I am starting to give up hope of ever being able to visit Indigo Coffee House, at least, not on a Sunday. Honestly, I know it’s going for the cosy look, but this is getting ridiculous. I’ve made several attempts now to try and squeeze in – on consecutive Sundays, apparently an error – but, alas, it is to no avail. When we wandered up the other the day, the small front shop was so crowded with people, standing, sitting, squeezing into every corner, that we just turned on our heels and left. I could feel the smug eyes of successful punters following me down the alleyway. How do they do it? How did they get a table? Did they camp outside, waiting for the owners to open up first thing in the morning? I resolve to return on a Friday – different, I realise, a break from the normal schedule, but I am determined.
Anyway, my frustration is leading me astray. On another note – good news! Kate has returned to take her rightful, titled place and all is well. She has even brought a friend, all the way from Scotland. Admittedly not just to experience a cake date but we’ll breeze over that minor fact. We decide, instead, to head off to Benet’s. I’m not actually sure whether this counts as an ‘independent coffee shop’, since there are two of them in Cambridge, but I’ve never heard talk of them extended beyond the city so, for all intents and purposes, it will have to do. The larger, better known Benet’s takes up a significant proportion of King’s Parade, with two conjoined shop fronts gazing down at all the passers-by. From the outside, Benet’s appears very friendly. Quite like Fitzbillies, with its warm, wood-styled exterior, but perhaps not as elegant. Quaint advertisements of their own produce are painted up and down the pillars and across the hanging signs, with promises paninis, baguettes and toasted ciabatta, while the sandwich board beckons, papered in descriptions of their fresh crepes and home made ice cream. One can easily imagine how pleasant it would be to settle down at one of the out door tables and while away the summer time, people-watching and indulging your secret sense of superiority over the endless excitable tour groups.
Inside, the decorators have got a little bit enthusiastic with the vegetation. Upstairs there are even canvases depicting close ups of particular plant species. Not that, for the most part, the overall effect isn’t quite nice, but the hanging baskets and potted plants are held in stark contrast to the dismal, cloud-dominated outdoors. It also does a significant amount to disguise and distract from the disturbingly vast expanse of white wall. The front room, for example, which is buzzing with murmuring queues and munching customers, is thrown in to sharp relief when we move through to the next door ice cream parlour. Apart from a few window 
stalls and an unmanned, though impressively stocked, counter of frozen goods, this section of Benet’s looks quite abandoned. As if to make up for their slightly blank interior apparel, our traipse up the stairwell is flanked by bizarre, very brightly coloured, cartoon murals. A ‘psychedelic diglet’, as one onlooker commented. I cannot, in all honesty, begin to describe what these might have been. You must satisfy yourselves with my photography and hope to get further into deciphering their origins than either I or Kate did. A conversation starter perhaps? They certainly prompted debate. After craftily stealing one of the larger tables, by a window no less, we all head back down to the entrance, where several counters of cake beckon. 
When it comes down to what the cafe offers up, Benet’s does not disappoint. There is one very wide counter, practically groaning under the weight of all the different pickings. 
Perched atop this, and all along the length of the serving bench, are further platters of biscuits, flapjacks, unidentifiable edibles oozing caramel. Compared to last weeks trip to Trockel, Ulmann and Freunde, I feel I’ve just walked into the flagship Sainsbury’s, after a lifetime of scavenging through understocked corner shops. As if this weren’t enough, the whole area is flanked by endless chalk boards, each announcing a further array of sandwiches, smoothies, milkshakes, pancakes and other goodies. Just imagine how long decisions must take when the weather makes the thought of ice cream actually appealing. The convenience of dividing these two sections now makes itself apparent. The 
difference, noted above, between this and last week’s excursion are mounting up on closer examination of Benet’s produce. Where the German cakes of past dates were crumbling, asymmetrical creations, I can’t help but point out, with wonder in my tone, that the flapjacks are shaped in neat pyramidal frustums (don’t worry, I just had to google ‘pyramid with top chopped off’). The caramel equivalent, along with a variety of shortbreads, are conical and topped with slices of banana, arranged in precise concentric circles. There is a rainbow of different 
tarts and quiches, alongside strange pots – filled with cream and chocolate and everything that makes your arteries shudder in horror. And there, sitting behind the glass panels, is the cafe’s Tour de Force. A Victoria sponge cake so huge I think Kate’s eyes might have just popped out of her head. I’m pretty certain that the filling is enough to satisfy the yearly dairy allowance of any normal human being. Kate goes for it without hesitation. I um and ah over the all the possible selections, rashly announce that crepes and ice cream are out of the window given the season, get momentarily distracted by the shelves of syrups and finally request a smoothie and a millionaire’s shortcake. (I do have to experience as much as possible, you know.) Kate’s friend, Iona, goes for the less extravagant single smoothie. This is when the confusion begins.
The head of the queue, owing to the placement of the till, is positioned just at the break in the counter where the pathway to the kitchen extends. This, combined with the fact that the narrow room allows little space in which to mill around in anticipation of your purchase, means that within seconds there is a frustrated waitress perpetually pushing through (politely of course) and stepping on our toes. We all shuffle awkwardly from side to side as we wait for our orders, trying out best to manoeuvre in the correct direction. Naturally, everyone is flustered. Then the man in charge seems to get confused. I ask for the cake and the smoothie. He points to the cake and the smoothie, arranges one on a plate and writes a ticket for the other. He rings through the till. It comes up with just the smoothie (a steep three pounds and fifty pence – that could buy you a frappacinno and some) and somehow misses the cake. I try to attract his attention but he takes the money in my hand and frantically waves me on. The waitress frowns. Ah well, I’m not one to complain when fate seems to go my way. Karma and all that. Maybe I’m a better person than I thought.
We all head back up to the table we reserved, past the strange creatures lining the stairs, and settle down to enjoy our cake. In our absence, the place has cleared slightly. There is 
a pleasant view of King’s College in the mist and you can hear the slight murmur of the outdoor bustle. Greater reflection, though, on the decor makes it appear starker than before. Bland and a little bare even, with just the overly bright green clusters to break the blankness. We tuck into our cakes. I will always give credit where credit is due and the bakers at Benet’s definitely deserved some credit. The small, cylindrical millionaire’s shortcake in front of me is nothing short of a work of art, with milk and white chocolate swirled across the top. I can’t hide my disappointment though. While they seem to have been free and easy with the biscuit itself, and the portion of chocolate is by no means stingy, somewhere in
the middle all my lovely caramel has been lost. What’s there isn’t as gooey as I could have hoped, either. In fact, the whole creation remains remarkably true to its perfect form, even when I’ve gouged a significant spoonful out of it. Kate’s immense slice of sponge, on the other hand, proves faultless, bar a minor incident in which it tips over and icing sugar cascades across the table. That said, she is a far sight from finishing it and admits that it was the excess of cream that stopped her in her tracks. Even after a fair while playing with her cutlery and making pretty patterns in the spilt decorations, half the slice remains. To be honest, just as the cake’s filling was gratuitous, so was the portion. Perhaps Benet’s should consider lowering their prices in return for more reasonable servings. The size of the wedge that Kate is handed is positively American in proportions – no offence intended.
Meanwhile, Iona’s smoothie has arrived and been drunk in good time, while mine fails to appear. The grumpy waitress has ventured upstairs to clear up some of the deserted tables so I take the opportunity to query its whereabouts. After a brief departure, she returns and informs me that the order never went through. Clearly not as nice as I thought I was then. Who believes in fate anyway? I always said karma was a bitch. I ask how much it is to order another, remembering resentfully the £3.50 I coughed up, which I’m pretty sure surpassed the cost 
of my caramel shortbread. She replies £3.75. Never knew inflation worked so fast. I decline, as everybody is done and dusted and we have to be on our way besides. But as we leave, I sneakily check the price boards up front. Smoothies were the original £3.50, while my cake stood at a mere £2.95. I’ve been ripped off – unwittingly I realise, but nonetheless. I leave in a slightly unsavoury mood, unable to decide whether this is because I am begrudging this cafe 55 pence, or that I’m pretty sure the guy originally in charge both repeated and wrote down my order. I’m not one to judge and by no means should Benet’s be viewed in the same light as the cake date fiasco that was Auntie’s, but I don’t think I’m being unreasonably when I say it doesn’t hold a candle to its other two contenders. Fitsbillies (and the German cafe) – reign on.
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