delicia delizia

They don't know my name and I don't know theirs. I'd guess that, if they have English names, they're something along the lines of Greta and Tony. They call me Raisin Toast.

Every morning Greta looks up at me and smiles. "Raisin Toast?" she says.

"Yes, please," I say. "To go, for real."

I have to distinguish because I also get to go, for fake.

It all started when I discovered that the raisin toast they give you to go ("takeaway" here) is, hands down, the best raisin toast I've ever had. It's about the thickness of three American pieces (I finally found something big here!), and full of raisins and full of butter. It's fantastic.

So usually I popped in, acquired my name and my toast, and left. But then I got a few free mornings and thought I might actually sit down to nibble my toast more delicately from time to time. And Delizia's (the shop, unlike its proprietors, has a real name) is a delightful place to sit down in. First of all, there's the sheer novelty that it exists. In Sydney, independent coffee shops are few and far between, so finding one a block away from work is amazing in and of itself. But second, it really has a lot going for it on the competitive coffee shop side, too. It has a fish tank.

But that is not all, oh no, not at all. Oh, that is not all, my friend, oh no, not at all. There is also a wall -- a wall! -- and a ball ...

Well, actually, I don't really remember any balls, but you get the idea. It's a place that invites rhyme, which is more than I can say for most cafes in Sydney. But books are its secret, not its frontline. Its frontline caters to a varied crowd -- from yellow-shirted tradies smoking outside between shifts to yuppies conducting dodgy business deals over coffee. You could be a perfectly boring businessman (and there are several, one of whom, Brian or Brett or Brad or something like that, who keeps trying to pull First Amendment rank -- the freedom of speech to talk to me just because we're both American) and have no idea the books exist, but they do. You simply have to venture just past the fish tank and you'll find a little cave created by bookshelves. It's small and cozy and dimly lit. It's my booky cove, and I love it.

Now before you run and start checking out my booky cove and run back, arms flailing wildly, panting, "But, Kim! (gasp!) I thought you had such better taste," I must point out that all the books are perhaps not of the highest literary merit. I wouldn't teach or take classes on most of them. But that is beside the point: they are real books, there are a lot of them and they create atmosphere. Content is beside the point entirely.

Although, if you would indulge me for just a moment, could I possibly point out that there is a smattering of singularly -- singularly -- titled books? Need I say more?

(Yes, alright, I realize everyone did not take a class in Sherlock Holmes. For those of you who didn't, that was a clear reference. Perhaps you'd like to enroll next January? Think how many more of my jokes you'd get! And then there's Shakespeare the semester after ... and Hardy and Wilde and, well, aren't you just getting thrills just thinking about it?)

Terribly sorry, I do apologize. Where were we? Ah, yes, the booky cove. Now, besides the books, the best part of the booky cove is that it is has a couch and some comfy chairs. I am not fond of uncomfy chairs, yet they seem to be the staple in many establishments of class these days. I simply do not understand this. Why not have comfortable furniture?

Similarly, why not have comfy floors? It is also all the rage to have the most bare, clodden, heavy of floors: wooden. Everyone loves them, I know. They are sophisticated, I know. They are clean, I know. They are not comfortable! They are not homey! They do not belong in booky coves, but there you go. Even the booky coves have bowed to the masses and brought in wooden floors. Bring back the carpet, I say, but that is not stylish. And so I grant Delizia's a special pardon; that is, we have come to a compromise: they supply the comfy furniture (which, I admit, is more necessary than comfy floors) and I do not gripe about the floors. At least not when I'm in the comfy chairs.

Which brings us back to laxing lazily in the booky cove. This was where I discovered that Delizia's amazing raisin toast, while still good, is not as amazing if I have to butter it myself, which is what happens when I order "for here." They bring it out, all warmly toasted, with a lovely, copiously filled dish of butter next to it, but try as I might, I cannot spread the butter to satisfaction. (I have never boasted, you may recall, of any culinary aptitude whatsoever.) I tried on several occasions, but was always left with slightly sub-par amazing raisin toast. And so I began to modify my dine-in request. It was quite confusing the first time.

"I'd like raisin toast to go, but to eat it here," I told Greta.

"Eat here?" she asked.

"Yes," I said, " but I'd like the toast to go."

"To go?"

"Er, takeaway."

"So takeaway?"

"Well, no. I'd like to eat it here. But I'd like it prepared to -- takeaway."

"You want to eat raisin toast here and takeaway raisin toast, too?"

We were making headway. "Almost," I said. "But without the toast for here."

Twenty minutes later I took a seat and four minutes later my raisin toast appeared perfectly buttered, prepared to be taken away for whatever mysterious reason Raisin Toast required. And so it has every time I've gone in since. That's why I love Delizia's. They understand "to go, for fake."

And they have a fish tank.