Mocha and a man to go, please

10 April 2012

Did you know that 60 per cent of people in the UK visit coffee shops once or twice every day? And that more of them are men than women? All of which, according to Caffe Nero, adds up to something more than a tall skinny latte and a bran muffin for the lady customer. The best men are young, fun and full of cappuccino.

The upstairs lounge of the Notting Hill Caffe Nero bears out the stats: in it there are two estate agents, four Italian language students and a reasonable-looking businessman in smart casualwear. Caffe Nero has suggested some Rules to aid your caffeine pick-me-up, so as per them, I sit in a chair with my back to the wall so that all comers are in view, and put my coat over the chair next to me to mark my potential lover's seat.

"Be sure you have something to read, but be well practised for furtive glances." Casually I open my impressive (having been away for a week) bundle of post, and flick through a nondenominational newspaper. In my bag I have a selection of books, a title for every occasion, from Tongue First, to Money, to An Unofficial Rose.

I'm just about to start halfhearted furtive looks at the businessman when a man who looks like Finley Quaye walks in. I cast him a fleeting yet intense glance. He catches it. Am I looking for my friend, or am I scoping him out? He's not quite sure. But he can't concentrate on his paper - either I look like a low-grade pervert or there's something meaningful going on. He finishes his paper and then starts reading it again from back to front. That's my cue.

"Excuse me, have you got a light?" Fags eh, brilliant, they may give you cancer but they're great ice-breakers. We talk a bit, he lives local, works local, is studying art. I say I feel kinda weird just striking up a conversation and he counts off the reasons why I might have do that: "1, you want to chat; 2, you're new to the area; 3, you need some information; 4, you're a nymphomaniac; 5, or a psychopath; 6, or you're just being friendly." So I guess that means it is not weird to chat to men in coffee shops, unless you are. Finleyalike leaves, but I soldier on, with some success.

Kerim is reading a really intense book, The Dumas Club by Arturo Perez-Reverte which Polanski turned into the film, The Ninth Gate. "What's best, the film or the book?" I say, spotting the flyleaf notes. I'm in there. Kerim has been chatted up in coffee shops before, but never in London.

My usual posture in caf?s is head down looking at the paper, closed off from the world. But as an open, chatty, psychopath I was making friends all over the shop. What's great is that you aren't anywhere near alcohol, so the man's testosterone is safely encased in sobriety, and the woman's judgment isn't clouded by several pints of lager or wine. No one is strutting their stuff, and all in, it's a low-temperature sexual vibe.

In the less relaxed surroundings of Pret a Manger, things didn't go so well. In a huddle around the sandwiches I say, in a confused Betty Boop manner which I assume will sound ironic, "Ooh, there's too much choice, what have you got?" The gentleman laughs and shows me his salt beef. We have the snappiest of conversations, but he thinks trying to pick someone up at lunchtime is "incredibly odd". Or, presumably, that I'm a psychopath.

I have now drunk so much coffee and asked for so many lights that I have nicotine and caffeine jitters, and am talking faster than a livestock auctioneer. Caffe Nero's Rules say that what you drink reflects your personality, and so far this psychopath has done two lattes ("You don't rush into things and like to take your time") and an espresso ("You are strong, confident and to the point"). Cappuccino drinkers apparently "enjoy a touch of frothy flirting, but once you get beyond that, you are smooth and serious".

Much as I hate to admit it, in Starbucks I ordered a mint tea, before edging closer to a couple of urban sportifs doing film business on their mobiles. Sportif 1 was way out of my league, very tasty; Sportif 2 was more my type, a bit dishevelled, dark around the eyes, naughty. After a bit of eye contact over my newspaper, bona fide chemistry was established.

But some dotcom geezer sitting between us tries to chat me up: "Yes, there's quite a scene here at Starbucks, the world we live in is very much about networking. I know the staff quite well and they always introduce me to interesting new people."

The Coffee Shop Rules say you should note the time when your potential quarry comes in and come back every day - he's likely to be a creature of habit. But if you hunch over your hot chocolate, hugging the mug in that special girly way which suggests a tender heart and a riot of stuffed toys at the end of the bed, you might wait a while before the right man comes to your table.

Catching a second wave of espresso confidence, I'm unstoppable: "Are you part of the Starbucks salon?" I ask the Sportifs. No question about it, coffee is the new Spanish Fly.

Rules for coffee-bar singles

Watch for a cappuccino tache - milky grins only look cute on toddlers.

Take reading matter for every occasion. Check out which stories he lingers over in the papers - poring over Page Three is not a good sign.

Don't get dressed up, unless you are a coffee-shop slapper trawling for cheap sex.

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