For a split second one flirts with the idea of finding a different, perhaps quieter shop for that morning’s caffeine fix.

But this cafe’s reputation, even amongst the city’s coffee professionals, preceeds it and so I brave the queue snaking well past the door.

Of course I am met with an oasis of calm masquerading as front of house staff.

Of course their navy and white button downs are crisp under pristine leather aprons.

Every move is calculated and efficient, telegraphing an ability to quell a guest’s every anxiety: you’ll get your money’s worth and then some; we know what we’re doing.

These are the things I notice in my line of work. Not the slick fitouts which leave me hollow because the staff chosen to run the show don’t have the personality to carry the space.

And I don’t think you need much. A simple dress code, classic finishes—in this case marble, hardwood, brass—and gorgeous natural light by which to read the city’s broadsheets.

The coffee itself was damn fine.

I think the founders’ grandmothers would be proud—they, of course, are whom the shop is named after.