Oliver Clark | Copywriter

A staunch nationalist with a voice of syrup and chard tobacco, ‘The Don’ was Caledonia’s finest. 5’9, squat, and never without his sun-bleached gilet, he was something of a celebrity on the streets of Edinburgh. Few knew his real name, and those that did wouldn’t say. Possessing the charm of George Clooney and the intrigue of Jay Gatsby, The Don remains the most magnetic gentleman I’ve ever met.

Of course, I’d heard all the rumours, all of which seemed as invariably far-fetched as the next.

‘He wrote four New York Times bestselling novels in as many years!’ exclaimed one colleague.

‘Apparently, he once out sang Lionel Ritchie at his own gig,’ said another.

‘Nah, I thought he was the guy that popularised poached eggs,’ whispered a third.

What? It all sounded ridiculous, but I couldn’t help and be intrigued. Each tale left me with one burning question: could it all really be true?

When I did eventually meet The Don later that summer, it was as surreal as I’d ever hoped. I was working front of house and the June sun pierced through Soderberg café’s chic windows, coating the building with light.

‘Here he comes’ beamed Sammy the barista, a hint of glee lacing his every note.

The Don sauntered towards the till with the grace of a ballroom dancer. In one rough hand, he brandished three-pound coins, before flicking them into his other palm and slapping them onto the till’s worktop with the force of a hurricane.

‘I won’t ever use credit cards.’ he growled with a dastard smile. ‘Keep the change, son.’

I blinked gormlessly and let out a nervous laugh, but before I could even come up with as much as a ‘cheers’, he was gone.

The more I worked, it became increasingly clear to me that The Don was ephemeral, a blink and you’ll miss him type. He never loitered. Of course, he didn’t, he had a life to live, but I needed to know more. So, as the weeks turned into months along the hazy stretch of Quartermile, I hastily quizzed him on his ins and outs to craft a clearer image.

An opera singer by trade, ‘Donny’ (as his close allies called him), informed me of his annual excursions through the landscapes of Italy. He waxed lyrical about the wonders of life on the road, where he would transform Tuscany’s soundscape into a theatrical realm of love and loss. He told me of the bustling streets of Naples and the sultry sunrise behind Vesuvius. His anecdotes infused the world with an ethereal vibrancy that I could scarcely imagine.

The more I listened and observed, the more I began to understand, he was everything a modern man should be – a true romantic. Yet his romanticism was grounded by gritty realism. He was decisive, firm but fair, and most importantly, an enemy of excess. In an age of superfluous choice, from extra-hot decaf soya Frappuccinos with cinnamon to single shot Mochaccino’s with caramel syrup, The Don cut through the bullshit and rolled with a classic double espresso.

Now, it wasn’t just artistry, travel, and cuisine that he specialised in. No. Oh no. He had an immaculate ability to read people like the novels he doted upon. He called a spade a spade. Indeed, as I passingly mentioned spotting fellow Scot Alan Cumming during the Fringe Festival, his face flushed.

‘You all right, Don?’ I inquired.

He sighed, and wiped his brow with a tartan handkerchief, muttering ‘That Alan Cumming lad, eh. Lives over in Cali doesn’t he?’

‘Errrr,’ I replied.

‘If he’s all for Scottish independence, he should suffer here with the rest of us.’ A wry smile was etched upon his face, so I couldn’t say with great certainty whether or not he was joking, but I thought it wise to keep my adoration of Cumming’s Boris Grishenko quiet.

Now, when I referred to The Don as ‘firm but fair’, I meant it too. As he left the café one morning, he called ‘Cheers James!’ with a twinkle in his weathered eyes. Of course, James was not my name, but damn it, I appreciated The Don’s effort all the same.

However, five moons passed, and I remained ‘James’. I was living a lie, and in good conscience, I couldn’t continue down that road. So, I decided to draw a line in the sand and confront the naming mishap. I needed to stare the beast in the eyes and tell him straight. He was too respectable to be toyed with through gossip and word-of-mouth hearsay.

So, at 08:30 AM sharp the next Monday morning, I marched The Don’s espresso over to him. He was perched in his seat outside the majestic windows, tapping his foot to the rhythm of the everyday. He lowered Jessie Kesson’s The White Bird Passes and said ‘Thank you, Jam…’

‘Ollie! My name’s Ollie, Don!’ I interjected in a panicked tirade. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. There was never the right time…’ Part of me hoped he would interrupt my blithering with reassuring words of wisdom, or remedy my anxiety with a song, but in my heart of hearts, I knew that wasn’t his style.

Instead, he took a moment to pause, sip his espresso, wince at the taste, place it down on the table, and arise. ‘What’s he going to do?’ I thought. ‘Oh God, I’ve done the wrong thing, haven’t I?’ My mind was reeling in desperation.

Another moment followed. Then, and only then, when my anxiety reached a raging furore and I prayed that the ground would swallow me up whole, did The Don make his move. He smiled. It was a smile that glowed with the warmth of a thousand suns and at that moment, I knew his gleaming veneers could cure global sadness in a flash.

“Ollie,” he repeated. He held out his coarse hand for me to shake and I eagerly obliged. Firm but measured. “Ollie,” he said again, letting go of my hand and finishing the remnants of his coffee, raising his eyebrows, and giving a roguish wink as he swallowed the last drop.

Collecting his gilet from the back of his chair, he sang ‘Cheers Ollie!’ before strolling across the walkway towards the Meadows, waving goodbye without looking behind him. In truth, I half hoped he would break into an impromptu dive roll like Gene Wilder’s Willy Wonka, but I immediately shook my head in disapproval. That would be too flashy for The Don.

So, as I returned inside towards the coffee machine, I felt no closer to really knowing The Don than I was at the beginning of the summer, but I was dead certain about one thing. ‘The Don’s a don for sure.’