In the cafe the music is easy listening. Female singer, kind of jazzy. She has a lovely voice but the selection of covers is cruel. AC/DC’s “you shook me all night long”. “Valerie” (Amy Winehouse did it better of course) And what would Dolly Parton make of the reggae back-beat on “I will always love you”?

It was 9am, and outside on the narrow cobblestone streets couples stumbled arm in arm through Budapest’s party district. Nine in the morning was late, not early, and the cafes that changed from bars into cafes had not yet made the switch. The couples looked a bit rough, but the bartenders who would soon be baristas looked worse. Their job was harder. None of the patrons were likely to speak Hungarian, and they were bound to ask for a wild range of absurd things.

“Red bull and vodka”

“Unicum”

“Decaf”

“Can you make that fizzy one, you know with the orange?”

The song in the cafe was now a Whitesnake cover: “Is this love that I’m feeling”. It was early for him, not late, and he was focused on his work. But drunk couples were trying to win the morning cafe back over to the late night bar side. The next table over ordered prosecco and took selfies in front of the large assortment of cloth roses.