it wasn't just a cafe

you don’t notice how important they are until they’re gone, I guess

I’ve been ill, rotting in bed for over a week now. Proper self-loathing rot. The kind where time moves so slowly, even the impulse to reply to messages stops feeling interesting.

Brain starts wandering. Old rooms. Old conversations. People and places you haven’t thought about in years suddenly come back fully furnished. (Rude, honestly.)

Anyway.

There’s a new pub opened up (restored), The Victoria — and I’m sure it’s great. Plastered all over my socials over Christmas. I’m not anti-new. Cities need new. I’m just a bit sick of it. Of novelty being the only recognised virtue, like places only matter for the brief window they live on your insta feed.

Probably because Leeds is deep in one of its new phases.

I had a love affair with this cafe called San Co Co.
And it mattered way before all that shit.

You’d walk in and get recognised. No “hey guys!!”. Just a nod. I’d nod at the owner, he’d nod back. They knew we wanted upstairs. Or outside if it was sunny (rare for Leeds). Coffee always black. No menu theatre. No “how’s everything tasting?”. Never rushed. Those European aluminium chairs. You know the ones.

And that unreal chicken + jalapeño sandwich on homemade bread. Jalapeños from a jar. Chicken probably from a packet. Slapped.

God, life was so fucking free back then. Every week we’d go record shopping. Flicking through sleeves downstairs in Crash Records.

Then we’d end up there for an hour (sometimes two). Cigarettes outside. One coffee became three. I’d listen to the boys arguing about versions, convincing themselves this one completed the collection. And talking about what’s on at Wire that night. Conversations looped back on themselves. Reggae mattered more than life itself.

Swear down he’s been selling that copy of “In Utero” for about 10 years

What a time.

It wasn’t just a cafe. I took my best mates there. I took dates there. I took colleagues there for lunch because it was dependable and didn’t try to impress anyone. Everyone loved it. You could arrive tired. Hungover. Buzzing. Coming down. Didn’t matter.

That place sorted you out for the price of a cheap coffee.

That’s the thing about spots like that. No concept. No fancy roast. No performance.

Just you sitting in the background while you became whoever you were becoming.

And now it’s rebranded.

Name changed, menu expanded (they do a salmon fillet now??). Smoothed out into beige. More palatable. Probably looks better on a screen. Sign of the times I guess.

I’m not even saying it’s bad — that’s not the point. What’s gone is the confidence of its own limitations. Now, it’s competing with every southern coffee wanker with a La Marzocco machine and a James Hoffmann subscription.

Old San Co Co knew who it was for.

That’s a loss. Not decline.

There is something deeply sad about watching places sand themselves down to survive. But the places that actually shape you aren’t the shiny new ones. They’re the constants. The spots that hold a hundred afternoons and make them mean something.

You don’t notice how important they are until they’re gone.

I’ll probably still go when I’m out of this bed. But I miss the version of San Co Co that didn’t ask to be liked. The one that fed you simple and well, and let you linger. The one that always improved your day and knew who you were before you had to explain it.

You were the real one, San Co Co.

Boshed this out in 15 minutes listening to Purple Rain — fucking hell.