Unconvincing Café Crime: The Secrets of Strangers

The Secrets of Strangers by Charity Norman

Allen & Unwin

Pp. 334

Published in 2020, this fast-paced action novel about five strangers held captive by a gunman in a London café instantly recalls the Lindt Café siege in December 2014, when a lone gunman held hostage ten customers and eight employees of a chocolate café in Martin Place, Sydney, Australia. There have doubtless been many events such as this in London, but the novel doesn’t feel as though it is set in that city at all – there are no landmarks or sense of place, the people are caricatures rather than characters, and there is a reference to playing soccer, betraying the fact that the author has lived in New Zealand for the past twenty years.

The novel is written in the present tense and structured in short chapters with different third-person-omniscient perspectives to make it feel immediate and resemble a TV drama or a play. Neil is an erstwhile teacher, now homeless due to a gambling addiction, Abi is a defence lawyer, Mutesi is a Carer at an aged care facility, Sam is the gunman who has shot Robert, the café owner, and Eliza is the police negotiator.

The most interesting and believable of these characters is Eliza, who is co-ordinating between the gunman on the phone and those directing the police operation on the ground. Tension abounds when they want to enter the building although she cautions against it. Her communication with Sam must be rational and calm as she tries to establish a rapport and get to the crux of the matter.

Everyone has the capacity for both good and evil and Sam is plagued by memories of a two-faced puppet, an obvious metaphor for his relationship with his manipulative step-father. The owner of the café, Robert, whom everyone thought was a good guy, is actually a snake and uses coercive control on his partners. He’s a narcissist and a sociopath, and few people can see through him as he gaslights women (including Sam’s mother) and convinces them they have gaping holes in their memory and forget whole conversations.

In a very conventional outlook, we are guided to believe that children are the future and the reason for living. Mutesi is only afraid for her grandson; Abi is undergoing IVF in a desperate attempt to conceive which has taken over her life and that of her partner, as if she is nothing without offspring.

The situation is extremely unrealistic, with sympathetic cups of tea; coherent stories told and a neat tying-up of ends. In a cosy conclusion it provides a satisfying story (no innocent bystanders are shot) and we are almost directed (the words is used advisedly) to feel sympathy for Sam because of the incidents in his past. Although it is dangerous to assign labels if one is not a clinical psychiatrist, it may be that Sam is on the spectrum and possibly lives with ADHD. He has suicidal thoughts and ideation, and is taking Ritalin to help focus his attention. And yet he shot someone, held up others at gunpoint, and clearly has terrifying anger issues. 

We are told, “People survive. Human beings go on. They have a capacity for love and a capacity for evil, but they go on.” It doesn’t ring true that contemporary Londoners would be that equable or forgiving, and the novel can’t decide between being a gritty police procedural and a charming endorsement of humanity.

Let them eat cake!

The latest ridiculousness to be filed in the customer-is-always-righteous file is the recent issue of 'cakeage'. Thankfully, it is not quite a scandal or we would be hearing predictable stories of cake-gate.
 
Apparently a group of folk went to a restaurant in Richmond to celebrate a 70th birthday and were charged $12 to eat a cake they had baked themselves and brought along. They were 'disgusted' (I can but imagine their spurius indignation) and contacted their local paper to complain; note, incidentally, that they didn't discuss this with the restaurnt owner at the time. He later expressed himself to be 'shocked' by the response - you can't beat a dash of hyperbole in the kitchen.
 
I wonder what makes people think they can take their own food into a restaurant. Would these people go to a pub and crack out their own home-brew? Are these the people who go to the theatre to watch a performance and conduct their own conversation? Probably.
 
It is not the same as the service charge applied on public holidays, which is simply ludicrous. Some 'hospitality' outlets insist it costs more to open on these days; to pay staff an extra percentage on their meagre wages to compensate for them missing out on time with their loved ones or leisure activities; a cost which, apparently, is not recovered by the increased custom. In that case, this cost should be factored into the prices for the rest of the year. It's not as though Christmas is a surprise to anyone; even Easter may be a moveable feast, but you know it happens every year. That way the cost is spread through to everyone and is negligible.

But why should others shoulder the financial burden because you want to have your cake and eat it (in public) too? Why don't you just have it at home? This is similar to parents who bring their own food to cafés to feed their chidren. Their argument is that the café is making money from the mothers who buy a coffee. I've seen these meetings. Children throw food, drink and various bodily excretions around the place. They run, wriggle, fidget and scream.

All normal people are driven away or take one look at the bedlam and decide to eat elsewhere. After the mothers' mayhem has gone, the café is left to clean up and replace the tables and chairs to their original position, plus dispose of semi-masticated food that they haven't even provided. Some cafés are happy to provide this service, and fair play to them. I avoid such places.

I prefer to go to a café where I can enjoy my coffee and conversation in peace. Coffee houses were originally established as places to discuss the events of the day and share ideas. One of the first, Café Procope (est. 1686), was a major meeting venue for the proponents of the French Enlightenment, such as Voltaire, Rosseau, Diderot et al. It is arguably the birthplace of the Encyclopedie - the first modern encylopaedia; try writing that while being deafened by a toddler's tantrum! Lloyds of London began life as a coffee house where politics and business were the topics on the menu (sport was reserved for the pub).

There used to be a wonderful place like this in Queenstown where folk met to pontificiate and enjoy their caffeinated pleasures. The place ground the beans on location and you could purchase them whole - they were in big sacks at the side of the shop. It was a tiny venue and not conducive to small children clogging up the place with cumbersome pushchairs, falling off the stools or plunging their grubby mitts into sackfuls of coffee. The owner banned children from the premises. One crusading mother took him to the Commission of Human Rights and her complaint was upheld. He has since moved on and there is now no refuge from screaming miniature hooligans in town.

Restaurants and cafés should have the right to charge what they choose to serve whom they want. They should print their charges and intentions clearly so there can be no confusion. And then everyone can make an educated decision about where they spend their time and money. If you don't like disruptive infants, child-free zones, or paying for 'cakeage', go somewhere else. There are plenty of choices, and so there should be. Vive la difference! (as they would have said at Le Café Procope).

My newest favourite thing: Provisions in Arrowtown

My friend the Green Goddess will be gutted for missing the opening of Provisions Cafe in Arrowtown today. They were giving their ‘obscenely good’ sticky buns free to all punters. The Green Goddess loves these sticky buns and used to make trips through the gorge to Cromwell to sample them. When she returns from her sojourn in France (so she probably isn’t that gutted, as she will have been revelling in flaky French pastry for the last couple of months) she will no longer have to drive 60-odd kilometres to indulge her sticky bun passion. They will be baked right here (almost) on her doorstep.

It’s wonderful to see the old historic cottage being used for a practical purpose – these are immensely picturesque buildings but unless they are used they can easily fall into disrepair, and it’s quite a treat for the public to enter the cosy, low-ceilinged rooms. This was the opening day and the wee place was bustling. There is a courtyard where you can sit out on a sunny day – although maybe not in the middle of winter. A friendly black Labrador was greeting all-comers; did he get his complimentary sticky bun, I wonder?

There are all manner of sumptuous supplies for sale and for tasting. You are encouraged to try the fruit-bread and sample the range of mustards, jams and chutneys. Shelves display brightly coloured tins, tea-towels and cake-stands; organic muesli, lavender and thyme shortbread, and an array of fresh bread, buns and bagels. The flowers are a nice touch whether in pots, (hyacinths and cyclamens), fresh cut (orchids and lilies) or the big bunch on the counter bursting with vitality.

Today’s menu is written on a sheet of paper that will be torn from the roll and a new one written tomorrow. I like this concept – it gives you confidence that the specials really are, and when it says fresh, it means it.

The cheery staff were pleasant and efficient, allowing me to take photos and delivering our food and drink promptly to our table. I heard many people call out to Jane to praise her for an excellent launch, so I guess that was Jane Shaw wreathed in smiles behind the counter. And rightly so. The cabinet was packed with tempting baking including potato, leek and blue cheese quiche; bacon and egg pie; Cornish pasties and chocolate roulade. Even the lamingtons looked good (and I dislike this sickly confectionary – I’m sure it’s one of the foods you’ve got to be a natural-born-Kiwi to appreciate – along with feijoas, tamarillos and chocolate fish).

I was pleased to see that they offer the exquisitely refreshing Lake Sylvan rhubarb and gooseberry drinks, but I chose one of Michele Casson’s Stir Teas. The Blood Orange fruit blend was delivered to the table with a miniature hour-glass timer so that I knew exactly how long to let it steep. The blend of rooibos and citrus was intensely refreshing and later, when I looked up the ingredients on the website, I found they come from South Africa (rooibos), the USA (orange peel; apple pieces), Chile (rosehips), China (safflower petals) and Burkina Faso (hibiscus), so I feel as though I had a truly global cuppa.

The sticky buns were indeed a treat. Plates on the walls are emblazoned with commendations about the cleanliness of the kitchen and the merits of the sticky buns. Endorsements come from foodies such as Rosemary McLeod, Kerre Woodham, Paul Mercurio, Fleur Sullivan, Peta Mathias, Annabel Langbein, and Matt Preston. I believe these come from the Cromwell location, but they are equally at home here.

We walked home with Him Outdoors clutching a focaccia bread in a brown paper bag, studded with sea-salt and still warm from the oven. I think I may have found my newest favourite cafe in Arrowtown. There are so many things to sample – I’ll have to make frequent return visits to taste them all!

L’Arté Café and Gallery

At Café L’Arté in Acacia Bay, Taupo, everything is made from mosaics. In the ‘mosaic room’ is an armchair, sofa, fireplace, table and standard lamp in shining stone fragments.

A sign, made out of mosaic pieces itself, announces that the splintered steps are slippery when wet. It’s bright, quirky, colourful and fun.

It’s also a gallery where there are insects, birds and flowers on pottery spikes among natural blooms. Wooden ruru, kerepu and kingfishers perch on benches.

Piles of gaudy individual painted stones are threaded together to form pebble pillars. Clunky jewellery incorporates sparkling mirrored spiders. Bullrushes with leaves of corrugated iron provide a cool contrast to the soft furry buds of the real things.

Inside the café even the counter is decorated with colourful collages. Nothing will go to waste here. I indulge in a hot strong milky cappuccino, which is the best I’ve had in Taupo, and a deliciously rich passion slice. It's so good, I'm in bits.

Reading the paper

I like to read the paper in the morning with a cup of coffee before I head to work. I sit in the cafe and watch people come and go clutching their takeaway paper cups and their bags of bagels. I read the paper from cover to cover, lingering over the meagre world section and the comments and editorial.

I do this when I'm on holiday and I once read an article that said one way to extend the holiday feeling was to do the things that you associate with your weeks off. Unfortunately I can't laze in bed for the morning, go scuba-diving with shoals of angel fish, lounge on the deck of a yacht, or cycle through vineyards filling my panniers with champagne and baguettes. What I can do is leisurely catch up on the day's events and it is one of my few simple pleasures.

How I hate it, then, when someone asks if they can 'steal a bit of the paper'. For a start I loath the idiom. It is not my paper - it is thoughtfully provided by the cafe - so you wouldn't be stealing it. This is a Kiwi-ism I have noticed, whereby people try and lessen the impact of what they are doing by referring to their actions in a depreciating manner - apparently they 'swing by' the house to 'grab a feed'. Are they Tarzan?

Leaving the language aside, of course I mind! I don't wish to be disturbed. I wish to read the paper, chronologically, at the pace I choose without being hurried or harried. It bothers me when people fold the paper the wrong way (it's almost bad as realigning maps) or insert sections out of order. I consider it inconsiderate when people do the crossword in a paper that it is not their own, and as for tearing out a section or an article - you'd be surprised how much this can annoy me. Or maybe you wouldn't.