Sittin sippin browsin
I have always been a big fan of coffee shops in book shops. Somehow the sensibility seems just right, and I think I now understand why (and its not just about caffeine addiction, its far deeper than that, its about cake too) and, moreover, have finally unlocked the philosophy behind the business (and it's not just about over stimulating consumers, although it occurs that offering a couple of lines of coke on the door of Dorothy Perkins would lead to an increase in sales, although you'd have to remove the mirrors in the store to minimise paranoia outbreaks).
The link between education and refreshment was made for me in childhood, when a trip to Glasgow's museum and art gallery would culminate in a visit to the tea shop. This is Glasgow, so if I tell you that the chocolate gateau they served there actually defied the laws of chemistry by having more calories in it collectively than the ingredients contributed singly (and those ingredients were mainly butter, sugar, lard and batter, and chocolate), and that this had a direct bearing on the taste (simply glorious), then you may be assured that I am not exaggerating. These were in the days before chemical adulteration of our foods, when the term 'trans-fatty' applied to a chubby cross-dresser. Cake tasted like cake because they were made from, and made you, fat. But this was OK, because having just wandered several miles of galleries, one was quite entitled to a few thousand calories on a single spoon.
Back in the present day, it occurs to me that the sort of person who is going to have a coffee in a book shop is the sort of person who enjoys shopping for books. Moreover, they are the sort of person who enjoys spending some time sitting listening to jazz (it's always jazz in book shops, it's the law) drinking their coffee in comfy seats, surrounded by books. Chances are that this is more or less exactly what they would be doing if at home, only with less jazz and fewer books.
The coffee shop in the Waterstones (other bookshops are available) I am currently in as I sit typing this (it's okay, everyone thinks I'm working on my screenplay) is situated in the section which has all their books on art, that is, the expensive large format ones that you just want to take home and leave lying around the place so that everyone will think you are cleverer and more cultured than you really are. And sitting here, looking at the spines of colourful books, some of which have pictures of ladies and gauze inside them, there is, as the latte takes hold, a real desire to own those tomes. Not just the plump, colourful, heavyweight books with gorgeous reproductions of paintings of fruit and so on, but the undernourished, dull, cruel looking books on art criticism that take one hundred and fifty pages to grudgingly admit that despite his many faults, Van Gough could paint.
Because for a balanced reader, fiction is going to be well represented, even foreign fiction thanks to Stig (ten years ago if you asked somebody if they had read a Swedish crime novel recently, you would probably get a negative response. Get a negative response to that question today and you would not be out of order to enquire how their health is now that they are out of their coma). Likewise there are popular books on various branches of natural philosophy, many featuring handsome BBC presenters on the front wearing chinos. The same can be said for history. But art? Not so much.
Which is why you situate your coffee shop in the art section. Not only does it take the browser off the beaten aisle, exposing them to unforeseen temptation, but it ensures the coffee drinkers are not blocking access to the popular and profitable shelves of the store, usually stocked with authors with an umlatt in their name where the book covers have a bloke standing in a snowy field.
Right, coffee finished, I'm off to try and find a book on Scottish baking, and one on how to make your own defribulator.
The link between education and refreshment was made for me in childhood, when a trip to Glasgow's museum and art gallery would culminate in a visit to the tea shop. This is Glasgow, so if I tell you that the chocolate gateau they served there actually defied the laws of chemistry by having more calories in it collectively than the ingredients contributed singly (and those ingredients were mainly butter, sugar, lard and batter, and chocolate), and that this had a direct bearing on the taste (simply glorious), then you may be assured that I am not exaggerating. These were in the days before chemical adulteration of our foods, when the term 'trans-fatty' applied to a chubby cross-dresser. Cake tasted like cake because they were made from, and made you, fat. But this was OK, because having just wandered several miles of galleries, one was quite entitled to a few thousand calories on a single spoon.
Back in the present day, it occurs to me that the sort of person who is going to have a coffee in a book shop is the sort of person who enjoys shopping for books. Moreover, they are the sort of person who enjoys spending some time sitting listening to jazz (it's always jazz in book shops, it's the law) drinking their coffee in comfy seats, surrounded by books. Chances are that this is more or less exactly what they would be doing if at home, only with less jazz and fewer books.
The coffee shop in the Waterstones (other bookshops are available) I am currently in as I sit typing this (it's okay, everyone thinks I'm working on my screenplay) is situated in the section which has all their books on art, that is, the expensive large format ones that you just want to take home and leave lying around the place so that everyone will think you are cleverer and more cultured than you really are. And sitting here, looking at the spines of colourful books, some of which have pictures of ladies and gauze inside them, there is, as the latte takes hold, a real desire to own those tomes. Not just the plump, colourful, heavyweight books with gorgeous reproductions of paintings of fruit and so on, but the undernourished, dull, cruel looking books on art criticism that take one hundred and fifty pages to grudgingly admit that despite his many faults, Van Gough could paint.
Because for a balanced reader, fiction is going to be well represented, even foreign fiction thanks to Stig (ten years ago if you asked somebody if they had read a Swedish crime novel recently, you would probably get a negative response. Get a negative response to that question today and you would not be out of order to enquire how their health is now that they are out of their coma). Likewise there are popular books on various branches of natural philosophy, many featuring handsome BBC presenters on the front wearing chinos. The same can be said for history. But art? Not so much.
Which is why you situate your coffee shop in the art section. Not only does it take the browser off the beaten aisle, exposing them to unforeseen temptation, but it ensures the coffee drinkers are not blocking access to the popular and profitable shelves of the store, usually stocked with authors with an umlatt in their name where the book covers have a bloke standing in a snowy field.
Right, coffee finished, I'm off to try and find a book on Scottish baking, and one on how to make your own defribulator.
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