Earlier in the morning I’d peered through the windows of this establishment and noticed a distinguished looking man of mature years at work on the coffee machine. After a succession of lukewarm efforts at other places, would my luck turn when I came back in the afternoon?

Why is it that invariably in country Victoria, the province of coffee-making is anybody’s job—kids, girls—with all the attendant horrors of general disinterest, lack of style, overfull cups, and dirty machines? But when I front in, it’s a girl at the machine. My l.b. is hot enough, but no crema and a flat texture.

At least my small humingbird cake is fine. Small selection of tarts, pastries, cakes and biscuits. Large selection of Italian meats and cheeses. Vivaldi and guitar music on the CD.

Strong plastic French-style chairs. A few tables and chairs outside on the pavement. There’s a courtyard at the rear, with four or five small olive trees in large pots. Coffee machines for sale. A warm wall of Tuscan red, large gilt-frame mirror. Photos of Paris & Venice in black and white.

No prices displayed—a worry. This is one of those places where you cop the glance on entering. There’s an air of aloofness and complacency here that disquiets me.