There’s only one thing I like better than the first cup of coffee in the morning; it’s the second cup. To me the reason is obvious; the first cup wakes me up enough to enjoy the second one. I can’t ever remember the first one.
I’m not a coffee snob. It just has to be rich, strong, and black. Sure there are some coffees better than other but it’s like arguing my dog is better than your dog.
There are few things better than sitting with a friend over a coffee—coffee—just coffee. Sometimes I order an Americano so as not to confuse the barista. If you say coffee to a barista; it sometimes takes a while to register.
When someone with me orders a mocha mint cappuccino made with Sumatran mountain grown with two percent I’m embarrassed. I feel like saying, “I’m not with them, they can pay for their own.” What they just ordered sounds like they got ingredients from three continents, picked by illiterate children, transported on the backs of indigenous peasants, and smuggled through Shanghai before being roasted in a Tijuana basement and stuffed in an immigrant kid’s hollowed out tennis shoe sole, distributed to a man named El Guama who delivers it to the back door of my coffee shop at precisely 12:32 AM every Thursday—cash only.
I just want my stinkin’ coffee!
If you are the sort who has the same frustration; here’s your cup.