A week ago, I was out in LA standing on line at your basic trendy coffee joint that no upper-middle-class Main Street would be without these days. I sort of fell in with the eclectic band of Angelinos trying to feel like I really belonged there, even though I abandoned the place nearly 15 years ago. Although I was no longer one of them, many of us sported that same kind of vacant malaise that is common among early risers until we got a little help from our morning cup of joe; and for me it's mandatory before a workout.
The lady in front of me was a well-groomed, well-kept obvious regular that was enveloped in a thick cloud of something that smelled expensive. While conspicuously flashing her big Lexus key chain, she ordered her coffee: "I'll have a double-tall-half-caf-half-decaf-French-roast-short-pump-no-whip-non-fat-mocha-with-extra-foam, please" (I'm dead serious).
In cool coffee lingo, that had to have gone over pretty well because the cashier didn't bat an eye and reiterated the same to the guy manning the machinery that could actually extrude the customer's request from mere steam and grounds. After some odd noises and some puffs of steam, the name of this concoction was again proudly called out and this affected nut case had her "coffee beverage" in hand. Incomplete as that morning masterpiece obviously was, the chick seemed to be able to fix it with a few more custom enhancements on her way out the door; she stopped at the counter where the cream, sugar, and other crap they use in coffee was displayed. Then she left and disarmed the alarm on her Lexus and climbed in-hopefully with a large portion of her designer skirt caught in the door. Jeez! How obnoxious can you get at that hour of the morning? Only in LA....
I was so caught up in this gross exercise in frivolity that it took the cashier three tries to get my attention "May I help you, sir?" She asked.
"Uhhhh... yeah, can I just get a cup of coffee?"
She looked at me as if I'd just asked her for rotisserie chicken. "Excuse me?"
She had ice-blue eyes, jet-black spikes of hair poking out in all directions from a red headband, freckles, a nose ring, and she wore a green paisley sun dress, torn fishnets, and combat boots. I was taken back for a moment, then realized she could be my daughter. "Coffee, ya know, that black stuff we used to drink in the good old days - back when I used to be cool."
She responded patiently, like an expert in special-Ed trying to teach a feral child to eat with a fork. "Well, today we have Sumatran Dark, Ethiopian Decaf, and Jamaican Blue Mountain."
"Which one tastes like French Roast?" I asked, clearly confused-the line behind me growing impatient.
"Well they all kind'a do," she responded almost sarcastically.
"Which one is the strongest? I'm trying to wake up." I thought if I told her the function I wanted the coffee to perform we could make some progress.
"Oh that would be the Sumatran!" She replied gleefully, "you could have that with a shot of espresso in it if you'd really like to get wired." Her nose-ring smacking the side of her nostril repeatedly as she gestured to confirm her firsthand knowledge.
Caffeine, now we were getting somewhere. "Yeah, ok. I'll take a Sumatran with a shot of espresso." I was quickly using up what little energy I had, I definitely needed the high-test.
"What size?"
"Size?"
"Yes-short, tall, or venti."
"Short, tall or venti? Don't you have medium?"
"That would be a tall, cuz a venti-that means 20 in Italian-is like really big and the short is like really small, so you'd probably be a tall."
"Whatever." I was starting to feel like I'd be walking out of there with a new shirt rather than the cup of coffee I so desperately needed.
She turned to her sidekick and called out my order. "Tall Sumatran hammerhead!"
"Tall Sumatran hammerhead!" He called back.
"A tall Sumatran hammerhead?" I asked, a little bewildered.
"Yes, that will be $4.25 please."
"Four-twenty-five for a cup of coffee?"
She looked at me like the question was rhetorical and smiled. After a slight standoff, I gave up and shelled out the money and got my change, discernibly avoiding the tip jar packed with ones and fives. After a few minutes I received my coffee and headed out the door. I got in the truck with my buddy and took a swig. Damn, that was good coffee. Why don't they serve coffee that good at a nice normal blue-collar coffee joint?
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