Peddler Espresso

Nothing better than arriving into Southern Cross and grabbing a delicious hot cuppa from Peddler to start your day. Fast friendly service, quite a few decent cabinet options and seating around the counter. And I love being amongst the hustle and bustle of the train station. It's a lovely little Oasis

Fantastic place to have a quiet lunch. Great coffee, my favourite a Piccolo. Food is a beautiful choice of sweet or savoury. Customer service is perfection.

After a VERY early start out if Albury this am (Train Link) sitting down to a good coffee & cheese/tomato toastie . Highly recommend the food fare at this establishment.

Great coffee spot on Collins St. Always has some quiet seating available In the office building.

Great vibe with friendly, energetic staff and upbeat Latin music. Coffee was perfect! The place offers the usual breakfast items, but they also had interesting ones such as Portuguese tarts, sweet&savoury&spicy bagels. There was a party in my mouth!

Newly opened place. Visited this place twice. First time, the coffee was excellent but second time was average. Not sure if it's because the place was busier. Price is reasonable, considering increasing price of coffee in cafes. Didn't try the food but they look great and not that pricey.

It is a truth universally acknowledged* that a weary soul in possession of an early train ticket must be in want of a good cuppa. And so it was that I, bleary-eyed and morally unprepared for the concept of "morning," disembarked at Southern Cross. *Though not, it must be said, universally appreciated. Especially not by those still inside their duvets. My feet, acting independently of any known nervous system, began the daily shuffle toward the monolithic glass-and-steel temple known as Collins Square, when something happened. Something profound. Something aromatic. A scent. Nay—a siren song in the language of roasted beans and divine intervention. It curled through the air like a caffeinated spirit guide, leading me with the certainty of a prophet and the subtlety of a brick to the side of the head. Past the espresso machine at Sergy Boy (a noble establishment, but not the one), past the confused commuters and stale pastry stands, through revolving doors that spun like the Wheel of Fortune but with more fingerprints. And there, at 1MQ, I found it. Not Valhalla, not Heaven, not even that café in Toorak—you know the one, where the taps are polished more often than the staff, the sourdough toasties cost twenty-eight dollars, and the dogs wear cashmere.* It’s the sort of place where people don’t live so much as reside, usually within earshot of a Pilates studio and their own self-satisfaction. *One dog was seen in Gucci booties. No one was surprised. Not even the dog. Peddler Espresso. If heaven exists on earth, it shall be called Peddler Espresso. This is where coffee isn’t made, that's sacrilege, it’s summoned by the ancient dance of the barista and the steam belching machina. Where the staff are less baristas and more bean-whisperers. Where even the takeaway cups seem to hum with purpose. I sipped the brew—sorry, ambrosia—and the fog lifted. My soul rebooted. Somewhere, angels got a whiff and updated their LinkedIn profiles. It was then that I noticed him. A tall, pale figure in an expensive, impeccably tailored charcoal-grey suit, with a blood red tie, stood deathly still by the muffins. His gaunt face was more of an absence than a face. He was like a pause in the universe wearing Italian shoes. “Morning,” I ventured. He inclined what could have been a head and gave a sigh—one that suggested he'd tried decaf recently and was still recovering emotionally. “I don’t usually need coffee,” he said, voice calm and oddly resonant, like wind moving through forgotten catacombs. “But I smelled this… and thought, perhaps today I might want one." He glanced at the espresso machine and smiled slightly as if sharing a thought only they knew, “There are brews that stir the blood. This one stirs the soul — and whatever came before.” He stood a moment longer, staring at the cups, then vanished—not in a puff of smoke, but with the faint sound of an invoice being stamped in a cosmic filing cabinet. A small, ivory business card fluttered gently to the ground. Graven M. Ravenhurst, Esq. Your presence has been noted. Your absence, arranged. “Never trust a café that spells ‘espresso’ with an ‘x’.” tl;dr Peddler Espresso: miraculous coffee, good grub, cleaner than a wizard’s conscience (on paper), and staff so lovely you'd think they'd been summoned by ritual. Even metaphysical gentlemen with Italian footwear and punctuality in their bones make the pilgrimage. Go there. Now.