the pavlova that came down from heaven

The hunt for a good coffee-shop is obsessing me.

Today, I decided on a café that will be my new hang-out spot where I while away bohemian afternoons, think great thoughts and unwittingly annoy the waitresses with my refusal to ever leave. The place certainly has potential. It does a decent chicken salad and edible vegetarian wraps, is aesthetically pleasing and doesn't attract too many mothers with screaming babies. And the weird guy who sits in cafés and stares at women doesn't go there.

Image source

Its tour de force, however, is the heavenly pastries, the queen of which is the utterly magnificent  pavlova.  Not since I stole a pavlova in a hotel kitchen on a New Year's Eve have I tasted such a divine creation. It is so unbelievably good that I hardly ever buy it. Maybe I feel it's too good for a simple human being like me.

So I went there today. I braved a lashing, cold rain in my determination to claim my new home away from home - donning a rain coat with a National Geographic logo on it, as this gave me an appropriate feeling of being an explorer of new lands - and arrived dripping water on the stylish floor. I ordered a cappuccino and a wrap ( with more than one envious glance at the pavlova, which seemed to have a supernatural glow around it ).

The wrap was surprisingly good ( wraps have an inherent tendency to disappoint ). The cappuccino was too small but otherwise satisfactory. The people were interesting and the atmosphere was cosy.

So I sat there and tried to think of this as my new home. 

But I fidgeted, rushed through my wrap, felt uncomfortable. The room was too open. No nooks to hide in and quietly observe people with my back safely to the wall. I was too visible.

So I sighed, and left. This was not the place.

But I will come back for the pavlova occasionally. When I feel worthy of its otherworldly glory.