The Coffee Addict’s Guide
The town was very quiet when she woke up at
ten o’ clock, and partook of coffee, very requisite
and comforting after the exhaustion and grief
of the morning’s occurrences.
– Vanity Fair, William Thackeray
The coffee-drinker here is one Becky Crawley (née Sharp), and the cause of her grief? Why, the departure of her brave husband, Captain Rawdon Crawley, to fight the dastardly Boney and his cohorts. You can perhaps imagine, then, the depth and nature of her feelings as she takes a cup of coffee in perfect content. But Thackeray’s description of the necessity and reassurance of that first cup of coffee struck a chord with this coffee addict.
Whilst the aforementioned cup is drunk near the battle lines in Brussels, the largest portion of Vanity Fair is set in early nineteenth-century London, and the coffee houses are mentioned frequently. They are where George Osbourne goes to drink and gamble with his dissolute friends; where the ruined John Sedley sets up his pathetic temporary offices; and where good Captain Dobbin tries to smooth over George’s troubled affairs. They are, in short, central to the prosperity and loss, business and socialising, that is constantly taking place in
the Fair.
Peter Ackroyd informs us in London of Macaulay’s observation that: ‘Foreigners remarked that the coffee-house was that which especially distinguished London from all other cities; that the coffee-house was the Londoner’s home.’
American author Steven Johnson gives these locations even greater importance. He argues that it’s no coincidence that the Age of Enlightenment began in the Western World at about the same time as the mainstream introduction of coffee.
Johnson’s argument is overly simplistic but potent: the Enlightenment began when Londoners stopped swigging back filthy ale from morning till night (a practice which no doubt rendered all men, women and children in various stages of inebriation) and started drinking coffee: a non-depressive stimulant, and highly addictive to boot. It makes sense, at any rate.*
The first coffee house opened in 1652, and like all good ideas it was copied instantly. Ackroyd tells us that by 1800 ‘there were two thousand of them in the capital’.
The only slight dent in Johnson’s argument is that, as one foreign traveller referred to it, coffee in those days was ‘a prodigious quantity of brown water’. (I imagine it to have tasted something like the ‘coffee’ they give you on trains, ie, tar mixed with hot water with a sprinkling of Nescafé-substitute on top for good luck.)
Punch had something to say on the matter in an 1882 article, claiming that most coffee houses did not sell coffee, but rather substituted it under the same name with ‘various dirty and dismal decoctions which they vend under the name of the genuine produce of Mocha’. When asked what, then, did constitute the ‘coffee’, we are told: ‘Of ingredients as numerous, and often as unpleasant, as the constituents of the Witches’ broth in Macbeth, among the more innocent of which are chicory, horse-beans, and fig-refuse.’
Furthermore, whilst coffee houses in Vanity Fair serve as excellent backdrops to several key scenes, I don’t recall anyone ever drinking the stuff in one of them.
Coffee houses prospered because they provided a place where gentlemen of whatever rank, class and income could meet, and in any part of the city. They were used as postal addresses, offices, meeting rooms; wealthy clients and patrons could meet their humbler servants here; news of the city could be told, overheard and discussed, and important contacts made.
The printed word was a crucial part of their success: the latest newspapers, periodicals and pamphlets could be read for free (once a modest admission fee had been paid), and messenger boys ran to the coffee houses to impart important news to the inhabitants. In a teeming ever-changing city, they became the hub of information and London life.
However, I can’t entirely dismiss Johnson’s claim regarding the link between coffee, reasoned thought and ultimately creativity in all fields. As the English writer and founding member of the Edinburgh Review, Sydney Smith, said: ‘If you want to improve your understanding, drink coffee; it is the intelligent beverage.’ (Indeed, throughout Vanity Fair it is the super-smart (if devilish) Becky who enjoys her cup of ‘coffy’, whereas the saintly but dim little Amelia is occasionally allowed some milky tea.)
Like any drug, I suppose, it brings a great deal of initial comfort when it is administered to one of its poor followers, but unlike other addictive substances it enables you face the world on more realistic terms than when you first woke up in the morning. After a couple of double espressos you realise things aren’t all that bad, and you start to think straight, be reasonable and have ideas again… All spoken like a true addict.
As London is thoroughly back in love with coffee again – every third place selling it and every fifth citizen clutching a take-away cup of it – I decided to go back to where it all began, for London, at least: St Michael’s Alley, off Cornhill.
To one not involved in the machinations of the City, this part of town always appears to the visitor as an arcane and slightly joyless, albeit impressive place.
Everywhere you walk people are talking about business. On Cornhill I overhear two young men talking urgently: ‘You can answer 92% of questions at this time, yes?’ says one. ‘Yes,’ replies the other, clutching his authentically battered briefcase, ‘but if only I could get 100% in the futuring. [He pauses pensively] You know, when you’re desperate for money.’
They overtake me and are replaced by an even younger man, saying, ‘I’ve got one and a half hours to prepare the presentation, but I think we will acquire.’ As I saunter up to the Royal Exchange, the Bank of England close by, and the ugly London Stock Exchange clearly visible beyond, two suited men walk past deep in conversation, of which I hear but a snippet: ‘But they’ve got shitloads of money,’ says the shorter man. I understood that one.
At first, the streets here look wide and clean, seemingly ordered, but glance upwards and you see a muddle of architectural styles crammed together, as if fighting for the grey sunlight.
St Michael’s Church is a case in point. Damaged in the Great Fire, it was rebuilt by Wren – all apart from the tower, which his assistant Nicholas Hawksmoor later rebuilt in the Gothic style. It can hardly be made out from the street amidst the jumble of buldings, and hundreds of workers must walk past it every day without noticing its imposing lineaments.
Its presence, however, marks the entrance to a series of narrow winding alleys, characteristic of this part of town. Down St Michael’s Alley is a fantastic old pub, The Jamaica Wine House. This is the site of the first coffee house, opened in 1652, which later became the Jamaica Coffee House. Also can be found Simpson’s Tavern and the George and Vulture tavern. (Dickens fans may recognise the latter as that which housed dear Mr Pickwick in the course of one of his adventures.)
This area was famous for its coffee houses: Garraway’s on Change Alley was the spot for wealthy merchants and traders; and Lloyd’s on Lombard Street was where shipping merchants found wealthy patrons to underwrite their vessels, later growing into the insurance giant, Lloyd’s of London.
However, despite the interest and the beautiful hanging signs all round this area, I’ve still found no decent coffee. The nearby Manon Café on King William Street eventually provides me with some caffeine. Inside loud rock music (Nickelback, or something equally appalling) is being piped. This is no place for meetings or discussions of any kind. However, the double espresso I order is good, and appeased, I sit and watch more serious hurrying people go past the plate-glass window.
Next I walk up Cheapside, cut down Bow Alley and up Watling Street and there it is: St Paul’s – still winning the architecture competition, despite the endless building going on around it. Just up from here, on the corner of Paternoster Row, was Chapter’s, a famous haunt for booksellers, publishers and aspiring writers. (Chatterton frequented it, and Charlotte and Emily Brontë once paid a visit.)
Up Fleet Street and finally the tide of boring business chat is starting to turn. I hear an old duffer tell his companion, ‘Well, of course, I had my first job at the Telegraph, you know.’
Finally, I’ve reached Covent Garden where some of the more notorious coffee houses were located. Old Slaughter’s on St Martin’s Lane was frequented by artists such as Hogarth and Gainsborough (as well as being George Osbourne and Rawdon Crawley’s favourite); at Tom’s you could find writers sitting alongside the famous actors of the day; and at Will’s on Russell Street, poets, writers and critics were in attendance, such as Pepys, Dryden and Pope.
Finally, at No 8 Russell Street, I find a nod to the past. Boswell’s teahouse is to be found here. History tells us that it was here, on 16th May 1763, that Boswell met Dr Johnson in the back parlour of their mutual friend, the bookseller and publisher Tom Davies. I enjoy an excellent espresso, and no one is talking about business, though it’s a bit full of tourists to make a really good stopping place. I trip down Neal Street, and detour into Soho to check out Bar Italia, a little bit shaky now from my second strong espresso of the day.
In this legendary Soho spot the early afternoon is a quiet time. Tourists chatter whilst the odd craggy faced arty type sits pensively in silence waiting for a respectable time to start drinking. At night, though, it is full of lively conversation and interesting creative types. (Then again, if you’re a writer or an artist, you’ll need an Arts Council grant to drink coffee here…)
On my way up Manette Street, towards Foyle’s, I spot Bill Nighy looking cool but in much need of a coffee himself… I wonder if he’s going to Bar Italia? Then it’s down Charing Cross and to the Seven Dials, right in the centre of St Giles parish, in former days the slum of London. That is no longer so, of course, and Monmouth Street, just off the Dials, is home to the best coffee shop in London.
Monmouth Coffee Company has a little back den of wooden seats where meetings and good conversations can be had – probably the closest thing to the coffee houses of old London. Certainly many fruitful Pen Pusher meetings have taken place here (and at its Borough Market branch). Unlike the eighteenth century, however, the coffee is fantastic.
As I sip another espresso I recall that early nineteenth-century England’s great enemy had a word to say on the subject, too; Napoleon is said to have declared: ‘I would rather suffer with coffee, than be senseless.’ I know what he means…
*And you can see him arguing his point on YouTube.
