Tea in the Library (5 page)

Events at Gleebooks were an inspiration. More than ever I wanted to provide a similar venue in the city, where people locked behind desks all day could come out and have their say on a current topic, interact with a speaker, and feel that they were not complete ciphers.

Pinned on the wall at Gleebooks was a cartoon from “The New Yorker” — a chap at a bookshop counter says to the bookseller: “No cappuccino? And you call yourself a bookshop?”

There was another big newcomer on the Sydney bookshop scene — Kinokuniya, a Japanese owned business which billed itself as “The largest bookshop in Sydney”. There are several unique features to Kinokuniya — about half its stock is Japanese and Chinese language books; and it has bravely chosen to open
two
floors up in a new shopping mall in the CBD. It also has a magnificent selection of art and design books, although this section of the shop is “leased out” to a separate business. Such divisions of departments was, I learnt, not uncommon in the very large shops — there were similar arrangements at Dymocks' flagship shop. Kinokuniya had a very good selection of titles, and I approached the desk with my inevitable two or three volumes, idly thinking that the prices seemed a little high. However, on reaching the cash register I was immediately offered free membership of the shop's loyalty program, which entitled me to 10% off all purchases, starting with the bundle in my arms, niftily bringing the prices back to where I thought they probably should be. An interesting arrangement, which I stored for future consideration. The shop of course now had my name and address on record. I must admit, however, that they appear never to have made use of this, as I haven't received any communication from them. (More about customer databases later!)

Since The Vision was for a small, friendly, independent bookshop, the research needed to narrow in on similar establishments. I started close to home, with the Lindfield Bookshop, a small North Shore shop with well chosen books spilling almost out the door, friendly staff, and audio books for its elderly clientele. I visited Bookocino on the Northern Beaches, where a narrow shop with an interesting selection of books led to a tiny back corner café on a very tiny, sunny terrace. I wasn't challenged when I took an unpaid-for book into the café — they seemed relaxed in Avalon. Nice. Then over to super-trendy Newtown, funk capital of Sydney, to Better Read Than Dead. The first thing that struck me here was the proliferation of current affairs and cultural studies titles on display on the principal front-door shelving and in the window — the Newtown book buying public were clearly rivettingly interested in Afghanistan, Islam, politics, global warming and the history wars. A lesson in catering to one's demographic. The cute servery hole through to the coffee shop next door, with a couple of stools drawn up to it, was also a clever way to provide cappuccino for the customers without the headache of running a full café, or indeed any cafe. In fact this appeared to be something that booksellers shied away from — I had found very few bookshops with a café operated by the bookselling business itself. (I was to find out why.)

The Ariel bookshops are in Oxford Street, across from Berkelouw's, and at The Rocks. This last shop is very small — perhaps the small-est I had visited on my research trips. Nevertheless, the selection of titles was instantly appealing. I could have bought everything in the shop. There was clearly an art to choosing one's titles, and I had to learn more.

For the ultimate café bookshop experience in Sydney, I headed to Bondi Beach and the shop called Gertrude & Alice. All the books here are second hand, although mostly quite recent titles rather than valuable antiquarian books. However, getting to the shelves to browse can be difficult, especially on a busy Sunday afternoon when the café is
packed
. I tried to decide if Gertrude & Alice was a fifty-fifty bookshop café, but decided it was more like 20% books, 80% café. It is a wonderful café, with an ambiance that can be created only by walls of books, tumbling piles of books, antique sofas, scratched wooden tables and very good food from its own kitchen. It opens until late, seven days.

By this time, I was thoroughly immersed in my research. Notes and impression were accumulating. I was learning a lot — in particular, I was learning how much I needed yet to learn. But I hadn't seen a shop which was run just like The Vision. Nowhere did people sit among (new) books, and eat quality meals served from the premises' own kitchen. I hadn't found a true fifty-fifty bookshop café.

I broadened the field. Melbourne, like Sydney, boasts a plethora of good bookshops. One famous name is Readings, running four or five shops. Its original and flagship shop is in Carlton (now with a Borders opened across the road), but I checked out the new Port Melbourne shop. This one was interesting for several reasons. It has a café, which true to form was run by a separate proprietor. Its unique point was that it had a liquor license — it was the first licensed bookshop I'd come across. I chatted to the café guy, and asked if unpurchased books could be brought into the café part of the shop — which was at the front of the premises, including outdoor seating on a small verandah. He said it was discouraged. “After all, we're not a library”, he said. (Uh-oh.)

Readings' newest shop also had very fine purpose-designed shelving, with plenty of tilt on the lower shelves so that book faces and titles could be easily read. By this stage, I was practically crawling under shelves and taking notes and measurements in the shops I visited. Good shelving was of course vital. The other interesting thing about this shop was that it was in a converted old Post Office building. This had lots of character, but no street front windows. They had tried to deal with this shortcoming by installing rather ugly, lockable steel display cases on the footpath (memo: Council approval must have been a headache). Despite being a bit unsightly, this ploy did get the books out onto the street. The Post Office entrance was also tarted up with display cases, and a massive banner proclaiming the shop's existence was strung across the front. Even so, I'd walked by it once or twice without noticing, and I was actually looking for it. The problem of street presence was clearly no small one.

While in Melbourne I became totally distracted again with an antiquarian bookshop — this time the famous Kay Craddock's in Collins Street. In an ancient (for the Antipodes) stone building, with carpeting, quiet, glass-fronted bookcases and antique sofas, the place is a fitting setting for the treasures within. This is the kind of shop where, if you want to view the $8,000 limited edition book of prints published in 1860, the bookseller will don white gloves, unlock the glass case, spread the precious volume on a special book table, and turn the pages carefully for you with her gloved fingers. Browsers may find treasures in the back shelves that are affordable (I left with several!) but the really great stuff is for real bibliophiles and collectors of means.

Still on the trail, back in my home state I visited Petrarch's Bookshop in Launceston. This is a lovely general bookshop which makes sure it has its beautiful glossy productions on show right at the front of the shop. By the time of this visit, I was fronting up to booksellers and asking nosy questions. In this shop, I asked which inventory software they were using (this being my research topic of the moment). I learnt with surprise that this was a topical question for Petrarch's as well — until now, they had no such computerized system at all. I was gobsmacked — how did they keep track of all those books? I asked how many they had — they didn't know (of course). The upside was that they had been busily investigating the various systems available with a view to joining the 21st century, which meant they had asked a lot of the questions that were before me. I was treated to an in-depth discussion of the topic (of which more later), plus the name and phone number of the chosen company. Voila! As everywhere else, I encountered nothing but selfless assistance from the booksellers I approached. I was going to like this industry.

The “research” went on. I was acquiring a lot of books. I cast the net wider. Traveling in the US brought fresh opportunities to take my research to new levels. A visit to New York City was especially fruitful. The greatest metropolis in the world, the centre of Western commerce — where better to investigate retail!

A New York friend took me to her favourite bookshop in Greenwich Village, Three Wives. The booksellers chatted in a friendly and informed way about the latest book reviews in the LA and NY papers, and gift wrapped every purchase. As I was browsing, I also noticed that some of the stock was covered in plastic slip covers. Closer inspection showed these to be second hand or antiquarian books — simply added among the selection of new books on the shelves. Three Wives is a cosy corner shop with great service its shining attraction. I bought a book of Verdi's letters, published in 1942.

Barnes & Noble, the enormous American chain, had actually provided me with my first experience of a café in a bookshop a few years before, in a Houston suburb. There, the café was literally in the centre of the big bookshop. My acquaintance who took me to the shop said that he met his Italian teacher there for coffee. He also said that he never left without buying a book. The huge Barnes & Noble shop at Union Square in New York had a bewildering array of titles. Up on the third floor was their café, taking up most of the floor. Young and old sat at the café tables, some were piled high with books, at some students napped with their heads on their arms, resting on books. An elderly African American chap wheeling a trolley had the special job of collecting up unpurchased books from the tables after customers had left, and returning them to be re-shelved. My observation of Barnes & Noble shops in various US locations was that despite their almost overwhelming size, they attempted to deliver on all the features of a good bookshop — most had bookshop events, including author events, readings, poetry nights, music recitals and even films. Many had community notice boards, and in most there was a dedicated information counter. The checkouts, however, often resembled supermarket line-ups, due, I assumed, to the enormous volume of trade going through.

Size is king in New York. Coliseum, which I first visited at its South Central Park location, had the slogan “The only 100,000 story building in New York”. The basement offered cheap remaindered stock. The IT section had its own resident expert. The best-sellers and new titles stacked around the entrance were all shrink-wrapped, with just one (very battered) browsing copy loose. It was a snowy Sunday afternoon when I first visited, and the customers were five deep at the cash register. Coliseum has moved to the Bryant Park area, and its new shop is much cleaner and shinier, and things are much easier to find — except maybe a little character. It now boasts quite a good café, which has the interesting angle that it buys in deli food from specialist NY delis around town. An attractive idea (stored away).

The most famous bookshop in New York is surely Gotham Book Mart, first opened in 1920 by Frances Steloff, and still trading. Miss Steloff died in 1989, aged 101. She kept on selling books well into her eighties. I first visited the shop at 41 West 47th Street, where it was a mass of tumbling books, treasures embedded in the shelves, and broad New York accents. It was one of those shops where you know that you'll stumble on a wonderful find if you just spend enough time in there. The new premises, at 16 East 46th Street, is much slicker, although they still don't seem to use a computerized inventory system, each purchase being noted by hand in a ledger. A customer phoned in while I was there to ask if the shop had a special edition of the Complete Works of Shakespeare. They did, one set was left in the storeroom. This information was not found on a computer database, but by asking the chap out the back. The Gotham Book Mart has a tradition of nurturing young writers, allowing them to speak, meet and read at the shop, and selling pamphlets by new writers. The James Joyce Society still meets there. The same sign has hung out the front of the various successive premises for many years, and still does so. It reads “Wise Men Fish Here”.

At the shop you can purchase the story of Frances Steloff and her shop. I bought a copy and walked back to The Algonquin on West 54th Street, ordered a cocktail called “The New Yorker” and settled in the lobby bar to read. The Algonquin was the home, in the 1930s, of the famous “Round Table” of writers and critics, headed by the acerbic Dorothy Parker. It was at the Round Table that “The New Yorker” magazine was first conceived. They also have a cocktail called “Matilda”. It's named after the hotel cat. I was in for a comfortable evening.

Lest you think that the East Coast of the US has a monopoly on such marvels as those described above, let me tell you about The Elliott Bay Book Company in Seattle. Near the shore of beautiful Puget Sound, on South Main Street, is a corner shop, two storeys high, plus a basement. The building is wooden inside — wooden floors, wooden stairs leading to interesting little mezzanines, wooden nooks, wooden crannies, all filled with books. Books with interesting titles, books with gorgeous covers, books on unusual subjects, books on every conceivable topic. If you venture down the steps to the basement, you will find a bakery, fresh coffee, old books lining the brick walls, long tables, and on many evenings and afternoons, a book event in progress. The Elliott Bay Book Company hosts book clubs, reading groups, young writers groups, major international novelists and commentators, and the occasional poetry festival.

But I've saved perhaps the best until last — in Denver, Colorado, I came across the closest thing yet to “The Vision”. A marvelous bookshop called “The Tattered Cover” trades at two locations in Denver — one shop is in a restored historic building, an ex-gasworks, I think — and the other was created inside a suburban shopping centre building with little outward sign of the wonders within. This shop, at Cherry Creek when I visited (but now moved), was so huge that they provided a
map
to guide you around. It covered a basement and three floors, and apart from the dazzling array of titles, included the odd corner where you could discover an armchair, casually placed on a rug, with a comfy ottoman (furniture supplied courtesy of a local furniture shop in the mall across the road — clever). There was small coffee shop on the entrance level near Photography and New Hardcover Fiction. There was a Newsstand with every magazine known to the English-speaking world. But a real treat was reserved for the fourth level, which housed an excellent silver service restaurant called “The Fourth Story”. Here, indeed, one sat among the books to dine! The tables were screened from one another by bookshelves about shoulder height, all neatly shelved with the same new books found on the floors below. Eating and drinking in a bookshop, among the books. Eureka!