The Latte Show

Auckland is the coffee capital of New Zealand but the way we take our brews differs vastly across this diverse region. The Aucklander sent five reporters with photographers to five cafes one mid-morning last week.
Revel cafe, K'Rd
Rebecca Blithe gets an inside tableau.
A bottlenecked entrance leads to a cluttered cave of '70s bric-a-brac, a hideaway for lovers and loners. Behind the front counter, halfway up a tall wall, a cracked plastic vacuum cleaner has found a resting place. As neck expands to body, the cave reveals shelves of thin books, a pack of Uno cards, floral fondue sets and mismatched, old, wooden school chairs tucked in at heavy black tables.
Carting a Whitecliffe College satchel, a middle-aged couple enter. She, tattooed, with yoga-toned arms and a tight knot atop her head. He, in a maroon jumper esconcing a  sizeable gut settle together on one side of a table. Seated below a dried nikau palm frond with a red sequined cushion smushed between them, photography is on the agenda.
"Toot, toot. Excuse me, coming through," chirps a taper-jeaned waitress, who has spent the last 20 minutes cackling and cursing amid the smell of frying bacon in the kitchen out back.
A rattling pink teacup on a Wedgwood blue saucer is set down before a lanky old man with large hands. His black loafers don't hide the holes in the heels of his socks. The tiny cup is picked up with knotty fingers for a tiny mouth to slurp at. He frowns and huffs at a crossword through rose-tinted glasses, a purple pencil too small for his oversized hand.
Another pair of lone hands, slender, the fingertips licked at continually to make turning newspaper pages easier, belong to a woman of similar age, seated at the other end of the row. Her red, sourpuss lips part only for tongue to meet fingertip while her deepset eyes glare at a noise coming from the door.
Leatherclad chaps swagger in to be greeted with a big grin and a "Hey, buddy," from a sleek, black-haired creature behind the counter. They chat about art, not shy of a few crass words, before she turns to induce a spluttering cough from the coffee machine. The noise is overridden by a furious fire engine roaring past. No one takes any notice.
Cool, pale-faced kids dressed in long, loose knits saunter in for brief chats with the women at work in back kitchen.
The sole child this morning is a pigtailed firecracker of about four years. She's dressed in a shining lime Bollywood costume, fabric similar to the cafe cushions. She barrels in and snuggles the legs of the waitress carrying more coffees than she has hands. After setting them down on the table at the back she turns to the woman trailing the child, wraps her hand around the back of her blonde pixie-cut and plants a long kiss on her lips. No one looks up.
Two women with stiff hair and oversized patent bags enter tentatively, glance around, seeming uncertain.
Over the noise of an angry girl band, one ponders an odd set-up in the corner. "This appears to be a table," she says, to no one in particular. The glass-topped box, inset with an 80s' computer screen, lies in wait between low, tired armchairs. "Is that a table?" Again, wondering aloud. After her friend orders flat whites with "skinny" milk, the pair slither down the back to find alternative discomfort in two old school chairs.
Cafe Paris, Howick
Sophie Bond has a bird's-eye view.
Three cheers for a sunny day! This will mean rich pickings at Cafe Paris. Let's see, yes, they have the door and windows open and my favourite perch on the pink chair is free. Sadly, the wrinklies at the outdoor tables have passed on the cakes and are simply sipping cappuccinos. Still, won't be long until the lunch rush.
In the meantime, I'll just hop over the threshold for a quick peck; this place is fantastically crummy around the skirting boards. Whoops, make way, the slow-moving couple in sensible shoes are leaving. Terrible sweaters, too much khaki, grey and navy in this place. Give me some colour, people!
Back to my perch for a quick once-over of the outdoor tables. Thank goodness the staff aren't too quick when it comes to wiping them down. Oh dear, looks like that Japanese boy across the street's got his iPod cord tangled in his coif, and here's an eager beagle walking his master. Hmm, wonder if these two are mother and daughter — they've got matching hair: blonde bob and silver bob. The bobs study the menu but move on. You're missing out ladies! The pot pie is delicious.
Ah, here's a bloke who's got the right idea, taking his coffee to a table in the sun, flicking through the papers, and, here comes the waiter. What will it be? The pot pie! Good man, here's hoping he's a messy eater. I'll just pop over to the windowsill while I wait.
This place is an Aladdin's cave, so much to look at, although I'm not sure about that creepy, giant, multicoloured pottery cow holding a bunch of glossy tulips.
Time to move again. The inside tables are filling up. They're a quiet bunch, though, mostly older couples, barely talking, eyes on their pot pies.
Outside, the footpath has turned into buggy highway; a stream of slim, efficient looking mothers with complicated prams and tidy babies. A woman in pink stops to park her pramful of pink-clad offspring while she buys a takeaway mochaccino. The toddler swings her legs and the newborn grizzles.
The road's busy too: sleek white, sleek silver, sleek grey, whizzing past. Wow, here comes a car and a half. Mr Moustache has just parked his shiny, bronze tank (at least that's what I think it is). It's definitely more than a match for a sparrow.
Ah, here's a sweet-looking pair; what lovely curls she's got; I could nest in there. He needs to watch that box of pills — they're inching out of his pocket as he walks. Oh, they're going to sit outside, lovely, and she's ordered the carrot cake, even better.
Here comes some street-art, Howick style: slow-moving man with a jumbo stick of chalk, drawing white lines on the tyres of parked cars. Those two young girls at the counter are going to lower the average age in this place. Nice to see some quirky fashion: floaty blue, layered skirt, white lace trim, a splash of coral. And they're speaking such a lovely language, it sounds like bubbles.
How long has that French woman been wailing? I think somebody needs to change the CD. Mmm, I smell eggs, must be the all-day breakfast. Now lets see if that studious young writer by the door has dropped any scone crumbs under her table.
Kaizen Cafe, Orewa
Hayley Hannan finds a seat in the sun.
Quarter to 12 on a Tuesday. Outside the cafe, two groups sit back from the traffic. Three in a row, white umbrellas open to provide shade from the shy sun. Two red umbrellas sit closed for winter. A mild wind snakes along the street.
A pair of men in their 50s sit, leaning in towards each other, bodies mirrored on the same side of a long table. The hands of the one wearing a fitted burgundy top punctuate his comments. His friend in blue nods intently.
Their feet tap on terracotta bricks. End-to-end, the bricks zig-zag beside slow traffic.
At the centre table, three diners eat from multiple plates. Sunglasses perched on her head, a brunette in black finds her stride in her story.
"I lost my camembert to the apartment below! I mean, we had no shopping bags."
The male friend leans back, clapping and laughing. His chair tilts onto two legs.
"Aussie Aussie Aussie!" comes a cry from the road. A 20-something man lopes towards the table. The curly-haired head of table jumps up. "Aussie Aussie!" There's handslapping, greetings.
Across the road a lawnmower takes advantage of the sun, weaving in and around trees and squares of bark chips.
An older woman joins the growing centre table. While the table fusses over the baby in her arms, she's busy dragging a high chair; setting down bags bulging with accessories; rearranging her top that keeps riding up.
Inside, there's one waitress on duty for the lunch rush. Diners move to the furthest fringes of the cafe, the three window booths the first tables to go. There's a constant hum of mashed conversation, sentences lost in the background chatter. From the kitchen, clinking as dishes are prepared, served, delivered.
Outside, passersby drift past the tables, slowing to look inside the open door. No one rushes, no one is late. Two women with short-cropped hair approach a window displaying the menu. One reads while the other walks absentmindedly to the far window. They drift back towards each other, swap places. The pair shuffle past the front door, then back to the window, then walk back to where they came from.
A cloud passes over and shadows chill the air. Arms cross with the sudden drop in temperature, then fall away again with laughter.
"I might get a bottle of wine for tonight, actually." During a lull of traffic, conversations become clear.
"That French girl, she came in. She's French, as in, she doesn't shave. Eeech. But she's hot – she's engaged now."
Down the far end of the table the baby squirms, opens his mouth for a scrap of food, closes and purses.
Collectively, the middle table stands up. White chairs scrape back as the group reverse out of their seats. Varying styles and colours of puffy skate shoes walk off to the carpark.
A man on a red mobility scooter cruises past, his cane hanging off the back seat. Khaki cap on his grey hair, he concentrates as he turns a corner. Two schoolgirls avoid a head-on collision, pressing themselves against the cafe windows. At half-past twelve, schoolchildren swamp the streets.
The lone waitress bustles out the front door. Her blonde hair scraped back, she's ditched her black cardigan. Barely breaking her stride, she drops cutlery into glasses, stacks plates, loads her purpose-built tray.
Behind the schoolgirls, two women loiter with a bichon frise. One waits outside, scratching her blonde cropped hair. Her red coat is electric in the sun. She swaps places with her purple-fleeced companion, handing over the leash to disappear inside. She reappears, and they take seats at the freshly cleared table.
They sit on opposite sides. One stares past the steady stream of traffic to the calm ocean, the other sits hand-on-face watching circling sparrows.
Out comes the waitress, sets down her tray, unloading matching plates of cake and scones."Oh, we both chose the same thing!" murmurs the silver-haired dog owner.
"I noticed that," smiles the waitress. She picks up her tray and heads back inside.
The Hardware Cafe, Titirangi
John Landrigan infiltrates a casual hubbub.
In ancient Greek cities, open spaces served as assembly areas and backdrops for commercial, civic, social and religious banter.
The citizenry here is gathered in twos and threes but don't remain seated long. Plates are handed from one t'other as others reverently sup from cups and wipe away the smear with a licked grin.
The constant thwack of saturated coffee grinds being discarded and the gargle of frothed milk can be heard from behind the modern day pulpit. To speak of religious zeal may be too rich but the barista gesticulates, squawks out orders and sings, with a reverend's ardent posturing and steady hand.
"Two flat whites" and "coffees' up, please" are mixed with jokes and observations and his singing-a-long to a Salmonella Dub track: "And every time I see your grace, a warm smile spreads across my face. And then you look at me and say, Oh I love your ways. She said I love your ways, love your ways." Repeated four times, fervently.
The ever-changing congregation of around 40 love the ways of this Titirangi cafe without, it seems, needing to pay it, or the barista's exuberance, any heed.
"Hello, would you like a coffee?" he asks an attractive Indian girl from across the room.
"Can we give table two a wipe down?" he asks busy staff ... "Oh I love your ways," he croons. Thwack, thwack, thwack, go the coffee grains into the disposal.
The dress sense here is not so much alternative, as at ease. Casual meets functional and leaves no room for pretense. Intimate tables for two are set for four. Close enough for private conversations despite the numbers gathered. Snippets overheard make no sense.
A toddler whimpers. She does not cry. She's just wants to know: "Where's my latte?" From behind the classic red coffee machine-cum-podium, stage and altar, she's finally appeased as a frothed hot chocolate is served in a small paper cup along with accompanying marshmallows.
The sticky sweets are devoured first, chocolate scooped with little digger hands and smeared all over her face, but a future cafe customer is assured.
One two-year-old boy has had enough. "Mummy. Can I go home?" He wanders to the door and stands next to another boy his age. They stand, stare and he wanders back to his table. "Mummy. Can I go home?"
He wins, they leave, brushing past a woman arriving with books and manuscripts. She eats her salad, drinks from her bowl and leaves without reading.
Another mother and two more children arrive, in turn replaced by a young pram-pushing mum. Every table undergoes a communal swap, a merry dance broken up by a rapid wipe and noiseless clearing of plates. The Hardware Cafe is always bustling.
The citizenry is restless, but not for the half hour they are seated and served in tables on the street, in the conservatory or dotted around the rustic counter.
A Kiwiana epicentre of a Greek agora, where people turn up to listen to songs, talk politics and chew the fat.
It's a respite for the elderly and for those retired too early and young mums and not so young mums with their wee broods.
A brown labrador tethered to a table on the sidewalk chews a bone. Across the busy road — well concealed behind the Shell shop, Handi Indian and Titirangi law and dental centres — are Kelston and the Waitakere Ranges.
Behind the cafe, French Bay and Auckland city hunker unseen.
Here, in Titirangi's hub, is an insular, almost Grecian, world apart.
The Library Cafe, Onehunga
Rowena Orejana blends into the coffee crowd.
The 1912 heritage building that is The Library Cafe looks imposing as its white walls reflect the late morning sun. A comfortable 15 degrees outside feels warmer but, at 11.30am, the four tables on the patio are empty.
Busy staff greet customers in front of the bar where the food is displayed. As welcoming as the staff is the sound and smell of coffee being ground and brewed.
The dining area to the right seems to be busier than the one on the left. In fact, the left area, which looked to be the main library, was empty. The right is the children's section.
Timber floor, papered walls and four-tiered chandeliers dangling from the ceiling rose seem wasted on the cafe's pint-sized customers running in and out of the dining area. But it's a cosy retreat for their harassed mums who seem hungrier for adult company than food.
One, two, three... the kids, toddlers really, move like slippery little eels, making them hard to count. Four mums occupy the long table beside the play area and the wee ones seem to belong to them. The oldest of the squealing children cannot be more than four years old.
Two tykes with blonde corkscrew ringlets belong to the mum whose hair is tied up in pigtails. The older one, a girl around four years old, predictably is in pink, and the younger one, a boy maybe two years old, is in blue. Mum's in black.
All the mothers at the table wear black. Most of the boys are in blue and the girls pink. There is one boy in a red jumper and another in yellow. The babies sport pastel shades.
Shortly before noon, the first male customer shows, in an olive green business suit. He peeks into the family dining room, sees the kids, and makes a strategic detour to the adults' side of the library.
He finds a corner table beside the bookshelves. As his order arrives, he settles in with the day's newspaper.
Two more young mothers arrive, one with a baby in her arms, the other with a baby in a pram. They each tow two-year-old girls. They move to the family dining room at a table near the closed doors.
A shrill cry pierces the white noise of clattering utensils, baby talk and general conversation. A two-year-old girl in a lavender cardigan, her reddish golden hair up in a ponytail, has apparently had enough of her mum chatting with a friend. She wants attention. Now.
"Waaaaah," she wails. Her big blue eyes swimming in tears. Her mum gently reprimands her: "You don't have to cry out loud. I'm right here. I can hear you," in a firm voice.
None of the other diners appears fazed by the commotion. They all know what it's like to dine out with toddlers.
The lunch crowd streams in. At half past twelve, an older couple; two men in stylish shirts and blue jeans; two older blokes in khaki slacks and Hawaiian shirts. They all find places in the main library. Some finally brave the tables outside.
The man in the green suit leaves. The guy in the Hawaiian shirt picks up the newspaper he left behind.
At quarter to one, the mums at the long table beside the play area start to pack up. It isn't easy. Baby bottles, toys, wipes and other paraphernalia that come with babies go into huge baby bags. Some pick up their babies from the high chairs and call out to their older children still in the play area.
"No," protests one, until she realises her friend is going home, too.