The Americanization Of Coffee

Since my callow days in college I have religiously brewed my daily coffee in an hourglass-shaped all-glass Chemex urn. The ritual of folding the filter paper, grinding the coffee, and manually dripping the hot water over the grounds is part of the satisfaction I gain. It’s not quite the Japanese tea ritual, but I’m Sicilian.

But now that I’m getting on, having shed my callowness, I occasionally try something new that goes against the spirit of my daily rituals. Call it a psychic treat. Such was the case when a LottaBucks Coffee Shoppe opened in town. Never one to trust hybrids like donut stores and restaurants for coffee, I innocently thought that Lottabucks, specializing in the bitter elixir of mental clarity, might lift me from the doldrums of habit.

After standing in line for twenty minutes while three people ahead of me placed their requests, I approached the young man taking orders. His name tag proclaimed him as Karl.

The trouble began immediately.

“Good morning,” I said cheerfully, which is actually quite a chore for me at that hour of the morning. “I’d like a cup of coffee, please.”

“Of course you would,” Karl said cheerfully without effort. “What would you like?”

“A cup of coffee.”

“A latte?”

“No, not a ladder. A cup of coffee, please.” I felt a little sympathy for Karl. To be so young and have a problem hearing. Too much loud music perhaps.

“Certainly. Espresso? Misto?”

I raised my voice to help him out. “Just a cup of coffee, thank you!”

A flash of disapproval skinned across his face. “There’s no need to raise your voice, sir. I can hear perfectly well. Now, would you like a cappuccino? Or a macchiato?”

Obviously we were suffering a failure to communicate. “Young man, I would like to buy a cup of coffee. I don’t know what all that other stuff is and I am not interested in it.”

“I see,” he said, frowning. “Please step to the side, sir, and I’ll get someone to help you.”

“I don’t need help. I need a cup of coffee.”

“Just one moment sir.” He disappeared into the back room and a moment later reappeared with a young, pretty woman. Her name tag said Sheila and it said Manager.

“Good morning, sir,” she said. “I understand there’s a problem. Perhaps I can help?”

“Apparently the problem is that I would like a cup of coffee.”

She smiled sweetly. I immediately didn’t trust her. “Of course you would. That’s why we’re here. Now then, what would you like?”

“Cuppa coffee. Cuppa joe. Java in a cup.”

“I’m afraid we don’t have any of those. Perhaps a nice frappucino?”

“You’re a coffee shop and you don’t have coffee?”

“Well, sir, we sell sophisticated beverages centered on coffee as the main ingredient.”

“I want coffee and you offer me nuances.”

“I’m afraid so, sir.”

“This is America and I can’t get a cup of coffee in a coffee shop. Is everybody doing nuances? What is America coming to?”

“Well, sir,” she said brightly, “we do offer a Cafe Americano au Lait.”

I stared at her, speechless.

“I could arrange to sneak a little cinnamon into it if you promise not to tell the other customers,” she offered.

“So you aren’t going to sell me a cup of coffee?”

“I’m afraid it’s against company policy, sir.”

I left, coffeeless.

I did, however, save the four dollars a cup of nuance would have cost me, and spent it on some nice Colombian coffee beans for my old Chemex.

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