Hot cup of guilt: I love my local cafe, but the new one two doors down is better

It’s always strange to bump into someone from a specific part of your life out of context as if you’ve accidentally pierced a hole in the matrix. When I was younger, it would break my mind if I ran into a school teacher at the grocery store. What are you doing here, Mrs Miller? You only exist at school. Put the basket down and return to the classroom at once!

It doesn’t really change that much as you get older. Seeing work colleagues on the weekend, living their weekend lives feels wrong. The same goes for anyone you know from the gym. Have you ever seen a gym-only acquaintance not sweating and wearing civilian clothes? Bizarre.

In the cutthroat suburban cafe scene, the opening of a new option presents a tricky choice for loyal locals. Credit: Michael Howard

Walking the frozen food aisle at Coles last week, I was confused when a big, burly man strolled right up to me and asked, “Where have you been lately?” Immediately, I knew that I knew him but could not pinpoint where I knew him from.

It wasn’t until he muttered something about coming by for coffee that it clicked into place. He owned the local cafe, and I had, in fact, been avoiding him.

Until a couple of months ago, it had been my favourite cafe in the area, possibly the world. They did everything a cafe is supposed to do to foster fondness, including memorising my order and using my name enough times that I felt like a minor celebrity. “Look who it is, it’s Thomas! Good to see you, Mr Mitchell; one flat white coming right up for Thomas!”

But then a new place opened two doors down, and unfortunately, it was better in every way. The coffee was tastier, the decor cooler, the food fresher, the vibes higher, and background music less annoying. Perhaps most importantly, the new place didn’t give you the bathroom key attached to a giant spatula and send you 100 metres up a hill to an outhouse. Instead, they just had standard on-premises restrooms with regular locks.

Basically, in every comparable facet, it was a step up from the other place, which should’ve been welcome news were it not for a crippling case of cafe-guilt. You see, the decision to stray initially began with the best intentions. My wife, Kate, and I love our local, of course, but in the interest of fairness, we felt obliged to try the new joint – a show of support in the form of two coffees and a pastry.

We would visit once and welcome them to the neighbourhood, and that would be that. But then the pastry was so light and buttery, the coffee smooth and well-roasted. When they gifted us an almond croissant – a perfect balance of flakes on top and filling inside – I suspected the damage was done.

One visit turned into two, which turned into breakfast, which meant we had to come back and sample the lunch menu. Before long, we were inventing reasons to return – “The other place looks so crowded!” – but consciously parking miles away and taking the backstreets so we wouldn’t be spotted.

With sunglasses on and caps pulled low, we would slink into the cafe, high on the thrill of avoiding detection for another day.

This charming Parisian cafe is not my local, but if it were I’d probably never abandon it (unless something better came along). Credit: Jan Wlodarczyk / Alamy Stock Photo

Eventually, Kate’s guilt became too much, and she began to fret about the old cafe owner’s feelings, wondering aloud if he hated us. She decided he probably did and then decided she would rather a lifetime of inferior coffee than risk the possibility of a relative stranger being angry at her.

And so it was we found our way back to the original spot, which felt exactly like falling into bed with a lover you’d since moved on from – the flaws inescapable and everywhere. Nothing is charming about these milk crates for seats; they’re impractical and uncomfortable. Lounge music on Spotify in 2024? Spare me.

Every time I found myself trudging up the hill towards the bathroom, spatula-key in hand, I truly empathised with Sisyphus – bound to repeat this insane punishment for a lifetime.

Was I just bitter? Possibly. But not as bitter as the coffee they served from their old (and likely faulty) coffee machine. With each passing day, I witnessed the great migration, sheepish locals shuffling down the road while the rest of us wobbled awkwardly on crates, pretending everything was fine.

In scenes reminiscent of Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks, my old cafe is sparsely populated. A few loyal souls sipping their brew. Credit: VCG Wilson/Corbis via Getty Image

A part of me felt sad, mostly about all the almond croissants I was missing, but also because the people had spoken, and the results were deafening. But then something remarkable happened, a handwritten sign promising salvation: Closed for renovations.

In an attempt to reverse its slide, the old cafe was giving itself an overhaul, a new fitout, a new menu, and new chairs. According to the unofficial rules of the suburban cafe scene, a shutdown grants clientele permission to look elsewhere without fear of punishment.

Finally, I was free to enjoy an almond croissant without feeling bad until Kate pointed out that we’d probably need to visit the old spot after the renovations. “You know, just to be supportive?”

Find more of the author’s work here. Email him at [e-mail] or follow him on Instagram at @thomasalexandermitchell and on Twitter @_thmitchell.

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