Reykjavík Grapevine - 09.07.2004, Blaðsíða 24

BEERMAN IN: “COMFORTS DON´T COME CHEAP.”
by Beerman
We´ve all been there. You spend the night talking to a hot
waitress you´ve been after for months. It´s her night off and you´re
hoping its your night on. Pre-blackout, everything seems to be going
fine. And then you wake up. Next to someone who, as far as you can
deteremine, is most definately not your waitress. How this happened
you can only wonder. Did the waitress ditch you and then you simply
went for the next person in the room? Or did you, in a moment of
sheer insanity, or perhaps realising that the waitress was way outta
your league, settle for what seemed more likely to lead somewhere?
Coffee, Java, Hipsters & Me
by Marc Mettler
Multiplicity is a common trait in Reykjavík. Every week
I go to places filled with author/painters, Icelandic/Americans or
singer/songwriters in indie/punk bands. Even the Grapevine has a
musician/editor.
I meander down to café/bars where I
try to fit in among the hipster/musi-
cians born from Iceland’s punk/new-
wave/alternative music boom of
the 1980s. I sit among them in my
favourite window seat upstairs in
Prikið to people-watch. In Kaffi-
barinn, I stare at my ibook and join
the pretentious crowd of Macintosh
worshipers. I meet friends at Kaffi-
brennslan where we ponder the latest
album by Erlend Øye. Together we
sip a standard-yet-satisfying cup of
coffee to an artsy soundtrack.
It’s the same thing week-in,
week-out and I’m starting to get
bored. I realise that when it comes to
cafés, sometimes less is more.
And that’s exactly what I find as I
sit with my richly brewed cup of joe
in Grái Kötturinn (The Gray Cat),
a special “artist-run café” tucked-in
across from the National Theatre on
Hverfisgata.
“We get six people here and it’s
rush hour,” says the guy working the
counter. I notice that the place is
really that small, but it’s filled to the
brim with an unpretentious blend
of books, from Danielle Steel to
George Bernard Shaw.
I am introduced to Hulda
Hákon, who runs the place with her
husband, Jón Óskar. The walls are
covered with art and photography by
the couple. Hákon plugs her latest
art show at a nearby gallery and
explains to me how they were able to
pay for the opening of the café with
their artwork.
A regular stops in to order pan-
cakes and read the paper. He chats
with the workers like old friends. I
feel welcome to join in or enjoy my
coffee alone. When the conversation
lulls, I notice the absence of progres-
sive-rock tunes in my ears and feel at
ease.
The two oldest cafés in town,
Kaffi Mokka and Tíu Droppar, also
dare to brave the coffee world in
the sound of silence. Mokka offers
groovy 1950s décor with deep, brown
tones and some tasty java to boot.
And sitting inside Tíu Droppar,
owner Hérdís Kírsten Hupfeldt
welcomes me warmly in Icelandic,
despite my fast-talking English.
When I start to feel weighted
down by all the rich, black coffee
served around town, I step into the
competitive Kaffi Tár on Bankastræti
to peak my caffeine high with a final
zinger.
With a wall of trophies from both
national and world barista competi-
tions, Kaffi Tár takes pride in the
unique iced-coffee drinks created by
its smiley staff. I order the recom-
mended “The Naked Lime,” which
combines espresso, milk, caramel
syrup and lime with tongue-twisting
talent. I had forgotten that coffee
could be light and refreshing.
The downtown location (one
of four Kaffi Társ in Iceland) has
a more drink-and-run style, with
young and old customers enter-
ing and exiting in swift rotation.
Manager Sonja Grant explains that
the hot-colour scheme of the café
was chosen to resemble the tropical
locations where coffee is grown.
Energized and a bit shaky from
all the caffeine, I recognise the key
behind many of these cafés: they
don’t serve alcohol or try to double as
a bar. And many of them have only
daytime hours. The focus, then, stays
on what matters: the coffee. And
good service, of course.
I ask Grant about her experience
before the coffee business. “I was a
carpenter,” she replies. I guess multi-
plicity is impossible to avoid.
Not knowing whether you scored the
previous night, you move towards
her. She´s not nearly as pretty as
your waitress, but she´s there and the
waitress is not. Whatever happened
last night, your current bedfellow has
now lost all interest in you. This, of
course, turns you on.
Somewhat stupidly, you reach for
your mobile phone and ask for
her number. She gives you seven
figures, most probably at random,
as you hurriedly press “Add entry.”
The phone demands a name. At
that point you realise you have no
idea what her name is, so you fail
to record what may or may not be
her number. Not knowing what to
do, and hoping for relief from your
predicament, you decide to head
for the bathroom. You stand up in
front of her, naked. She gives you an
expression which tells you that what
may have seemed to her like a good
idea at the time no longer is. When
you reemerge from the toilet, she´s
gone. Whether you managed to score
a goal in the endless tournament
that is the Reykjavík bar scene, you´ll
never know.
And on it goes. You wait for night
to come and head out again. I had
heard rumours of free beer at an elec-
tion rally, and suddenly found myself
developing an interest in politics.
The candidate in question was for
world peace, so I didn´t have a moral
crisis drinking his beer. Apart from
me, there was barely anyone is the
room but the candidate and his gor-
geus Russian bride. A couple of guys
came in and walked up to me. At
least someone cared. “Is it true about
the free beer?” they asked. I pointed
them in the direction of the empty
bar. If you can´t even get the people
to drink for peace, then what hope
is there? The election over, the peace
candidate cut off the free booze and
went home to the comforting arms
of his loving wife, if nothing else.
The bar went back to charging
world record prices for the beer, and
the bar suddenly became filled with
people. Obviously, you wouldn´t
want to be seen in a place where
everything was free.
A band came on. At the lack
of anything better to do I stood in
front of the stage and stared at the
two people constituting the band, a
slightly overweight lead singer charg-
ing through yet another rendition of
Mustang Sally while the keyboardist
tried to keep pace. A girl put her
hand on my shoulder, as if trying to
see past me. I turned around. For a
minute I thought I was in love. Then
I realised it was just her estrogen
levels. She was at that point in her
monthly cycle where she took to
touching strange men for no appar-
ent reason, when even the slightest
touch seemed sensual. There was
something she emitted into the air.
I was not the only one picking up on
this. She looked at me, emitted more
of whatever it was she was emitting,
and swayed her body more in tune
than the music was. Before more
than a moment could pass, and I´m
not one to count my moments, she
was surrounded by men bumping
into one another, trying to keep
rhythm around her, and they all
had a certain look in their eye. She
smiled, but not to me anymore. I sat
down and ordered a beer. Comforts
don´t come cheap in this town, but
they do have them.
illustration by Þorsteinn Davíðsson
H
.S
.
By the Reykjavík harbour
Suðurbugt Reykjavík harbour
Tel: 551 5101
24