad, bad and dangerous to know (yes, the phrase was originally coined to describe him). But who cares about poetry these days? Well, The Poetry Society, at least. And their café. Where better for a flaneur to spend some hours? Surrounded by poetry, on the walls, on the bookshelves, on the menu board – even the lampshades. And just so you know it’s not incarcerated in the dust of long gone glory days, there are contemporary newspaper clippings on the noticeboard about poets and poetry in the news.
The furnishings are simple and quality. Square wood, clean space. (With publisher’s names inlaid into the sides of the tables – did they pay for them? Somehow it works) But the surroundings change regularly, so again, there’s a sense of currency and flow; nothing is left to ossify. Last time I was here there were framed copies of National Anthems everywhere, provided by each nation, most on embassy notepaper, some with melody notes attached. This time there are photographic portraits of poets, each in an environment important to them or one of their poems. Each sitter has provided a piece of relevant poetry in their own hand to accompany the image. It’s a stimulating environment.
For whom? Well, mainly poets and writers. I should explain: the café is situated in Betterton street, which is in the heart of Covent Garden, running between Endell Street and Drury Lane, so you'd expect it to be absolutely teeming with tourists and passing trade in here. Betterton Street. Yes, Bette – no it’s off Endell Street – no, on the left as you’re going down towards Long Acre – you missed it? Ah, understandable; the street sign’s high up. Yes, really, it’s down there – just keep going, I know you can’t see the café yet – yes, it looks just like a residential only street, but keep going – you see all that foliage? If you almost walk past it, but look back across the street to the left – yes! That’s it, hidden there behind the shrubs.
I know, I know, it doesn’t look like a café, what with the frosted glass and all…. How were you ever supposed to find it? Ah….! Cunning, eh? If ever you want to escape in the eye of the West End storm… Years ago when I first started coming here, I was a card carrying member of the Poetry Society (naturellement) and would present said card at the counter when I came to the café. The intention must have been to make the café exclusive, a place for poets. I suspect they've now relaxed the membership rule because they've realised that only poets and writers know it's here. I have friends who I’ve talked in by mobile who still can’t find it on their own. If that sounds somewhat elitist or up it’s own dorsal cavity, then worry thyself not: there’s a café Nero on the corner of Long Acre – you’ll see it across to your left a hundred yards after you miss Betterton street.
Me? I love it here. It's relaxed, but there's a sense of purpose. People come here to meet, to write, to talk, to listen to performances and to give them. Even when they read, there is a sense of intent. Interesting people come here; readers, creative thinkers. Like the Coffee Gallery in its Museum Street heyday, you can expect to overhear conversations truly worth eavesdropping. If you want to listen more overtly, head downstairs of an evening. There are readings from well-known poets some nights and an open mic evening on a Tuesday if you fancy contributing to the cultural exchange. The readings are popular; there’s always a real buzz in the evenings and the space is busy. Seats are at a premium. A real atmosphere without the blackguard’s recourse to muzak.
Enough of the flair – what of the fare? Well, it’s all good. The coffee is great, whether filter or macchiato. There is a choice of real teas sold by the pot, and plenty of quality infusions for the herbal gerbils. I love coming here to read and listen and sink pot after pot of Assam and Darjheeling. And the food is good. Today's special is aubergine, courgette, olive and tomato pasta. Looks great (I'm on cappuccino and brownies today) and at £5.95 it's fairly well priced for Covent Garden.
They have a small kitchen here, but it's very efficiently utilised. And they're licensed, so there’s plenty of choice of poison: spirits, wine, bottled beers. And at the time of writing this, one can smoke. How the new legislation will affect that, I don't know. I can't imagine animated arguments with poets without whisky, black coffee and cigarettes… But if daytime Covent Garden has been quite animated enough for you already and you’re actually looking for some peaceful refuge, the sofas in the corners downstairs here are the place to hide away. One of the very few places where it is possible to meet a friend for a quiet or sensitive conversation in Central London, the downstairs is usually pretty empty during the day.
Incidentally, it’s also where the loos are – worth keeping in mind at the busier times. All that Earl Grey could have you doubled over waiting on the stairs waiting for a gap in a reading or performance so you can scramble through the crowd to the back of the room. Not so much a café as an outpost. A hideaway for cultural revolutionaries. And God, we need places like this. If I might proselytise in my own blog for a moment - Poetry, music, art - it needs to be cool, it still needs to be sexy, it still needs to make participants feel part of a special society, an exciting subculture very much valued by the parent culture that embraces it even while it challenges and necessarily unsettles it. A place where heated conversation lit by eyes and minds of fire can still seduce the young and not-so-young from the path of the ProperJob. Stalin was a poet, you know. A good one. And a good enough singer to have gone pro. How might the world have been different if he had?
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