It’s greaaaat… to be alive…!
– Jo Stafford and Johnny Mercer, 1949
It’s been over a year since I last set foot in Hamilton’s Baltimore House, an eclectic coffeehouse overlooking King William Street a block down from James Street North, the 1940s music cooing from the doors to the left and right contrasting sharply with the ‘seventies-style rock blaring from my earbuds. I stepped into the cafe side (to the left, please) and up to the counter where I clearly interrupted a conversation between the barista and her gentleman visitor.
It’s a queer place, but stylishly queer – like Edgar Allen Poe and Sherlock Holmes; I heard, when it opened over two years ago, that the decor was supposed to resemble something of Poe’s time. I wouldn’t know whether it does or not, but plush-and-wood antiques are scattered everywhere on the side with the long, wood-and-stained-glass bar.
I wonder if I’d enjoy it as much here if it was more occupied; I was clearly the only paying patron when I entered today, and I came in specifically for their beautifully-presented coffee and quirky atmosphere. But, imagining the bar room filled with conversing people – queer types, of course, and ordinary ones made intriguing by their presence amongst oddities – I think I would like it as much or more.
For now, it’s the copious artifacts that tickle me, my eyes running across velvet chairs and exposed-brick walls, down well-worn, hardwood-planked floors, my imagination running wild with the possible histories of furniture, lamps, photos intermingling from so many eras. I want to know the stories of each piece, to know how and where they were found, to have the room turn into an Alice-In-Wonderland where plush pink wingbacks balk at being sat upon and speak offendedly at the numbers of rude folks who’ve mistreated her, of how vibrant were her colors and how pristine was her varnish in her prime.
My mind murmurs stories in time with the lilting tunes as I watch the “famed” bartender, Kevin Delaney, with his thick moustache twirl the ends in a looking-glass at the end of the bar, the only human to suit this decor, and I wish I was somewhat more apropos, too.
There are other things that draw me here, other subtle fineries that the owners of Baltimore House must have known would charm someone, and they certainly charm me: The coffee and tea service is unparalleled in the city with (bottomless) coffee mug, antique creamer pot for dairy, the cutest tiny spoon, a small side glass of water and a wrapped square of dark chocolate, all presented on an oval metal plate with white paper doilies. How quaint.
The food is tasty, too: grilled sandwiches, muffins and cookies presented in like manner; but this place – especially with Edith Piaf’s “La Foule” playing in the background – demands social drinks such as coffees and teas, or a classic cocktail such as our moustached bartender might shake. Poor soul, he’s almost comically alone at the end of the bar, awaiting his first customer of the evening.
And they finally enter, a pair of oddly-normal business types in suit-and-tie for an early Thursday happy hour, eager to douse their normalcy in an outlandish place.
Surely this is why we enjoy it here, those who know of Baltimore House: it is the place just outside the bend, on the other side of standard – even in a city of so many coffee houses, even when this type of cafe isn’t so hard to create, isn’t even completely unique. It’s off-beat enough that one thing or another will light our imaginations, will take us away into the ambiance, music and hospitality of another place and time, saturated in subtleties.
Oceans of Mine 