You have to have a certain amount of craziness or confidence that allows you to sing back an awkward order to a table on a Sunday morning in the Great Southern. I fear only few people on this earth could get away with such an act, the inimitable Miranda July for one, and Mrs Jones the other.
Mrs Jones is the name of a cute, bright, neo-vintage café in Denmark that does solidly good coffees (yahava) and decent boutique meals that you’d expect to see in any competent capital city in Australia. Sourcing local produce, they pull together a menu that covers alternative spins on breakfast, traditional lunches and dinners.
It’s got designer goods for sale in trinkety corners, and the vaulted ceilings handle the light well from all directions. Outside opens to the air streaming down from Mt Shadforth with a semi-pottager garden feel.
I had the atherosclerotic and hypertensive full breakfast of pork and fennel sausage, bacon, eggs, tomato relish. It was regretfully filling in every way and my only let down was white bread which could have been sourdough (not just crumbly white), and less slathered with butter. I should have specified I don't like my eggs runny, though I was not asked, I hold my self accountable for not telling them. Our singing barista did indeed deliver, but I didn’t get my coffee in an (urn) amphora, as the offer was for any particular serving vessel.
I think they can be forgiven for that. The singing made up for it.