Cafe Society

Since posting the book review yesterday, I’ve thought a lot about cafes and their role in my life. I’m lucky in that my small Western town has about a dozen indie coffeehouses, and that doesn’t include Starbucks (of which we have 2 or 3, not including those in grocery stores). Each has its personality, and while none really stand out in terms of meeting all of my criteria for the perfect coffeehouse, I’ve found a few favorites to haunt on the days when I need want to get out of the house and do some “public writing,” as mon amie La Belette Rouge calls it.

My go-to cafe is parked right across the street from the hospital where my husband B. works. Smack in the middle of one of the busiest intersections in town, it doesn’t always offer the best coffee (and their Organic French Roast is gone by mid-morning on most days), and its customer service leaves a hell of a lot to be desired. Nonetheless, it does have the best atmosphere in town, with shiny wood laminate floors, warm, earth-tone colors, huge, old-fashioned wall clocks, and — most important — plenty of big wooden tables. When I work, I tend to spread my stuff out everywhere: magazines, books, papers, pens, my cell phone, my digital voice recorder (for interviews), and of course, the coffee. Most of the local establishments have these wee bistro tables that offer neither the space nor the proper ergonomics to the working writer/student/businessperson. (I was at Barnes & Noble’s cafe the other day and ended up with a strained back and shoulder, as the tables over there are too high for the little person that I am.)

Also, as B. and I share one car between us, the coffeehouse is conveniently located so that when he gets off work, I can just swing over across the street with the car (or, on warmer days, he can just walk over to the cafe and meet me there). All in all, despite its shortcomings, it meets my needs, and considering that where I used to live my only option was a very noisy and cramped Starbucks 5 miles from my apartment, I’m not about to complain.

My other favorite is downtown, across from a historic movie theater. They offer $1 cafe au laits and coffees if you bring your own mug, and while I’m not crazy about the abundance of fluorescent lighting, the couches are comfy and the artwork outstanding. (B. had a photo show there a few months ago, natch.) Plus, the natural light flooding the front area from the enormous storefront windows helps alleviate the eye strain from all the overhead industrial lighting. We’ve become good friends with the husband-and-wife owners, and they’ve given us plenty of juicy gossip about some of the less pleasant parts about living in this town.

The other coffeehouses have their own, uhm, quirks. One near the airport has a charming interior, with lots of warm wood paneling and funky pastel-colored, handmade ceramic mugs, but with their overly priced, low-quality coffee and poor location in a junky strip mall, I’m surprised they’ve managed to survive.

Tucked into a more heavily-trafficked area next to a Safeway, yet another coffeehouse has its share of fans. Well-known for its vociferous opposition to Starbucks (itself happily ensconced in a kiosk within the grocery store), it offers cafe au laits for $1.50 in big, hefty mugs, as well as a million different syrups with which to flavor your brew (if you like that sort of thing, that is). Unfortunately, unlike every other coffeehouse in town, it doesn’t have wireless at all — free or otherwise — plus it closes at 4pm on weekdays and noon on weekends. Sure, they make better coffee than Starbucks and offer far superior customer service, but seriously, if I wanted to hang out at the coffeehouse for an afternoon or evening, can you blame me for heading across town to the bright and airy chain that’s open till 11 pm?

I spend 3-4 days each week parked in a coffeehouse, writing, reading, doing research, or otherwise enjoying B.’s company. I never used to be a cafe habitue – that is, not until B. introduced me to the joys of coffee itself. I’d always loved its aroma; I used to ask to inhale my mom’s cup each morning before I headed off to school, but I never actually drank the stuff. Once while in college, to wake myself up for a mathematics final, I gulped down a cup of pure blackness that I’d pumped out of the cafeteria’s military-surplus urn. I then had to spend the next two hours dancing and jumping around my dorm to the soundtrack of American Anthem, just to work off the nervous energy that threatened to induce spontaneous human combustion. That was the last time I tried it — not only did the taste make me blanch, but I nearly hurt myself hurling my trembling body against the concrete walls of my room. (Uhm, I did ace the exam, though.)

Now, I confine myself to drinking a few small cups of cafe au lait a week, no sugar, a bit of foam, in a ceramic mug. I’ve become one of those coffee snobs who just has to have their brew just so, and have been known to ask to see the mug before they pour the steamed milk on top, to make sure that they didn’t put too much coffee in it. If a barista doesn’t know what a cafe au lait is (most menus here offer them, but for some reason it’s a relative unknown in Dallas, even at the faux-”French country cafe” La Madeleine), I’ll reward him/her with an incredulous stare before reciting its laughably simple ingredients. (Half coffee, half steamed milk.) And 9 times out of ten, they still screw it up.

Yup. I’m officially a coffee snob. Gawd help us.

p.s. Writers among you will appreciate this old article in the New York Times about an especially popular coffeehouse in Los Angeles that’s become the fave hangout of both established screenwriters and wannabes. If only we had something like that here…

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