‘We can’t move, I’ve found our cafe’: Queenslanders love of the local suburban cafe

Queenslanders love their local cafe, so much so that Mel Buttle doesn’t feel she can ever move house or she would lose her local.

‘We can’t move now, I’ve just found our cafe,” I said to my partner.

I heard the words come out of my mouth, and they took me by surprise. I thought about it for a second … that’s ridiculous, basing your life around, of all things, convenient access to a delicious, double-shot mocha and gluten-free banana bread. Some people live near the beach, their family or the airport, I live near Paul.

My partner responded calmly, “We could always drive out to see him, and Paul might not work there forever?” A good point.

The thought of Paul leaving was too much to bear, so I pushed that aside for now and kept scrolling the real estate website. Paul leaving the shop was up there emotionally for me with year 4 when Mrs Dillion, my favourite teacher, went to teach at another school, which frankly should be illegal, I remember thinking at the time.

And in the very same week, my favourite librarian left. No amount of red frogs and being allowed to watch The Comedy Company filled that void.

Mel Buttle has found her cafe - and she’s not moving.

I kept looking but not really looking, just flicking through finding reasons to hate the houses. “Look at how much they want for that in Mitchelton, and it doesn’t even have a pool.” I get a bit Darryl Kerrigan from The Castle looking at real estate, “$1.2m in The Gap with no pool? Tell him he’s dreaming.”

It’s not always easy to find your cafe. Some places you just don’t click with no matter how good the savoury mince is. It’s taken me 10 months to find Paul.

You know what it’s usually like the first few times at a coffee shop, just surface stuff, general questions about your day and the like.

Not Paul, as soon as I set foot in the door, “Well, look what the cat’s dragged into my shop,” which is Paul’s way of saying, “Thanks for coming, I haven’t seen you here before, what’s your name, welcome.” I prefer the way Paul said it to be honest. I do like a bad boy.

It makes me feel like I belong in a place once I’ve found my cafe.

My ex moved to Mackay, well my ex barista. It’s still a touchy subject – Adam I miss you. Please tell me what you put in the avo on toast. My best guess is marinated feta, am I close? Adam was cut from the same cloth as Paul, bubbly, able to remember my dog’s name and knew his way around a latte.

He’d chat if it wasn’t busy, but never rush you out the door if he was. He moved on, and I was left to pick up the pieces. I had rebounds of course. I mucked around with chai on macadamia milk in Annerley for a while … as you can see, I’d lost all sense of myself. For a while I thought I’d got back what I had with Adam – I found a guy in Coorparoo whose mushrooms on sourdough were top shelf, the coffee also pretty good, but we had no spark, it was just breakfast and nothing more for me.

Mel Buttle.

He never called me “missy moo” or warmed my almond croissant without asking, but hey, not everyone can be Paul.

The moving house debate was raging between me and my partner this week over gluten-free chocolate slice and mochas at Paul’s. Paul threw himself right in the middle, inquiring “so you’d only move if the place had a pool right?” “Correct,” I reply awaiting the umpire’s decision nervously.

With the wisdom of Solomon, Paul suggests, “why don’t you just pop a little plunge pool in your place, it’ll add value, then if you want to move later, you’d probably sell your house for more, but in the meantime you’ll have a pool and I can come around for a swim, I’ll bring cannoli.” Take that Adam.