“The Mug of Coffee Seduced Me” – Black List Café, Bordeaux: Review

To say I was mildly hungover on Monday morning would be an understatement. The dreary drizzle over Bordeaux wasn’t helping, nor was my capsule hostel bed that seemed to be a cocoon designed to trap me in my misery. But after some internal wrestling, I managed to drag myself into the grey world, driven by one singular, all-consuming need: coffee. A good cup. The kind that reboots your soul and wipes away the sins of a weekend spent overindulging.

Black List Café was one that I had found for my list of recommendations for Bordeaux. I stumbled, quite literally, stumbled the four minutes to this tiny coffee shop tucked opposite a tram stop, just a stone’s throw from the towering cathedral. From the outside, it was unassuming, with its two lonely tables outside braving the damp air. Inside, it was a different story. Long white wall and light wooden tables cramped together like many spots in french cities. It was  busy, buzzing, tables full of people sheltering from the elements.

No one greeted me. My polite “Bonjour” hung in the air, ignored by the busy barista, who had clearly been up long before I had even considered stirring.

The smell alone was enough to convince me to stay.

Slightly irritated but still hopeful, I took a seat outside. The rain had eased, and I settled into the rhythm of the city. My head spun with every ping of the tram, the murmur of conversations, the shuffle of feet—Bordeaux was awake. I needed coffee.

Next to me, a bike packing couple, clearly on a long cycling journey, were also seeking solace in a hot drink. We all waited, unbothered by the lack of service, because somehow, amidst the chaos, there was a promise in the air: this coffee was worth it. I distracted myself with some life admin, making phone calls, chasing lost packages, trying to stay productive. I knew that soon, my reward would come—hot, black, and strong.

Eventually, after watching a parade of auzzie tourists lament the fact they were being turned away, their moans of distress and hopeful faces falling as they realised there was no room inside, the barista approached. I ordered with a near desperation—“Un café filtre, s’il vous plaît.” I was beyond ready. The drizzle stopped just as I turned back to the view. The majestic cathedral, the criss-cross of busy streets, and the buzzing of Bordeaux in the morning gave me some comfort, as I knew soon, the coffee would make everything alright.

What I didn’t expect, though, was just how soon. The barista returned with a steaming mug, far larger than the delicate espressos I’d been downing all weekend. She placed it in front of me, the handle facing me, the side facing the street perfectly artful. I noticed passers by smiling as they glanced my way, but I was too engrossed in my phone call to pay much attention. I was mid-conversation, battling a complex “press 3 for customer service” robot.

I waited, letting the coffee cool just enough. My hand found the handle, wrapping around the warm ceramic. And that’s when it happened. My fingers traced over the smooth surface, then landed on what could only be described as… warm nipples. I paused, confused, curious, and intrigued all at once. I turned the cup slightly, and finally, I saw it—the mug was accompanied with the perfect pair of breasts.

The genius of it dawned on me. The barista had placed the mug perfectly so that only I had been oblivious to the little playful artwork, while the rest of the world enjoyed a knowing smile. A cheeky move. Clever. And honestly, so well played.

The first sip was as perfect as the setup. The rich, dark coffee flooded my senses. It was smooth, bold, and far more than I expected. The warmth spread from my lips to my core, and before I knew it, I was lost in the moment—just me, my coffee, and the quiet joy of this unexpected, sensual experience.

As I sat there, cradling the mug, I couldn’t help but take a picture. A tear, not of sadness, but pure, unadulterated joy, slid down my cheek. In that moment, I knew: this wasn’t just the best coffee I’d had in Bordeaux. This was the best coffee I’d had in my life. And it all started with the smallest details—a simple cup, an accidental touch, and a sip of something magical.

Now I understand why Black List is the best-kept secret of Bordeaux’s coffee scene. Simple, unpretentious, and yet so utterly profound.

Chef Tris

Food Tour Guide

From the bustling streets of Paris to the quiet moments at home, my journey is one of passion, resilience, and a deep love for French cuisine. I’m a brit who moved to France with my Parents aged 16, trained as a chef in Paris Palace at 18 and have spent decades observing and eating like the French. Having spent some time as a tech recruiter my move last year to share my love of food as a local food tour guide in Paris has been a delicious turn of events, blending my professional skills with my personal story of renewal.