Cafe Full Presse

So we've developed this routine of biking over to Cafe Presse on Sunday afternoons to read our New Yorker; there's coffee-and-a-croissant involved, usually a soccer game on, and then maybe an afternoon Stella starts to sound good. On a good day, three hours go by like that and we emerge happily over-caffeinated and edified -- or slightly wobbly and rooting for Manchester United.

Enter the Seattle Times to ruin everything with a glowing review. (The Seattle Weekly all-day run-down can't have helped, either.) Today there's a line out the door into the semi-drizzle, where everyone's saying things like, "just saw it in the paper and thought we'd drop in."

The bar looked crowded so we took a corner stool at the front counter, placed our order, and tucked into Talk of the Town. After we finished our croissant, with a half-cup of coffee left, the waitress asked, firmly, if we'd like our check. Oh so it's going to be like that, is it, we thought gloomily. We demanded a refill just to show we can't be pushed around, and then we paid up and left.

"That place in Paris on the corner that's just for everything," is what the owners have in mind for ambiance. We were thinking about that when the waitress said, "Whenever you're ready," and dropped off the bill with the coffee refill. We'd barely made it to Shouts & Murmurs. If there's one thing that's not very French, it's getting a bill before you're ready for it.

Contact the author of this article or email tips@seattlest.com with further questions, comments or tips.

By MvB in Food on September 16, 2007 2:00 PM

Comments [rss]

guest

Cafe Presse is right by my house, and I was quite thrilled when they opened. I've been there a few times with friends and it's always been great. but the last time I went, I went solo, with the purpose of reading for a bit with some wine and dessert. I had the same treatment you did - as soon as the fork hit the plate for the last time, check was brought with a terse "Let me know when you're ready". I was a server for many years and I know from the 'get out' vibe. I had a full glass of wine. There were plenty of tables open.

I still think Cafe Presse is a great place to go with others, but the ambiance they are marketing, of a leisurely cafe for anyone to drop by and stay a while, doesn't seem to be what they actually want.

Katelyn

Last few times I've been there, the back has been packed as well as the front. Bleh.

guest

When you arrive, just quickly head to the back, there's usually a table. Newbies don't know it's there and have a tendency to stand around until they're directed to a table. It usually works for me and my crew. Otherwise, deal with it, lines are getting longer everywhere.

MvB

Well then. Now I feel better about that refill! I had zero wait.

ronaldholden

Ah, don't forget the precious Leslie Kelly, former substitute restaurant writer for the Pee-Eye. She too weighs from Cafe Presse on her whiny blog this morning: no fucking coffee. Poor Les.

guest

Ah yes, another east-coaster (or just a wannabe) complaining about prompt check service. God forbid your waitress notices when you actually finish your plate.

Keep up the negative reviews. Just like all the negative reviews for B&O (on other sites), it thins the herd of the pretentious idiots and allows me to enjoy a nice, mellow brunch with PROMPT, attentive service...

-Uptight Seattleite

guest

I'm sure it'll die down in a couple days, and those Seattle Times readers will be back to trying whatever else is recommended.

blahthequah

Thank you Seattle Times for telling all the people from the Eastside about Cafe Presse and ruining our fun.

Katelyn

Awww DAMN. I loved that place. Stupid Seattle Times. They probably don't even know the trick with the mayonnaise and mustard.

I will now take advantage of my ridiculous work schedule and only go to Cafe Presse on weekday mornings. (But no soccer!?!!)

MvB

Guest, I tried moving back a while ago -- turned out to be way too expensive. As for the rest of your points, can I recommend this brand-new perspective to you?

guest

1.) The New Yorker is for pretentious doofuses.

2.) Stella is disgusting.

3.) Only idiots actually watch soccer, and even bigger idiots root for teams from thousands of miles away.

Move back to N. California, you carpetbagger.