John, a close relative of mine who is not Maltese, told me the other day how he had been charged 30 (euro) cents for a coffee in Vittoriosa. He wasn't complaining of course, and in fact asked me how come the cost of living in Malta was so heart-warming. It turned out he had forgotten two important details. First, the place was a 'men's bar', as he put it; second, the coffee had come in a glass.
This then was John's first brush with what we might call the 'Maltese coffee shop' - or, as better known, the ħanut tat-titotla (lit. 'teetotal bar'). I'm sure it won't be his last. He happens to dabble somewhat, and rather effectively, in anthropology and will no doubt be familiar with the saying that the way to a culture's heart is through its coffee. Or rather the context of its drinking it.
How 'Maltese' are the ħwienet tat-titotla? I'd say as Maltese as it gets, which simply means that we tend to read into them for elements of 'Malteseness'. Thus the noisy atmosphere will be interpreted as our 'natural Latin rowdiness', the whiff of illegitimate cigarette smoke as our national disrespect for law and order, and the heaps of pastizzi flakes as the sign of a generally unhealthy population.
We might add that the Maltese coffee shop is unique in that tea, rather than coffee, is the favoured choice. Which brings our history, in this case our take on British heritage, into the equation. Italians often complain that we couldn't make a 'proper' coffee at gunpoint, and they're probably right. We can't make coffee all'italiana simply because we are not Italian, and don't want to be. But we also prefer our tea not to come in a cup, or in the company of watercress sandwiches.
Readers may protest that there is too much 'we-ness' for comfort here. In other words, that I over-generalise. But this is what identity and coffee are all about. Not many Austrians spend their mornings in a Kaffeehaus and then walk home to paint female nudes in stylised fields of flowers and gold leaf. Nor do the French necessarily take their coffee at a sidewalk table, smoking a pipe and making conversation with Simone de Beauvoir.
And yet, we love to think there is something primordially Viennese and French about the Kaffeehaus and café. So much so, that they may become symbols of local identity, especially in the face of perceived outside threats. In the world of coffee, the dreaded invader is 'Starbucks' - which I refer to here more as a symbol of global retail than as specific company. The Viennese even have a word for the potential outcome. They call it Kaffeehaussterben, literally the 'death of the (traditional) coffee shop'. In truth they probably needn't worry, since the global chains don't seem to be doing too well in Vienna. Or Paris. But then again, identities need threats, real or perceived, if they are to exist at all.
In our case, it's not so much the sugared tea and instant coffee I'd miss, but rather the charm of the space. The ħanut tat-titotla and the café are worlds apart, and not just with respect to class and prices. Rather like a restaurant, a café is essentially a collection of rented spaces. Patrons rent their own table space for the duration of the session. The space becomes a semi-private one to the extent that even staff, who technically speaking have more claim over the café than the patrons, approach tables in formalised ways and try not to intrude.
The ħanut, on the other hand, is really a collective space which patrons pay to buy into rather than apportion. At Crystal Palace in Rabat, for example, three or four tables are lined against the walls, quite like in a refectory. There is no discernible seating and chairs are moved around at will. There are no waiters, but patrons will take turns to wipe the tables or ferry glasses of steaming tea. The last thing one should do is tell someone off for interrupting a conversation. There are in fact no private conversations, but rather a general one that people walk in and join. This is also why the place is very noisy indeed.
Sartre's Roquentin would probably not have felt his Nausea on that fateful Friday afternoon in 1932, had the Café Mably been the Crystal Palace. The book would probably not exist and French culture would be different. French existentialism requires semi-private tables, across which one can talk (and Roquentin often did) but within which one can withdraw, preferably isolated further by a cloud of smoke.
No wonder the French kicked up a fuss when smoking in public places was banned some months ago. The whole sense of being French - or even being at all if Sartre is anything to go by - was on the line. It's all in the coffee, or rather the café.
For much the same reason, I'd hate to see the ħwienet tat-titotla go. Not that they are likely to do so entirely, given the enduring popularity of the ones that are left. But I've seen two being 'refurbished' in recent months. Both happened to be in places of historical interest, and therefore on the map of 'regeneration'. With them goes the possibility to join conversations one doesn't necessarily belong to, to talk to people one doesn't know. At 30 cents, that privilege must be the world's best value for money.
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