»In which we have 23 minutes

At Spitalfields Market in the up-and-coming area off Liverpool Street, I saw a small coffee-coloured cart with the legend "He's so frothy" gaily painted on the side. A smiling young man was pulling espresso and frothing milk from a machine neatly installed in the back of the van. He made the best cappucino I have tasted in months: delicious, creamy milk-turned-into-foam, and just a touch of sugar and a sprinkle of chocolate. He laughed and chatted with customers as they came up, and when Anar and I had made the rounds of the market (including the purchase of a volume of obituaries from Wisden, and the tasting of some delicious olives), we returned to the coffee-cart. He laughed and chatted some more, told us that he was, alas!, out of pastries -- his regular customers claim them early every morning! -- and he made us another coffee. His compact setup, regular clientele, and bustling cheer reminded me of the coffee-shops that ring the Grand Marché in Casablanca, quite possibly the tastiest and most sublime coffee-drinking I have enjoyed. The men who run those stalls are delightfully personable, genuinely nice, and very, very good at making coffee. And although I vowed to limit my coffee intake to one, at most two cups each day, I yielded to temptation. I had already enjoyed an espresso at the Caffe Nero outside the Liverpool St Station, and then had a ristretto from the cart -- but after smelling Anar's cappucino, I had to have one for myself.