A Concession to My Concessions

 

Well, here I was. The afternoon, mind you. A mere prelude to the main event, where I was slated to unleash my linguistic prowess upon the unsuspecting citizenry of China at a nearby comic open mic. Bless their earnest hearts, they barely spoke a lick of English and would, I just knew it, raise their hands to inquire into the very definitions of the words I was employing, just before I arrived at my punchline. But I digress. This impending linguistic tightrope walk, combined with a general weariness that only the truly talented can appreciate, put me in the mood for a spot of caffeinated solace. And where better to seek it than a "French haven" in the very heart of Shanghai's French Concession? My expectations, I assure you, were as low as a politician's ethical standards. One learns, through bitter experience, to distrust any establishment that toots its own horn, or indeed, horns its own toot.

Nevertheless, I ventured into The Cottage Bar. And what a blossom it was. Greeted by creaky wooden floors – a delightful touch, if one appreciates the auditory equivalent of a persistent toothache – and a speaker system consisting of a single, solitary speaker. Positioned, mind you, by the one table no sane individual would dare occupy, perched precariously between the ground floor and what I can only describe as the 1.5th floor. A liminal space, if you will, for those who enjoy the thrill of auditory assault. Now, I, being a man of refined sensibilities and an aversion to permanent hearing damage, would have situated myself at a comfortable distance. But fate, in its infinite wisdom, had other plans. A baby. Yes, a baby. Being spoiled rotten by a doting mother who, in her boundless maternal delusion, believed her offspring's googoos and gaagaas enhanced the ambient atmosphere. It did not. My lot was cast. I found myself directly beneath the singular speaker, which, as if on cue, promptly transitioned from the soothing strains of Chopin and Django Reinhardt to the saccharine pronouncements of one Justin Bieber. "Never say never," he warbled. And I, for one, was sorely tempted to tell young Mr. Bieber that if he never said never, he ought to at least never sing again. The unmitigated gall invading the sanctity of coffee shops!

Despite the auditory affront, the coffee latte was, surprisingly, rather agreeable. Reasonably priced, too, which is a rare commodity in these parts. I confess, I was tempted by a half-dozen other concoctions, looking for all the world like cocktails garnished with exotic flowers and some mysterious Chinese fruit. At first glance, I mistook one for an olive, perched atop a fruit tea – one of those inevitable counterpoints designed to lighten the darker tones of a coffee menu. And then, the cheesecake. Ah, the cheesecake! It tasted suspiciously similar to a New York cheesecake. A bold move, I thought, for a baker to rely on the sheer elegance of a few simple ingredients, eschewing the obnoxious lemon zest and other culinary nominations that so often pollute the purity of that hallowed recipe. A triumph!

But then, as nature inevitably called, my quest for the washroom commenced. A perilous journey, it turned out, to the third floor. My ascent was abruptly halted by a sturdy wooden beam, clearly crafted for the benefit of hobbits, but a harbinger of decapitation for anyone over the towering height of 170 centimeters. My frontal lobe bore the brunt of this architectural oversight. On my return journey, I made a point of bowing, a rather humiliating gesture, only to inflict yet another bruise upon my scalp, which by this point bore an uncanny resemblance to the Andes mountains. My slightly bewildered state gradually subsided as I collapsed back into my wooden chair. Finally, mercifully, the family of noise-makers departed, leaving the remaining seating accommodations open to more reasonable patrons. And then, a curious discovery: a mirror, strategically placed directly in front of me! A stroke of genius, I thought, allowing me to meticulously inspect my teeth after each bite of cheesecake, ensuring not a single crumb dared linger in my mustache.

All in all, despite the creaking floors, the Bieber and the cranial contusions, this coffee shop has a hold of its craft. Its very peculiarities added to my unique preference for a spot not overly commercial, yet still delivering all the tasty morsels one expects from a respectable café. I shall return!