Chapter Text
Once upon a time, not very long ago, the café in Foyles' bookshop - Charing Cross Road - was a lot better than the one in there now. The bookshop itself was also better. Not so greatly different, as regards the books, but better.
The old Foyles’ Bookshop used to be a chaotic, disorienting warren of densely-packed shelves, beige carpet, and red details. The general impression, as you walked around, was BOOKS BOOKS BOOKS BOOKS BOOKS BOOKS tiny escalator BOOKS BOOKS BOOKS BOOKS BOOKS BOOKS staircase BOOKS BOOKS BOOKS BOOKS BOOKS BOOKS BOOKS lift BOOKS BOOKS. It had five or six floors, and beside the stairs was a long and absorbing index of bewildering classifications. The strangely narrow escalators never seemed to be in exactly the same place twice, and they modestly enticed you to unexpected places. It was possible, with practice and attention, to find the section you wanted on purpose, but part of the fun was going round corners and finding things you hadn’t been looking for at all.
The café was on the cusp of all this; even when you remembered where it was supposed to be and how to get there, it always came somewhat as a surprise.
Officially, I think, it was called “Ray’s Jazz Café”, and you got into it by walking somehow both through and behind the section of written and recorded music, only some of it jazz, which occupied half a storey, somewhere near the top. It was also possible to get there, at least sometimes, by a staircase from outside, but I never found out how to do this on purpose.
The place was quite small, but accommodating. There were comfortable, rough-ish wooden tables, big enough and square enough for books and conversations, but none big enough to tempt you to a party. There was an assortment of miscellaneous chairs, some square-cornered, some gently curved, and there was a small, lowish sofa, big enough for two or three to sit. The unpolished wooden bar stood on the left-hand side as you came in – and on it, behind glass, were some cakes, some quiches, some sandwiches, pastries, and fruit. A black chalkboard, high on the wall behind it, stated the prices. Coffee and tea could be had. The café had a license to sell alcohol at certain times, and you could get a nourishing local beer, or a pleasant glass of wine, or two, but it wasn’t really the point of the place.
The windows were old-fashioned, tall and wide, letting in the light of London’s sky. They faced East, to a few hours of sunlight, and a view of some office windows on the other side of Charing Cross Road. They were rather high, so they lit your book well, but unless you are very tall you probably wouldn’t have paid attention to the view.
It was a place to sit and enjoy your purchase. From time to time, on a tiny dais in the inner corner, events happened, or jazz was played.
So, what happened?
At some point just a bit before smartphones became popular, Foyles, the business, was sold to a chain[1]. Ray’s Jazz was a cooperating, independent business, so they could have kept it on, but that was never going to happen. The new owners expanded and refurbished the shop, moving it a few doors down. It’s still a good, big bookshop now, with a section of manga and manhwa downstairs, but it’s not at all the same. The sheet music section is still there, and mildly useful, at the back of a broad selection of classical compact discs. The café’s lease was ended in what seemed like a rather underhand way, with some drama involving art-house theatre and artists not getting paid.
There is a café in the new Foyles’ building, and it’s tolerable, barely, if you like that sort of thing, but it needn't keep us here.
[1] Waterstones