Look I’ll be the first to admit it, I love speciality coffee as much as the next person. I am that guy who will order a pour-over, inevitably leading to the barista being thrown off kilter and causing your extra hot americano to be just merely boiling. Yet there is one coffee that sometimes I crave for more than any unwashed batch brew. It’s one that comes from a Lavazza machine whose grind size is set to that of cat litter and whose beans have been more roasted than your granny on an all-exclusive holiday in Tenerife. One more akin to jet fuel than filter. It also has to be as over-extracted as wonky teeth in a south Dublin orthodontist. There is of course only one place that this kind of coffee like this exists. Forget your Kaph. I’m talking about a good old-fashioned café. A caff of sorts, not a specialty coffee shop.
The term caff is one that sets colonial alarm bell ringing. It reminds me of a Tom Skinner Instagram reel. Reporting live from Dinos café circa 6 am with his jellied eels and surgery tar-like tea. Bosh says the British bulldog. Yet the term caff has far more to it than that. They are somewhat of a cultural institution. A place where can get a feed and not just fed, a pot of tea, not just a cup. The French have their bistros, the Spanish their cafaterías yet what do the Irish have – the deli? I beg to differ. We have our own old school cafés with all the quintessential and idiosyncratic charm of fresher from Leitrim or Jedward let’s say. Maybe it’s time to reappropriate the term café let that accent on the e be a fada.
“Crockery and cutlery akin to a Midlands hotel that hasn’t been the same since some motorway bypass is a must”
For me, these styles of cafés have to meet a certain criteria. The first thing on my checklist is the interior. Crockery and cutlery akin to a Midlands hotel that hasn’t been the same since some motorway bypass is a must. Faulty Towers-esque service usually presents you with a tea-stained low GSM paper menu. A soup of the day that has remained the same for the past decade is inevitable. A hobnob collection of relics from past days usually catches my peripheral vision. Also, a box of Christmas decorations left in an eternal hangover only to be unpacked in November lurks in a corner somewhere. Add in some GAA team achievements that occurred when they used to sponsor the team. Some questionable patterned chairs purchased during the Celtic Tiger and you’re there. One final thing is also a non-negotiable – a dusty chalkboard.
“If you think the carpet is a patchwork mix well so are the patrons”
Another barometer that you have found yourself in the right place is the clientele. If you think the carpet is a patchwork mix well so are the patrons. Geriatric, junkies, jockey boys and Jesus freaks. Built it and they will come. An education is what is left after you have forgotten all you have learned. I’ll tell you something, if you hang around enough of these cafés you certainly will give yourself an education. The cost of this invaluable education, a stale scone perhaps.
Finally onto arguably the least important aspect of all, the food. The bar I set is a simple one. Satisfied and full, job done. An old school café is about a culture not a cuisine. I relish in the fact that I can have breakfast in Brewbaker on Frederick St with half of the Department of an Taoiseach beside me. Caitlín upstairs in Kilkenny Design tucking into a full Irish, caught post-reading the death notices and pre-sudoku, has been around long enough to know what she values. Sustenance not shite although I’d imagine she wouldn’t care to admit it.
A Lyonseisse bouchon will serve you a hearty feed contra haute cuisine. A Brick Lane curry house would give you change from a tenner in exchange for tandoori chicken. On my Erasmus in Spain every Tuesday I’d take a jaunt to El Pato Rojo (The Red Duck) for the menu del día (menu of the day) in between lectures. A three-course meal, half pint and coffee setting me back a grand total 12 euro. It was conveniently situated beside the town’s hospital and could have also doubled as the catering facilities for it as well but who cares. Not I. The menu didn’t change, it was tried and tested. So what if a menu isn’t extensive or a restaurant isn’t hosting a small plates pop-up later on that week?
“I’m sure Ikea’s white strip lighting department is having a field day kitting of the cafes of Dublin yet it’s coming at the cost of turning off the lights of these classic old-school institutions”
The recent closure of Simons Place in Georges Street Arcade felt like the start of the beginning of the end for old school cafés and no-nonsense eateries in Dublin. I’m a firm believer that many of these peculiar and idiosyncratic spots in Dublin are teetering on the edge of survival. Fighting against the sleek and drab spots that transpose themselves on the city. I’m sure Ikea’s white strip lighting department is having a field day kitting of the cafes of Dublin yet it’s coming at the cost of turning off the lights of these classic old-school institutions.
So I’ll set you a benchmark. If you having lunch and the place is topping up a Heinz glass ketchup bottle with an oddly burgundy Chef-branded condiment then you’re in the right place. If you are looking for some recommendations give the likes of Keoghs Café, McCabes Deli, Pig and Heifer and Brewbaker a shot. I do hope it’s not out with old and in with the new school. So go on, give your local greasy spoon a go.
