On Coffee and Coffee Shops
Like everyone else who makes
the mistake of getting older,
I begin each day
with coffee and obituaries.
Bill Cosby
Let’s be clear. The most up-to-date science of this passing hour is: coffee and caffeine are the two most heinous villains of our society, bar none. There’s probably no drug worse for anyone than caffeine, unless you start the list with nicotine, heroin, cocaine, and alcohol. I know my science, and I know that every few years a new double-blind,
thoroughly scientific study comes out blaming coffee for all the evils of the world: over population, global
climate change, IBS, low birth weight, the Euro-Zone meltdown, Velveeta Cheese, the luckless (not-so) Fightin’ Irish, not to mention the obvious Yugo Automotive Company. I’m just quoting science, folks. It’s all right there in the research somewhere.
Then again, (or so science tells us on alternating weeks in contrast to the above findings) coffee and caffeine are those rare nectars of the gods,
ambrosia from Mount Olympus (if it is located in Ethiopia), sent by the gods to satisfy men and women, to quicken their minds, sharpen their senses. This rich, dark, steaming liquid with its mild stimulus awakens us, drives us on, supports us, loves us as no other. Daily Arabica saves us from heart disease, dementia, failing Intro to Post-Modern Poetry taught by a retro Beatnik, early-onset Alzheimer’s, kicking the dog first thing each day, yelling at the paperboy for a late delivery, and general crabbiness around our spouses each morning.
Scientific results are sketchy, but I firmly believe World War One and the Great Influenza might have been avoided had more Europeans regularly consumed coffee. I am also sure had Americans consumed more java in the 1920s, the Depression would not have begun. Coffee and caffeine regularly stop IBS, occasionally PMS, the IRS, and (I firmly believe) the return of the Antichrist (or coffee would not be served as a post-Communion beverage in the basements and social halls of every church in
America each Sunday.)
Coffee is our salvation—embrace it. Drop that Diet Mountain Dew in the morning, Sallie, grow up, face your responsibilities like an adult, and drink your coffee. It saves the planet, Lonny, and possibly your soul.
But don’t spoil it. There is nothing worse than “flavored”coffee. Look, coffee is excellent, perfect, in its own pristine essence. A little cream or milk, okay. (That’s how I drink it.) But these whippy-dippy frappes with a dusting of chocolate and pinch of cinnamon and everything else but a cherry, are a sacrilege against the inviolate laws of heaven. It’s not a dessert; it’s coffee. Hot and fresh in the morning. Delicious in the afternoon. Don’t make it into a calorie orgy.
I mean, have you ever seen a morning news show named after any other drink? It’s “Morning, Joe” with
product placement, a Starbuck’s select brand thrown in, genial conversation and hard news, plenty of coffee and more coffee. It’s not “Good Morning, Diet Dew,” is it? Or “Hot Water with Lemon Slice to Mellow Your Day with Regis and Kelly,” right? How perky would they be after consuming that? When CNBC tried a new show, “Green Tea Your Day to Successful Investing” (aimed at the unconventional
investor watching at 5 AM after yoga), the DOW tanked. Green tea’s a killer.
On Break Weekend this semester, we drove to Indianapolis. That first morning, I had to fend for myself and find coffee in the Butler-Tarkington neighborhood near Butler University. I had a $5 coupon for Starbucks; it was a sunbathed autumnal day. I’ve visited enough to know my way, and
so off I scurried. My sister-in-law lives in the same neighborhood that produced Kurt Vonnegut, with
comfortable, well-kept houses, some with 5th bedroom additions and long driveways. A few blocks brings you to a shopping and restaurant cluster.
Up Broadway, onto 48th Street, turn at Illinois, Starbucks at the next corner. An easy walk.
With the Green Coffee Giant in sight, I was pulled aside, distracted by the Illinois Street Food Emporium Bakery and Deli. It was warm enough to sit outside; a few patrons did. But, I decided to duck inside. It was an Alice-through-the-Looking-Glass moment. I might have been transported back to the 1950s. I stood transfixed by this bakery-deli-café. I
couldn’t resist the charms of a real, still-functioning neighborhood diner, Formica tabletops and all. I
ordered the breakfast special: two scrambled eggs, sausage, whole wheat toast, and a BOLD endless cup of coffee. I was impressed when the clerk at the cash register wrote down my order on a slip of paper.
Computers haven’t found their way behind the counters of the Emporium.
I can’t say the service was fast, because I waited a long time sipping my free refill. But the staff was
delightful. The helpful woman who took my order walked me through getting my silverware (a bit hidden to the side) and made sure I got all the steaming coffee I urgently needed. Not a Styrofoam cup but a gigantic ceramic mug.
To a writer with an eye for future characters, The Illinois Street Food Emporium was a palate of unmatched hues and texture. One well-heeled patron in a fitted wool suit was ready for a power business deal. She was perhaps my age; I imagined her in the Butler U Foundation Office raising millions. Others who strolled in were sweatshirt moms out for a morning walk, chat, and coffee with
friends. Regulars came in to be greeted by “the usual”as soon as they stepped to the counter.
Still others saved seats for friends; the Emporium grew crowded but stayed welcoming.
Indianapolis is a diverse city, and like many metro areas, has its share of racial tensions. I saw none of that friction at the Emporium as neighbors—young and old, black and white—greeted one another over coffee and a bagel or a fresh cinnamon bun.
The place was filled with ease and comfort. These were Hoosiers, not Minnesota-nice folks, so the level of laughter and conversation and geniality
grew quite loud. Day after day, meal after meal, this place hosts scores of people from many walks of life who truly enjoy each other. And I do mean the tables were integrated, not clusters of similar races sitting separated, tolerating each other. They knew each other, were friends with each other. It was an amazing sight to savor in our sometimes strained society. I began to feel like the welcomed odd duck invited alone to someone else’s huge family gathering, a family that liked and appreciated one another.
My strongest impression of the friendliness of the Emporium was how many patrons knew multiple tables. They entered, got their coffee and donut, and sat with one table, but often they waved at patrons at several others. And, the staff knew everyone, greeted everyone, laughed with everyone. I did feel a bit like the orphan left out of the feast, except my eggs and sausage were that good, in their greasy, home-style way.
When I finished, I made it a point to thank the staff. “Well, come back,” they laughed. I explained I was in Indianapolis only once or twice a year and probably wouldn’t be back until next summer. “That fine,” they said, “we’ll still be here.”
Later that day, when I explained to our uncle, Father Tom Murphy, a longtime Indianapolis resident, where I had breakfast, he knew the place well. “It’s an institution,” he explained. That and so much more.
But, my $5 coupon for Starbucks was still in my wallet. From the Emporium it was a few steps across Illinois to the gleaming and bright coffeehouse. I love single location beans. Blends can sneak in lower qualities beans, but I find Starbucks does some excellent combos. I love Sumatran coffee the most, but I tried their Komodo blend from the Southwest Pacific. And I couldn’t resist a pound of the “Morning Joe” variety, a robust Central and South American
product-placement selection.
The clerk was friendly. He checked to make sure my coupon was valid, got me my take-out cup, Pike’s Peak, and then ground my two choices just right.
In the corner at two small tables, three patrons sat buried in their computer screens. One Apple and two HP, no wonder they weren’t talking. The tone was hushed. The largest cluster of friends I saw was three people whispering in a group. More people were speaking into their mobile phones rather than to each other. Or they were glued to their hand-held units, texting, reading messages, playing Bejeweled.
I had walked into a crowd of strangers linked by excellent coffee, separated by their own self-imposed isolation. Most were urban-polished but with a
stylized hard-edged Metro look. A sprinkling of business-suits-in-a-hurry, but most wore clothing with a message and hair styles to impress rather than Colts caps huddled over the breakfast special laughing with friends. Excellent coffee, speedy service, but lacking in soul.
I don’t think I saw an African-American sitting there or working there.
As I walked back to my sister-in-law’s past the Food Emporium, I almost stopped in for one of their fresh cinnamon buns I had earlier resisted, but I walked on.
Next June, I told myself, or next July. They’ll still be there.
Like everyone else who makes
the mistake of getting older,
I begin each day
with coffee and obituaries.
Bill Cosby
Let’s be clear. The most up-to-date science of this passing hour is: coffee and caffeine are the two most heinous villains of our society, bar none. There’s probably no drug worse for anyone than caffeine, unless you start the list with nicotine, heroin, cocaine, and alcohol. I know my science, and I know that every few years a new double-blind,
thoroughly scientific study comes out blaming coffee for all the evils of the world: over population, global
climate change, IBS, low birth weight, the Euro-Zone meltdown, Velveeta Cheese, the luckless (not-so) Fightin’ Irish, not to mention the obvious Yugo Automotive Company. I’m just quoting science, folks. It’s all right there in the research somewhere.
Then again, (or so science tells us on alternating weeks in contrast to the above findings) coffee and caffeine are those rare nectars of the gods,
ambrosia from Mount Olympus (if it is located in Ethiopia), sent by the gods to satisfy men and women, to quicken their minds, sharpen their senses. This rich, dark, steaming liquid with its mild stimulus awakens us, drives us on, supports us, loves us as no other. Daily Arabica saves us from heart disease, dementia, failing Intro to Post-Modern Poetry taught by a retro Beatnik, early-onset Alzheimer’s, kicking the dog first thing each day, yelling at the paperboy for a late delivery, and general crabbiness around our spouses each morning.
Scientific results are sketchy, but I firmly believe World War One and the Great Influenza might have been avoided had more Europeans regularly consumed coffee. I am also sure had Americans consumed more java in the 1920s, the Depression would not have begun. Coffee and caffeine regularly stop IBS, occasionally PMS, the IRS, and (I firmly believe) the return of the Antichrist (or coffee would not be served as a post-Communion beverage in the basements and social halls of every church in
America each Sunday.)
Coffee is our salvation—embrace it. Drop that Diet Mountain Dew in the morning, Sallie, grow up, face your responsibilities like an adult, and drink your coffee. It saves the planet, Lonny, and possibly your soul.
But don’t spoil it. There is nothing worse than “flavored”coffee. Look, coffee is excellent, perfect, in its own pristine essence. A little cream or milk, okay. (That’s how I drink it.) But these whippy-dippy frappes with a dusting of chocolate and pinch of cinnamon and everything else but a cherry, are a sacrilege against the inviolate laws of heaven. It’s not a dessert; it’s coffee. Hot and fresh in the morning. Delicious in the afternoon. Don’t make it into a calorie orgy.
I mean, have you ever seen a morning news show named after any other drink? It’s “Morning, Joe” with
product placement, a Starbuck’s select brand thrown in, genial conversation and hard news, plenty of coffee and more coffee. It’s not “Good Morning, Diet Dew,” is it? Or “Hot Water with Lemon Slice to Mellow Your Day with Regis and Kelly,” right? How perky would they be after consuming that? When CNBC tried a new show, “Green Tea Your Day to Successful Investing” (aimed at the unconventional
investor watching at 5 AM after yoga), the DOW tanked. Green tea’s a killer.
On Break Weekend this semester, we drove to Indianapolis. That first morning, I had to fend for myself and find coffee in the Butler-Tarkington neighborhood near Butler University. I had a $5 coupon for Starbucks; it was a sunbathed autumnal day. I’ve visited enough to know my way, and
so off I scurried. My sister-in-law lives in the same neighborhood that produced Kurt Vonnegut, with
comfortable, well-kept houses, some with 5th bedroom additions and long driveways. A few blocks brings you to a shopping and restaurant cluster.
Up Broadway, onto 48th Street, turn at Illinois, Starbucks at the next corner. An easy walk.
With the Green Coffee Giant in sight, I was pulled aside, distracted by the Illinois Street Food Emporium Bakery and Deli. It was warm enough to sit outside; a few patrons did. But, I decided to duck inside. It was an Alice-through-the-Looking-Glass moment. I might have been transported back to the 1950s. I stood transfixed by this bakery-deli-café. I
couldn’t resist the charms of a real, still-functioning neighborhood diner, Formica tabletops and all. I
ordered the breakfast special: two scrambled eggs, sausage, whole wheat toast, and a BOLD endless cup of coffee. I was impressed when the clerk at the cash register wrote down my order on a slip of paper.
Computers haven’t found their way behind the counters of the Emporium.
I can’t say the service was fast, because I waited a long time sipping my free refill. But the staff was
delightful. The helpful woman who took my order walked me through getting my silverware (a bit hidden to the side) and made sure I got all the steaming coffee I urgently needed. Not a Styrofoam cup but a gigantic ceramic mug.
To a writer with an eye for future characters, The Illinois Street Food Emporium was a palate of unmatched hues and texture. One well-heeled patron in a fitted wool suit was ready for a power business deal. She was perhaps my age; I imagined her in the Butler U Foundation Office raising millions. Others who strolled in were sweatshirt moms out for a morning walk, chat, and coffee with
friends. Regulars came in to be greeted by “the usual”as soon as they stepped to the counter.
Still others saved seats for friends; the Emporium grew crowded but stayed welcoming.
Indianapolis is a diverse city, and like many metro areas, has its share of racial tensions. I saw none of that friction at the Emporium as neighbors—young and old, black and white—greeted one another over coffee and a bagel or a fresh cinnamon bun.
The place was filled with ease and comfort. These were Hoosiers, not Minnesota-nice folks, so the level of laughter and conversation and geniality
grew quite loud. Day after day, meal after meal, this place hosts scores of people from many walks of life who truly enjoy each other. And I do mean the tables were integrated, not clusters of similar races sitting separated, tolerating each other. They knew each other, were friends with each other. It was an amazing sight to savor in our sometimes strained society. I began to feel like the welcomed odd duck invited alone to someone else’s huge family gathering, a family that liked and appreciated one another.
My strongest impression of the friendliness of the Emporium was how many patrons knew multiple tables. They entered, got their coffee and donut, and sat with one table, but often they waved at patrons at several others. And, the staff knew everyone, greeted everyone, laughed with everyone. I did feel a bit like the orphan left out of the feast, except my eggs and sausage were that good, in their greasy, home-style way.
When I finished, I made it a point to thank the staff. “Well, come back,” they laughed. I explained I was in Indianapolis only once or twice a year and probably wouldn’t be back until next summer. “That fine,” they said, “we’ll still be here.”
Later that day, when I explained to our uncle, Father Tom Murphy, a longtime Indianapolis resident, where I had breakfast, he knew the place well. “It’s an institution,” he explained. That and so much more.
But, my $5 coupon for Starbucks was still in my wallet. From the Emporium it was a few steps across Illinois to the gleaming and bright coffeehouse. I love single location beans. Blends can sneak in lower qualities beans, but I find Starbucks does some excellent combos. I love Sumatran coffee the most, but I tried their Komodo blend from the Southwest Pacific. And I couldn’t resist a pound of the “Morning Joe” variety, a robust Central and South American
product-placement selection.
The clerk was friendly. He checked to make sure my coupon was valid, got me my take-out cup, Pike’s Peak, and then ground my two choices just right.
In the corner at two small tables, three patrons sat buried in their computer screens. One Apple and two HP, no wonder they weren’t talking. The tone was hushed. The largest cluster of friends I saw was three people whispering in a group. More people were speaking into their mobile phones rather than to each other. Or they were glued to their hand-held units, texting, reading messages, playing Bejeweled.
I had walked into a crowd of strangers linked by excellent coffee, separated by their own self-imposed isolation. Most were urban-polished but with a
stylized hard-edged Metro look. A sprinkling of business-suits-in-a-hurry, but most wore clothing with a message and hair styles to impress rather than Colts caps huddled over the breakfast special laughing with friends. Excellent coffee, speedy service, but lacking in soul.
I don’t think I saw an African-American sitting there or working there.
As I walked back to my sister-in-law’s past the Food Emporium, I almost stopped in for one of their fresh cinnamon buns I had earlier resisted, but I walked on.
Next June, I told myself, or next July. They’ll still be there.
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