London's caffs occur like shots of urban deja vu surviving in the city's most unexpected comers. A fading, Formica and tile-covered world of cheap, basic food, thumbed tabloids, frothy coffee machines, and a rooted, genuinely local culture. It is a world holding out against the corporate uniformity engulfing the city's streets and a realm which blends modernist aesthetics with a typically British utility functionalism. The gleaming chrome of the spluttering coffee machines are London's equivalents of the steaming vents which punctuate New York's streets, like geysers spewing up essence of coffee from beneath the labyrinthine city, essential outlets from the pressure of the city. They are sets for an eccentric mix of buzz, bonhomie and the forlorn existential angst of the half-empty urban interior and an unmissable part of London cityscape.

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