Sunday morning in Melbourne. A clear winter sky, sharp as glass. The sun spills over Flinders Street Station like warm honey, but here in the shade of Degraves Lane, my fingers curl gratefully around a glass of oat milk latte. The milk’s velvety and the coffee rich, caramel-dark: exactly the way I like it. The bar heater above me glows red, a modest halo of warmth. Still, I can see my breath when I lean out of its reach.
This is my second morning in a row at Café Andiamo. I’m not a creature of habit, usually, but something about this laneway has taken hold of me. Maybe it’s the contrasts: the clatter and clang of a working kitchen behind the polished café façade, the mix of ghosts and hipsters, of hard edges softened by steam and conversation. I come for the coffee, but I stay to watch the scene unfold.
Just across the cobbles, the concierge at The Quarter leans against the doorframe like a man auditioning for Peaky Blinders. His hair is shaved at the sides and slicked back on top, sharp enough to cut through the morning like a razor blade sewn into a hat brim. He nods once as a passing woman in black wool and white sneakers raises a hand. They don’t speak. That’s part of the art in Melbourne: looking like you’ve stepped out of a film without needing a script.
Inside the café, a young waitress sits tucked behind the counter, eating avocado on toast with a kind of reverence. She’s not on duty yet. That much is obvious. Hair tied up loosely, no apron, eyes dreamy as the green smush glistens under a crack of pepper and lemon. The extractor fans roar above her, drowning out the radio. Every now and then the flames leap at the hotplates and reflect off the gleaming pans that hang like trophies in the kitchen. Whisks, colanders, ladles, strings of bright red chillies and pale brown onions: all swinging with easy rhythm, a well-oiled dance behind the scenes.
To my left, the busboy from yesterday — the one with the mop of curls and earbuds jammed in — hustles past again, carrying a giant bag of frozen peas. I have no idea what they use that many peas for, but the bag is nearly as big as him. His breath comes out in puffs as he hurries past, head down, lost in his own playlist.
Two women in high-vis jackets and chunky boots plonk themselves down at the next table, their orange backpacks still strapped tight. Tradies, I guess, or maybe nurses finishing the night shift. One of them mutters something about a bloke called Jarrod not pulling his weight. The other just nods and stares into her cappuccino like it’s a magic portal.
Down at the end of the laneway, Easy Mart is doing a steady trade in energy drinks, soggy sausage rolls and vapes. The clientele are mostly dazed twenty-somethings, all sunglasses and slow steps. Melbourne doesn’t sleep on weekends, it just goes underground. And then emerges into the light blinking and caffeine-deprived.
A man in a trench coat shuffles past with The Age folded under one arm. He stops, takes a table, and begins to read. I catch the headlines: war, air crashes, riots. They all seem very far away from this gentle laneway, with its narrow old bricks and breakfast smells. He sips a short black and frowns as though searching for meaning between the lines.
It’s not quiet here. But it’s not loud either: the clack of forks and knives on plates, bursts of laughter, the rustle of newspapers, and the steady hiss of steam. Above it all, the sounds of the city filter in: the high-pitched screech of a tram taking the corner, the thrum of a bus on Flinders Street, the rustle of bills and the beep of contactless payments.
I glance up and catch my own reflection in the café window: a bundled figure in an orange Superdry hoodie and a contented half-smile. A passing moment. Nothing more. Behind the glass, the kitchen continues its performance: one cook flipping eggs with effortless style, another plating up pancakes with berries so vibrant they almost glow.
I don’t order food today—I’m saving myself for Puttanesca on Lygon Street later—but if I did, it would be the shakshuka. Or maybe the smashed peas on toast, if only to see where the contents of that massive bag ended up.
A child walks by with her father, dragging a pink umbrella even though there’s no rain. She stops, points to the pancake stack in the window, and says, “That one.” Her father laughs, checks his watch, and shrugs. “Why not?” And they go inside.
Sunday mornings like this make cities feel like villages. There’s a kind of intimacy in the repetition: the same characters returning to the same stage, each playing their part in walk-on roles. Yesterday’s quick glance becomes today’s nod. Tomorrow might even bring a smile.
I sip the last of my latte, letting the heat linger in my chest. Around me, the light shifts ever so slightly. The bar heater’s glow has lost some of its intensity. I pull my puffer jacket over my hoodie and prepare to leave, but something holds me a little longer. Maybe it’s the music. Maybe it’s the coffee. Or maybe it’s just this feeling that, for a brief, frosty moment, the whole world is distilled into single laneway in Melbourne where nothing much happens and everything matters.
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