Charlene Smith
Crime killed the corner caf. And made us part of global mediocrity. As a real caf society develops, and we all sit on pavements delicately sipping caffe lattes and double mochas, the corner Greek, the owner of the local “kaif”, has packed up and gone back to Mykonos or is now managing one of the endless restaurant chains that dish up programmed food.
The soulless Quik-Stops and Foodies, the chain store replacement of the caf, have computerised grocery selection data that decide what we want with no recognition of the particular idiosyncracies of a community that the “corner Greek” knew so well.
None of those stores track a rise in Japanese residents in an area and begin stocking daikon and green tea; none know, or care, that many residents in their community are Jewish and appreciate a few jars of herrings in the fridge and matzos on the shelves; or that taxi commuters like to buy cigarettes individually or hard- boiled eggs for a quick protein boost. The caf is dead, and the cares of communities are not a concern to their replacements.
Nowhere else in the world were cafs small stores where you could buy toilet rolls, the newspaper, chewing gum, milk and fruit covered with hovering small insects – and catch up on neighbourhood gossip. They were unique to South Africa, most opened at around 7am and closed at 9pm, and were manned by families with deep ridges of tiredness under their eyes.
When I was a child the corner caf was run by a Chinese family. AH So Hung was a gloomy place where grandma Hung sat in the corner surrounded by wooden display cupboards, dust and memories. She would rarely serve anyone and most often sat in a silent meditative trance. She was always dressed in Chinese silk gowns, her white hair in a bun and skewered with long Chinese chopstick-like ornaments. She was quite beautiful.
I was fascinated by her and would linger listening to her tales of China and looking at sepia photographs of what seemed to me a magical place with beautiful people – years later when I visited, it was as special as the tales she wove.
The store sold everything from ginseng to newspapers, school books, tea and condiments to joss sticks, fireworks, tea sets and zinc baths.
Years later, I moved into Melville at the infancy of its trendiness, when you could amble down a road that is now congested with restaurants and hawkers, and stop for a chat at the Golf Tearoom, where years later the owner was shot dead – a fate that befell many caf owners, before they closed up shop and moved out of town. And then down to the greengrocer who was always ready for a chat about Madeira, and would bring out strong Madeira coffee, served black with a slice of orange. A nearby old clockmaker would sit and pore over watches and clocks, fixing them for a pittance, content in the ordered ticking of his world.
The racist butcher across the road would mutter darkly about the perils facing this country, all the time glancing over his shoulder at the blank faces of those who know without having to listen, methodically sawing bones.
One of the best of the last of the great Johannesburg cafs was the American Caf in Parkhurst. It would see residents in neighbouring areas rise early on a Sunday and dash to it for the best bread, doughnuts and Danish pastries in town. Sometimes by 9am, the stock that the baker had begun preparing at 4am would be sold out. And if you were lucky, you could book a tarot card reading with the owner’s wife. But Parkhurst is going the way of Melville and a pizza oven now stands where the cool Greek owner’s till was.
I never found out where the owner of the Dunkeld Caf bought his biltong, but it was the best in the country. When I lived in Japan and before a friend came to visit, I begged him to stop at Dunkeld Caf to buy me a large bar of Cadbury’s chocolate and a large stick of biltong … I’ve never been so grateful for a friendship.
That caf, like so many others, has been replaced by a convenience store with neon lighting and staff in uniforms, a sure sign of drabness of the soul. In Japan workers at large corporations are made to do exercises before work and sing the company song – here we just put everyone in uniforms, remove their individuality and wonder why they have such conformity of souls, such expressionless faces and miserable attitudes.
A new culture is emerging with the 24- hour stores though. At venues close to crime hot spots – highways and townships – the 24-hour stores give free coffee and the occasional free meal to the cops, and at about 9pm, midnight, 3am, 7am and lunchtime you see cop cars pulling into the forecourts of those garages and stores and going in for something to eat and drink. In the suburbs, guards with security companies are almost inevitably parked outside the 24-hour stores, drinking hot coffee and eating prepackaged food. Security for a cup of coffee and a cheap meal.
That’s why no one stops for a chat in the chain-clones that have replaced the corner kaif: they not only don’t live in the area and don’t give a continental toot if rats the size of dogs were seen scuttling out of the drains in Main Street, they don’t know that you, with your apparently innocent chatter, are not casing the joint.
So we pay and go and life becomes a routine of sameness, and greater isolation behind our PCs and panic buttons. What I wouldn’t give for a really good doughnut with Madeira coffee now.