Winter Café Culture

Before I left Singapore, I worked as a barista at a Specialty Coffee bar (or counter, if you want to call it that). There, I immersed myself further into the world of coffee and cafés, the different ratios of coffee to milk that make up your latte and the amount of pours to make your V60 brew pop. The job basically cemented my status as a Certified Coffee Snob™ and my opinions on coffee are valid and you cannot tell me otherwise.

Just kidding, I'm not that insufferable (I hope). I still drink dark roasts out of mysterious bags and wince a little, then mask the taste with copious amounts of milk 😅

Recently, since moving to Lille, I've discovered a slightly different café experience than in Singapore, Malaysia and Indonesia. Of course, I'm talking about Café with a capital "C", filled with lattes and cappuccinos and a smattering of V60s and single-origins that you can't even pronounce. Not your kopi-ikat-tepi, kopitiam kinds. I am not well-versed in that area and I'm sorry! I can't differentiate Teh O and Teh O gao sometimes. I know, how embarrassing for me, a native born-and-raised Singaporean.

(I do miss teh halia and masala chai though)

Whenever you think of a café experience in France, what do you think of? Parisian cafés with little tables lining the terrace, a little too close to each other, with florals bursting through the walls, and pink and white awnings.

You think of this café, no?

I want you to erase that thought. Let's start anew. Because you're thinking of a Paris in spring, where the blooms are in full swing and the sun is, for some reason, always in the sky (it's not always in the sky).

I want you to imagine a winter, where the sun - if she's ever obviously in the sky - is only available for 8 hours a day from 9am to 5pm (like an office job) and the temperature drops to zero degrees or less. You're out and about instead of staying home in your cosy apartment under 4 layers of blankets. You begrudgingly do so because you want to soak in the magical lights of Christmas and you NEED to buy presents for your mum and dad and the 20 cousins you haven't met in a decade. You refuse to order online for environmental reasons and you want to look like you've put in an effort to get thoughtful gifts for everyone, even if they were just thick socks that cost 14 euros a pair. It's useful! It's thoughtful!

You've been out here for 3 hours but you have no hammering or appetite for food, but you definitely need to warm your body up. So you look for a place to shelter but then the snow fell and have seeped into your non-waterproof shoes but you don't want to enter S-bux because #BDS so you head to an independent café on the same street.

You're greeted by a brightly lit "coffee shop" with herringbone laminated wooden floors and sleek white counters and walls. The barista greets you warmly. You decide that you know what you want, so you return the barista's greeting and put in your order. You struggle to find your wallet with all your shopping bags (oh yes, the shopping bags!) on you, but eventually managed to fish out your card to tap on the terminal.

You ordered a cortado and find a seat not far from the counter. You remove your coat and scarf and place them on the back of your chair. 5 minutes later, the lovely barista sends you a drink about 120ml big. Huh? You questioned internally. That's a huge drink. That's a piccolo, you think to yourself. As it turns out, what you know as a piccolo in Singapore, is a cortado. And a piccolo is a café noisette*. Perplexed, and just in need of a caffeine hit, you accept the drink as it is.

*A café noisette is a full shot of espresso with a touch of milk. Not to be confused with an espresso macchiato, which is a full shot of espresso with a touch of milk FOAM. A cortado, by definition, is equal amounts of full espresso shot and steamed milk. A piccolo (as in the one I know) is a double ristretto shot with 1o0 ml of milk. So confusing. Need a chart.

As you sip your little piccolo cortado, someone asks if they can take the extra chair opposite you, because there are 3 of them but the table next to yours only has 2 chairs. You oblige, because what are you gonna do? It's their choice to be seated at the table next to yours, even though 4 other tables are vacant and they could just put two tables together.

But it's none of your business.

At this point, your tiny drink is finished. You sigh, looking at your shopping bags on the floor. You really don't want to leave but you don't want to be kicked out of the café, so you play the floor-is-lava over your bags and head to the counter for another drink. You don't really want another coffee - because you're not the kind of psycho who drinks 7 cups of coffee in a day. So you order a ChoCho (Chocolat Chaud, or hot chocolate). But not just a ChoCho, but a Chocolat Viennois because you need the thick silky chocolate to be made even richer by a mountain of chantilly cream on top of it. It's delightful. It became one of your favourite non-caffeinated drinks.

(Even though you could have gotten an infusion, which is not to be confused with tea, because tea contains caffeine and an infusion does not. But I'm not here to judge. You do you, I guess.)

On your way back to your seat, you hear another group leaving, and the barista who took your order wished every single person on the group (8 of them, to be exact) "Merci beaucoup, bonne journée, au revoir!" (thank you very much, have a nice day, good bye!). And shockingly, everyone in the group wishes the barista the same things in return! People here are so... nice?

It's a Tuesday afternoon, so the café has become relatively quiet again after the big group has left. You return to your seat to wait for your Chocolat Viennois. The café's choice of music today is jazz. There is a lady a few tables away reading a book and slowly sipping her americano, with her dog sleeping soundly on the floor. The 3 youths at the table next to yours are discussing their post-christmas plans. A couple under the stairs opposite you are poring over maps and a guidebook, possibly planning a trip for when the weather gets warmer.

You look up, realising there is a skylight. The sky is still grey, but the snow is softly falling. Your drink finally arrived. You take a small sip, realising there was no gracious way to drink it without having cream up your nose. So you use a teaspoon to plop some of the cream into your mouth. You decide to write some Christmas postcards to send to your friends, although you know you're off the timeline by a few weeks because they're going to receive the cards way after. So you include New Years greetings as well. 2-in-1!

You write for an hour. Write, sip, adjust, write the addresses on envelopes, sip, insert cards into envelopes, sip, keep the envelopes in your bag. The rim of your cup is stained by your lipstick and dried chocolate milk. The chantilly has lost its peak and whatever last remaining of it has collapsed into the chocolat chaud.

It is now 4.30pm. You've been in the café since 3pm. The café has started to get crowded. Customers are lining up along the counter, willing to wait for a table than leaving again to brave the cold. Some potential customers have left, seeing the crowd. You start to feel bad, but your chocolat chaud and limping chantilly aren't finished. You look over at the 3 youths next to you who are still there, holding on to their empty cups and never getting new drinks. The baristas haven't asked them to leave either. This is France. No one will ask you to leave - until closing time, of course.

A man with a bigger dog has entered. You expect confrontation with the smaller dog of the woman who, unsurprisingly, is almost at the end of her book. But no. The dogs sniffed each other and the smaller one went back to sleep. The bigger one scooted closer to its owner. The owners talk, exchanging stories about their dogs. These dogs are so well-behaved.

It's time. You're done with your chocolat viennois. All the chantilly too. You pack your bags and wipe your mouth. The goûter (afternoon snack taken between 5 to 6pm) crowd was building. You decide it's better for you to relinquish the table to someone else who needs it. You take a look at your two very dry and dirty cups. You splash some drinking water (which is free!) in the two cups to make it easier for the baristas to wash them later.

You put on your scarf and coat back on, realising that it has stopped snowing. You pick up your shopping bags, and head to the door. The barista slinging coffees wishes you a good evening. You return with a "merci beaucoup, bonne soirée", heading out of the darkened street, lit up by magical fairy lights.

You cuss because you just walked into a puddle of melted snow and your socks are now wet.