Visiting the world’s oldest café
I love cafés. I love proper espresso coffee, idle chatting while I sip it, and those little cakes that are just small enough to let me pretend that they’re not unhealthy.
I like my water served sparkling, my toast with ‘smashed avo’, and I like using my local café as a ‘coffice’ even though that’s the worst portmanteau word besides ‘webinar’.
Yes, I’m an inner-city, lattè-sipping, walking stereotype, so when I recently visited Paris I made sure I visited as many of them as humanly possible.
French cafés are uniquely atmospheric, with those distinctive tiny circular marble tables and wicker chairs, and they boast lots of streetside seating where you can linger while you observe the passing parade. They serve breakfast in the morning, supper late at night, and everything in between, and stopping by for an omelette or croque is an essential part of visiting Paris. They’re fully licensed, with beer on tap, and if it’s that time of day, the waiter will be happy to recommend un petit aperitif.
The coffee that gave such establishments their name isn’t exactly a strong point – the espresso quality doesn’t often match what we’re used to in Australia, but they’re belatedly learning from their Italian neighbours. The super-strong hot chocolate is almost worth the resultant clogging of your arteries – our waiter poured the milk at our table, which was a nifty trick.
But one particular café caught my eye when I was walking through the Latin Quarter. Le Procope has a sign outside saying that it was founded in 1686. I was astonished. Even though visitors to Europe become immune to all the ancient buildings everywhere, that seemed a very long time for a café to operate in one location.
And so it is, because Le Procope is the oldest café in the world. And while some say there was an earlier coffee-house in Marseilles, Procope’s still there today, and by the sounds of things they were Patient Zero for the infectious idea of sitting at any time of day or night for a chat over a non-alcoholic beverage.
The place was founded by Francesco Procopio dei Coltelli, originally from Palermo, and alongside the coffee, which was still a relatively exotic beverage back them, he served Italian sorbets – which are still on the menu today. As bizarre as it may sound nowadays, coffee was previously served in taverns, but Francesco served it in porcelain cups in a dedicated space, and the idea took off.
Le Procope was soon packed with local intellectuals from the Sorbonne and the nearby Comedie Française theatre. Napoléon was a customer, and most of the city’s intellectual establishment attended over the years, with Voltaire, Rousseau, Balzac and many other prominent writers among the regular patrons. Revolutionary figures like Robespierre and Danton made it their headquarters, and even Benjamin Franklin features on the list.
When we visited, we were taken aback at how posh the place was – it feels like a Victorian-era boutique hotel, with elegant wallpaper, red leather banquettes and beautifully polished wooden fixtures, along with impeccably dressed waitstaff who made me feel decidedly underdressed. The place was also enormous, with two levels, each with several rooms – all of its famous patrons across the years could probably have visited for coffee simultaneously.
Happily, the prices were far from exorbitant, especially given the place’s storied history. We sat and ordered a mixed dessert platter and some tea (it was too late at night for coffee, sadly) and soon found ourselves working our way through a scoop of raspberry sorbet, a shot glass full of tiramisu and a chocolate pudding – quite a lot of food for 11 euros, including the tea!
In keeping with the place’s traditions, we sat and chatted for quite a while, and were never asked to move on despite our relatively modest bill. It was hard to imagine anyone plotting revolution in such elegant surroundings, but for all we knew, the ringleaders of the strikes that had been paralysing the city might have been in a corner plotting their next move.
The most famous cafés in Paris, Les Deux Magots and the Café de Flore, are just down the road from Le Procope. What’s more, Sartre, de Beauvoir and their circle were regulars at the Procope too. While the other two are both splendid places with huge terraces on the Boulevard Saint-Germain, they’re both constantly crammed with tourists, and the prices are bordering on exorbitant. I’d rather visit their progenitor, where they first conceived the idea of sitting around and chatting over a coffee, giving rise not only to an enduring fashion, but a whole culture.
Le Procope is the longest continually operating restaurant in Paris, apparently, and it’s hardly surprising given how comfy and welcoming it still is today. So whenever you sit down for a flat white at your local, spare a thought for Francesco Procopio dei Coltelli, who took the beverage out of the tavern and gave it a special place of its own.
And if, like me, you’re the kind of person who works in cafés for long stretches, it might be worth reminding the irritated proprietors that Voltaire once did the same thing – in fact, Le Procope has preserved the desk he used to write at. Maybe your regular table will be a priceless heirloom someday, too?
Dare I say it... I don't like beer
When you’re an Australian male, beer is the only socially acceptable drink. We talk about going for a beer, not a wine, and certainly not a soft drink. And we only admit any desire for an evening of fancy cocktails to close, trusted friends who won’t mock a beverage that arrives adorned by a maraschino cherry and a pink umbrella.
Aussie blokes are supposed to operate under the working assumption that any time we drink a beverage that isn’t beer, we wish it was, even if we’re sipping a coffee at work or downing an energy drink after pumping iron. (Come to think of it, anyone who can invent an electrolyte-restoring beer is going to make a fortune.) If Jesus had been Australian, we know very well what he would have turned that water into.
When blokes are out with mates, and go up to the bar to get a round, it’s beer unless specified otherwise. And if otherwise is specified, there’s often a need to justify it. So I’ll say something like “beer doesn’t always agree with me”, or “I’m a bit hung over so I’d better stick to the mineral water", implying that beer was the culprit the night before.
But, at nearly forty, it’s time I confessed to the truth – I don’t like beer all that much.
On a particularly hot day, I’ll sometimes enjoy one, if served extremely cold. Rarely will I have two, and once I get to three, I generally begin to feel queasy. That doesn’t happen with other kinds of alcohol – it seems that even my digestive system doesn’t care for the stuff.
Even more embarrassingly, my preference is for mass-produced, standard lager. I avoid anything that can in any way be described as “craft”. Although I’m often drawn to artisanal (aka pretentious) options, I end up wondering why the beers those aficionados so carefully concoct couldn’t taste a little less, well, beery. I’ve tried at least a dozen different IPAs, but never finished a single one.
But while craft beer is supposed to be about variety and interesting tastes, it’s surprisingly hard to convince your mates that the unique flavour experience you’re looking for is not to have a beer at all.
Back when I was too young to drink it, I loved the idea of a manly beer. It was what cricket and footy heroes shared to celebrate a triumph, apparently. The Romans paraded down the Via Appia when they’d done something impressive, but our boys just smashed tinnies. Especially Boonie, who smashed enough tinnies on that legendary flight to London to down any other country’s entire cricket team, and Hawkie, who in his Oxford days could scull faster than the men’s rowing eight. Legends!
I’d be very surprised if there were many Aussie blokes who could put their hand on their hearts and honestly say that when they first drank beer, they thought it delicious, and were converts for life. Beer-loving blokes, I suspect, come to love the stuff through a combination of peer pressure and sheer willpower.
In my teenage years, I didn’t much like what beer did at the rare parties I went to. Watching people being transformed into uglier, messier versions of themselves wasn’t exactly an attractive advertisement for the amber liquid. Ultimately I didn’t drink much before the age of 18.
But while I can readily admit this now, I’d find it quite a bit harder at the cricket, for instance, to be the guy who sits out rounds, or asks for a soft drink instead.
So in recent years, I’ve taken to ordering harder drinks. It’s less easy to question somebody’s card-carrying good-blokehood when they’re declining lager for a whisky. And if I think you are, I’ll order it neat.
Stuart MacGill was known for drinking wine when he bowled that brilliant legspin for Australia. It can’t have been easier turning down the endless supply of the sponsor’s product and uncorking a quality cab sav instead. I can’t imagine Warnie drinking any red-coloured liquid that wasn’t tomato sauce, and I wonder whether that difference in their beverage preferences was part of the reason MacGill was seen as less of a team player.
But peer pressure can be overcome, and the tastes of the majority can be changed over time. It wasn’t long ago that cigarettes were part of the norm for Australian men, and watching Don’s Party is a reminder of the way things were. Compared to those days, we’ve become less obnoxiously predatory, and the ciggies are very much on their way out. And our love of beer has switched to an appreciation of quality as much of quantity.
But we Australian men are still like Williamson’s brilliant creation in that play, Mal, wandering around with a beer mug on a chain around our neck, hoping other blokes will be impressed.
I only have so many thousand drinks left on this planet, and I’m determined to make very few of them beer. And if that makes me less of a proper male, then that’s too bad. I refuse to buy into our macho drinking culture any longer.
Oh, and did I mention I drink whisky? Neat whisky.
You need to eat idli
I once thought I knew a bit about Indian food. Back at uni, I regularly dined at those North Indian bain marie joints, and not just on butter chicken – although I have to admit that I always got butter chicken as one of the three selections.
Sometimes I even got lentils. Which I knew were called ‘daal’, because I was a man of the world. Or so I thought.
On other occasions, I even went out for proper, fancy Indian at restaurants where they serve the curries in little metal bowls and there are unlimited pappadams and various pickles on the side.
Years later, I went to India for the first time, and feasted on Goan fish curry, as well as the thali meals, a selection of lots of little curries and other delights on a metal plate, each in its own slot. I even had a favourite vegetarian dish, aloo gobi, which is cauliflower with potatoes. I know now that it’s about the most unsophisticated thing you can order, tantamount to asking for mac and cheese – but back then, I proudly proclaimed it as my thing.
Nowadays, I’m officially Indian by marriage, and a mere 18 months away from getting an Overseas Citizen of India card that will allow me to come and go to that wonderful country whenever I please. So I’ve learned a little more about the many cuisines of the subcontinent. And while I've still got a great deal to learn, I know one thing for sure: Australians of every background should eat more idli.
Idli are steamed cakes made with flour that's a blend of rice and dehusked, fermented lentils. (Aka daal.) They're somewhat like the steamed white buns you get at yum cha, only savoury and with a less fluffy texture. There's something of the pancake about them too, and they're eaten for breakfast in South India, and then subsequently throughout the day as you see fit.
In Chennai, where most of my in-laws live, they're usually served with a selection of chutneys and a delicious peppery dip known as gunpowder. The idli are delicious even without condiments – with them, they're sensational.
I’ll never forget the first time my mother-in-law served me idli. We were sitting around in their lounge room, playing with my now-nephew, when they were brought out. And they just kept coming, freshly steamed each time, and I just kept eating them.
By the end of the meal, I must have been approaching 30 per cent idli by body mass. From one perspective, I was being polite and eating what I was served, but from another, I was gorging myself on my new favourite food. It’s rare that manners and absolute greed align so deliciously.
What I've belatedly learned is that what most Australians think of as “Indian” food, with curries and basmati rice, hails from the north. In the south, it’s more about breads – from the incredible thin pancakes known as dosai, to the slightly thicker pizza/pancake-like uttapam to idli’s doughnut-like fried cousin, the vada. Roti, as also featured in Indonesian and Malaysian cuisine, is also very common, and they’re all served with far more dip options than you could ever exhaust.
Unfortunately, while every food court has a joint that sells tandoori chicken, the delights of South Indian cuisine are hard to find in Australia. The global powerhouse of Chennai-style food is called Hotel Saravana Bhavan (I’m not sure where the ‘Hotel’ comes from), which has 85 outlets around the world, all of them vegetarian. It opened in Parramatta in 2014, while a Victorian outpost is on the way too – I fully expect them to cover Australia within a decade. I’ve been to branches in Chennai, Kuala Lumpur and here, and can report that the global standardisation of their menu is as consistent as any burger chain.
There are other restaurants serving idli in the Indian restaurant strip in Harris Park, which my wife and I plan to explore soon, while I’ve heard tales of excellent options in Melbourne as well. And while I suspect that idli might be the South Indian version of mac and cheese in terms of the degree of culinary complexity – well, mac and cheese is popular for a reason.
I highly advise everyone to try one of the tastiest all-day breakfast options I’ve ever sampled (or you could trymaking your own). But if you don’t go to seek out idli, rest assured that idli will come to you sometime soon. I’ve no doubt that before much longer, they’ll be found in shopping malls, hotel breakfast buffets and elsewhere in our increasingly globalised culture. Because idli are too delicious not to conquer the world. And did I mention that they’re supposed to be healthy?
How I've avoided cooking for the past decade
Any guest invited to dine with me is in for a treat. Maybe I'll serve perfect xiao long bao (soup dumplings) as delicate and succulent as you can get in Shanghai. Perhaps a perfect pizza with a crust doughy enough to make a Neapolitan weep. Or maybe a perfect dal with a side of naan that's still warm from the oven?
There's only one catch. When you inevitably pass your compliments to the chef, I'll have to add my own. Because if I'm responsible for the catering, anyone dining chez moi is likely to be eating takeaway.
Only the very best takeaway, mind you. Gourmet food cooked by recognised experts in a range of world cuisines. But certainly stuff I haven’t cooked myself.
While I’m a whiz with a jaffle maker and pride myself on putting ravioli in boiling water per the manufacturer’s instructions, the truth is that I've never managed to teach myself how to cook more than the absolute basics. I'm more of a NoviceChef than a Master. And that’s because I live in the inner city, where there really isn’t much point cooking for yourself unless it's a special occasion.
I gave it a solid go earlier this year. Admittedly, I took advantage of one of those services that delivers a pack of ingredients and idiot-proof instructions, but I did manage to produce something resembling couscous with miscellaneous vegetables one night, and passable pasta on another.
Here's the thing though – it took ages. Seriously, ages. The preparation alone took me at least an hour, which was double what the instructions said – pretty good going considering my skill level. Chopping veggies and combining things is trickier than it looks for TV chefs, especially when hand-eye coordination is lacking and knives are scarily sharp.
At the end, I was certainly proud of myself. But the whole process took 90 minutes, start to finish. That's the length of a movie, or two episodes of Vikings. And all for something I could have bought readymade for little more than the cost of the ingredients. What’s more, had I not been so lazy, shopping for the ingredients would have added another 45 minutes or so to the process – longer seeing as I don't know where the fresh produce is in my supermarket.
As I was eating that meal of my own creation, I felt in awe of anyone who comes home from work and starts cooking anything more elaborate than a frozen microwave meal. And I compared my handiwork unfavourably with the vegies stir-fried to perfection by the Thai takeaway around the corner.
None of us can be good at everything. The people around the corner are much better at making an incrediblepad see ew than me, but presumably less experienced in the art of writing faintly self-mocking pieces like this one. Isn't it better that I pay them $10 for their expertise instead of trying to put them out of a job by vertically integrating cooking into my existing workflow? Isn't that a win-win, in this era of outsourcing and efficiency?
I realise that cooking is pleasurable for many people. I think that I'll probably keep trying my hand at it on weekends, when I have a bit more energy and time to compensate for the inevitable errors. I still aspire to be able to cook a few really good meals.
But when I live in a city full of the world’s best cuisines cooked by people who've come from all corners of the globe, I'm not going to feel guilty if I salute their expertise by asking them to look after my dinner instead of insulting them by attempting to whip up an inferior version.
I outsourced my cooking
Any guest invited to dine with me is in for a treat. Maybe I'll serve perfect xiao long bao (soup dumplings) as delicate and succulent as you can get in Shanghai. Perhaps a perfect pizza with a crust doughy enough to make a Neapolitan weep. Or maybe a perfect dal with a side of naan that's still warm from the oven?
There's only one catch. When you inevitably pass your compliments to the chef, I'll have to add my own. Because if I'm responsible for the catering, anyone dining chez moi is likely to be eating takeaway.
Only the very best takeaway, mind you. Gourmet food cooked by recognised experts in a range of world cuisines. But certainly stuff I haven’t cooked myself.
While I’m a whiz with a jaffle maker and pride myself on putting ravioli in boiling water per the manufacturer’s instructions, the truth is that I've never managed to teach myself how to cook more than the absolute basics. I'm more of a NoviceChef than a Master. And that’s because I live in the inner city, where there really isn’t much point cooking for yourself unless it's a special occasion.
I gave it a solid go earlier this year. Admittedly, I took advantage of one of those services that delivers a pack of ingredients and idiot-proof instructions, but I did manage to produce something resembling couscous with miscellaneous vegetables one night, and passable pasta on another.
Here's the thing though – it took ages. Seriously, ages. The preparation alone took me at least an hour, which was double what the instructions said – pretty good going considering my skill level. Chopping veggies and combining things is trickier than it looks for TV chefs, especially when hand-eye coordination is lacking and knives are scarily sharp.
At the end, I was certainly proud of myself. But the whole process took 90 minutes, start to finish. That's the length of a movie, or two episodes of Vikings. And all for something I could have bought readymade for little more than the cost of the ingredients. What’s more, had I not been so lazy, shopping for the ingredients would have added another 45 minutes or so to the process – longer seeing as I don't know where the fresh produce is in my supermarket.
As I was eating that meal of my own creation, I felt in awe of anyone who comes home from work and starts cooking anything more elaborate than a frozen microwave meal. And I compared my handiwork unfavourably with the vegies stir-fried to perfection by the Thai takeaway around the corner.
None of us can be good at everything. The people around the corner are much better at making an incrediblepad see ew than me, but presumably less experienced in the art of writing faintly self-mocking pieces like this one. Isn't it better that I pay them $10 for their expertise instead of trying to put them out of a job by vertically integrating cooking into my existing workflow? Isn't that a win-win, in this era of outsourcing and efficiency?
I realise that cooking is pleasurable for many people. I think that I'll probably keep trying my hand at it on weekends, when I have a bit more energy and time to compensate for the inevitable errors. I still aspire to be able to cook a few really good meals.
But when I live in a city full of the world’s best cuisines cooked by people who've come from all corners of the globe, I'm not going to feel guilty if I salute their expertise by asking them to look after my dinner instead of insulting them by attempting to whip up an inferior version.
Originally published at SBS Life