Coffee Stains The Teeth
Image Via @cafeolimpico
When I still lived in the Old Port of Montreal, I had a near-ritualistic affair with the historic quarter’s Café Olimpico. It sat directly in view from my studio’s windows, and every Sunday night, it would beckon me down with the promise of both a late caffeine fix and a friend. I’d get there 15’ before they close with little on hand, save for my wallet and my keys. Anthony, the on-shift barista, knew to expect me.
In the sole un-propped stool, I’d give animated rants about the week I’ve had; how exhausted I feel. The little blips and conflicts would brew steam and foam in my gut as I recounted them—all the while, he’d make my double-shot latte. I’m fed free-of-change the remaining pastries left unsold, and in further generosity, he offers laughs and quips at my many misadventures. Then, we’d swap roles; I would play the verbal diary as the counter is given its final wipe down. Each unlicensed therapy session is soundtracked by whatever we’d queue onto the sound system. One day, I complain about Mac Demarco soft-boys; Anthony responds by playing his favourite Mac Demarco song.
Mac Demarco, “One More Love Song” — “Another try, another go. Never thought you'd feel this low.”
One More Love Song, like much of the album This Old Dog, explores a somber state-of-mind. Its opening note is smoked out by the shimmer of a cymbal, indicating the dream-like direction the ballad intends to follow. The simple melody is noticeably slow and downtrodden, and the syncopated guitar fills its gaps to lighten the heavy load. Following the intro, Mac Demarco’s infamous rasp is additionally reverberated--the cherry on top for this hazy gloom which accompanies his lyrical narrative: an endless, almost desperate search for a love that doesn’t end in despair.
My top artist of 2022 ended up being Mac Demarco; I was in his top 0.1% of listeners. Maybe I was the very soft-boy I was complaining about all along.
Unsurprisingly, common topics between Anthony and I were our many unsuccessful ventures in dating. At first, we’d exchange detailed vignettes on a scattered array of partners—exes lost to time, friends stuck amidst what-ifs, lingering glances by the copy-machine; however, it wasn’t long before our Sunday nights became spirited updates on a singular prospect. But, with hope and longing typically comes rejection and sorrow—after all, we were united by our shared struggle as hopeless romantics, naturally sentimental and borderline utopian in our antics.
Although we’d lament over the many miscommunications and missed-signals which formed the cores of our individual “situationships”, there was a palpable light-heartedness about our conversations. Maybe it was the simple relief in undergoing a slow heartbreak with another. Maybe neither of us had quite mastered vulnerability, instead choosing to engage in “open” discussions while feigning placidity. It’s unsurprising that I’d often queue up a thematically-corresponding jam.
Groove Theory, “Tell Me” — “I've been doing my own thing. Love has always had a way of having bad timing.”
It’s well-known that the R&B landscape of the 90’s was lush and vast. The charts were teeming with soulful vocals and dirty funk from boy bands and superstar divas alike. However, with the 1995 release of Tell Me, Groove Theory dominated the scene with their only album to date, aptly named: Groove Theory. The bassline—a reconstructed sampling of the 80’s hit ‘All Night Long’ by the Mary-Jane Girls—immediately sets the pulsing rhythm; a straightforward percussion pattern supports it further, and earnest piano flourishes bring the beat to life. This simplistic construction makes the hit a true staple of its time, and while undeniably groovy on its own, the intoxicating charm of the song lies in the butter-smooth vocals of Amel Larrieux. As her voice alternates between breathy fluttering, perhaps in a delicate confession, and satisfying runs that are belted as though rent is due, her talent becomes undeniable—not like anyone is arguing otherwise.
Of course, Sunday wasn’t the only day I’d make an appearance at the Café. It was a breakfast source on dreary mornings spent without sleep—most importantly, though, it was a pick-me-up before nights out, and as another zoomer with an amphetamine prescription, that’s a necessity. Don’t get me wrong, I love a good espresso martini. But, a doppio before tequila shots offers a similar effect without the burden on your bank account.
In our clubwear, my girlfriends and I would stick out obscenely among the vacationing families waiting in line and the distinctly older Italian crowd that would alternate between smoking outside and taking up a corner within. When asked about the celebratory occasion, we would excitedly announce our attendance of a disco night, as if our sequined outfits and towering platform heels weren’t enough of an indication.
Anthony and I would share a knowing glance; I’ve made my love of disco very clear, and my shameless expression of it has undeniably skewed the cafe’s Spotify Wrapped. I consider it a positive change.
Oliver Cheatham, “Get Down Saturday Night” — “You work all week long. You work your fingers to the bone. Friday's at an end, I can't wait for Saturday to begin.”
In the past fifteen years, Get Down Saturday Night has been heavily sampled by the likes of Room 5, Michael Gray, Daft Punk, and Ideal, whose reiterations of the track have allowed it to chart three more times since its initial 1983 release. As a result, I feel oddly lucky that my first encounter with Get Down Saturday Night was in its raw, original form, and in the way it was meant to be enjoyed: in a balmy nightclub rife with banging bodies being lit up by the disco ball above reflecting the LED dance floor below. It was past 3AM in mid-August 2018, and with a fake Saskatchewan ID in tow, I had managed to partake in Barcelona’s nightlife alongside my 18-year-old cousin. There was a slow shift from pop-rap to funkier R&B as the night dwindled on, and the familiar sounds of Donna Summer and Boney-M had me exploding in glee. As soon as the two snare hits opened up to a full-bodied groove—an absolutely guttural guitar riff, enriched by a punching bass line and smooth piano chords—I was hooked, immediately opening Shazam with my phone held high in desperation.
Living further away from McGill’s campus was a purposeful decision. I wanted the ability to escape student life whenever I so desired; being trapped in its direct center would make such an escape near impossible. But, when the winter semester shut down as quickly as it came, I felt mild regrets. The Omicron COVID variant understandably brought with it the return of online courses, curfews, and take-out only establishments. Café Olimpico was not exempt from these requirements, and as staffing was reduced, Anthony remained on his holiday break, posting snapshots of vaguely scenic imagery in sporadic instagram dumps. All at once, my weekly custom came to an abrupt end. With additional restrictions brought forth by the dangerously cold weather, I experienced isolation unlike before.
On a particularly lonely night, following many hours spent idly staring at a statistics textbook, I finally accepted that my exhaustion was no longer ignorable. The time read 11:40PM, meaning I had only 5 minutes to grab a coffee before the espresso machine was disassembled. Without bothering to pause Spotify on my desktop, I rushed out mid song—one I routinely return to. This time specifically was due to a very on-the-nose reason: I felt trapped in my room.
Frank Ocean, “In My Room” — “I guess I can't state my feelings too soon. I don't know you. And I can't put no threats in the air.”
In My Room is quick; in just 2 minutes and 13 seconds, Frank Ocean speeds through a winding verse atop a glossy beat. The looping techno melody is a definite shift away from his more mellow tracks, which often feature intricate instrumentals that spill through generously-spaced lyrics. Unlike his more emotionally-guided ballads, he doesn’t glide through the limits of his range to illustrate a distinct narrative; instead, Frank spills all over the place as he discusses wealth, vulnerability, sex, and other forms of debauchery often tied to fame and fortune. Perhaps that's the very reason why I struggle to leave In My Room behind—it ends just before I get to sink my teeth into its vivid poeticisms and erratic laser-like effects. It doesn’t hold my hand the same way more popular Frank hits tend to; In My Room has something to say, and it’s up to me to catch every word.
Two realizations were made as I entered the shop: firstly, I had forgotten it was Sunday. Secondly, the song that played overhead felt familiar; it was the very song continuing to play in my apartment. I didn’t have a moment to acknowledge the coincidence before a barista I had seen only once prior asked for my order, then introduced himself in a similar fashion that Anthony had: with a remark about my midnight double-espressos. Before I left, he stopped me—“I doubt anyone else will be coming in after you,” he said, pushing two donuts in my direction.
Someone else has since made a home of that studio apartment, and Anthony has moved on to a career at Google. Nowadays, I fail to find a single recognizable face at the cafe—not that I’ve made many stops since moving to the Plateau. Life moves on, but meaning doesn’t die; even something as mundane as coffee leaves a stain.
Written By Grace Dochau
