Ruby’s Corner, Mosman

I am the only customer. Actually, the only person in the cafe. Where is everyone? I can only assume at they’re all queuing at the Broadsheet recommended cafes. Losers.  

Eventually, I get served by a sleepy Frenchman who doesn’t have a tattoo or beard. Check. He gets my order wrong, on account of the sleepiness, but that’s ok, because he apologises in a french accent.

As he languidly makes my coffee, I check out the decor. Someone has had a lot of fun with the tiling, or they’re still deciding, because nothing matches.

The sleepy frenchman hands over my flat white in a ruby red takeaway cup. “’ave a nice day,” he says, sleepily.

The coffee is ok.