Coffee Shops I Have Known
There are about 27, 645 coffee shops in the United States. Vermont has the fewest shops, even fewer than Wyoming and South Dakota. Fortunately I live in a geographic area committed to drinking coffee. My drink of choice—decaffeinated iced coffee. When the temperature really dips I change to hot decaffeinated coffee. Since I primarily go to coffee shops to read and write —but over the years I’ve become a connoisseur—not of coffee, but of the shops friendly to writers.
I’m not interested in any place that serves you coffee, expects you to finish your cup, dab your mouth, have a short conversations, and leave. I want to stand on line, carry my cup to a table, and settle down to read or write.
My mother was my mentor. While she never read a book over coffee, she selected places that allowed customers to sit for long periods of time—usually with a newspaper or engaged in a lengthy conversation. Our favorite shop had red faux leather chair seats and a standing rack of newspapers. Often the papers remained long enough for the news to be stagnant. We usually shared a bran muffin—warmed, if they weren’t busy. My mother initiated me into this lifestyle way before I drank coffee.
••••••••••
Melone’s wasn’t the perfect coffee shop, but they did bake the best raspberry twirls. All the guys who drove the snowplows in the winter or did landscaping during the summer stopped in at Melones. While Mrs. Melone didn’t push anyone to vacate a table the noise level precluded any serious work. In nice weather Mrs. Melone put three or four metal tables in front of the store. As long as I didn’t mind sharing the table with a host of birds intent on scarfing down every crumb that fell on the ground the spot lent itself to reading. Melones also lent itself to eavesdropping since the townies stopped in at the end of the day. That’s where I heard about the woman being murdered two towns away. “She was in a bar and left with a stranger.” I heard about why the pigs were transported in the middle of the night. Seems like the townspeople were “too stuck-up for pigs” and certainly didn’t want to see them being driven through town in the daytime.
Paul’s Bakery was another townie hang out. It’s where I interviewed Mr. Murray who served in World War II and played with the Marine Corps band for a short period of time.. “Do you think they’ll publish this photo of me wearing a band uniform and playing my trombone?”
Another regular, Mr.Sherman, told me all about his friendship with Babe Ruth and he talked about Alku, the Finnish Temperance Society. Mr. Sherman occupied the post of town historian.
Reading was a possibility, but listening gave me fodder to write.
When the Boston Bean first opened it was the optimum coffee house—a real one. They made all the drinks that require more expertise, cost more, and have exotic names. People took reading seriously. Two long shelves beneath the windows featured pocket books arranged alphabetically by one of the patrons. It’s where I brought my computer, plugged in, poured my decaf into a thermos and wrote.
Small groups formed—one woman, a maker of hats, brought her materials down and sewed. She had a following—a physics professor who spent some time seated talking to her and more time reading one of his books. Another person who tended to sit with her read the newspaper from page one to the last letter on the last page. Then went back and did the puzzle. Another man sat with her for a short time and then went to another table to write. He worked from home. Over a carafe of half and half I met another reader who became a friend.
A drawback was no bathroom. I had to leave and walk to the Town Hall or library.
Two years ago they moved to a new location—with a bathroom. It’s a bigger place with no electric outlets, but comfortable chairs and the inclination to let you sit for hours over one cup of coffee. The lady who makes hats now has a studio and a baby. The newspaper reader sits by himself and the physicist sits with two men who discuss scientific topics. Lily, the vociferous reader, still orders a bagel with cream cheese for breakfast and a bagel with hummus for lunch. She asks about any new books and writes the titles on scraps of paper—and then often loses the scrap. Then there’s the woman who reads mysteries—“Only good mysteries.”
My perfect coffee shop is one that has open electric outlets, comfortable seats, a bathroom and some heat. And, of course, tables filled with readers and writers, but not so busy that I can’t get a seat.
I’m not interested in any place that serves you coffee, expects you to finish your cup, dab your mouth, have a short conversations, and leave. I want to stand on line, carry my cup to a table, and settle down to read or write.
My mother was my mentor. While she never read a book over coffee, she selected places that allowed customers to sit for long periods of time—usually with a newspaper or engaged in a lengthy conversation. Our favorite shop had red faux leather chair seats and a standing rack of newspapers. Often the papers remained long enough for the news to be stagnant. We usually shared a bran muffin—warmed, if they weren’t busy. My mother initiated me into this lifestyle way before I drank coffee.
Melone’s wasn’t the perfect coffee shop, but they did bake the best raspberry twirls. All the guys who drove the snowplows in the winter or did landscaping during the summer stopped in at Melones. While Mrs. Melone didn’t push anyone to vacate a table the noise level precluded any serious work. In nice weather Mrs. Melone put three or four metal tables in front of the store. As long as I didn’t mind sharing the table with a host of birds intent on scarfing down every crumb that fell on the ground the spot lent itself to reading. Melones also lent itself to eavesdropping since the townies stopped in at the end of the day. That’s where I heard about the woman being murdered two towns away. “She was in a bar and left with a stranger.” I heard about why the pigs were transported in the middle of the night. Seems like the townspeople were “too stuck-up for pigs” and certainly didn’t want to see them being driven through town in the daytime.
Paul’s Bakery was another townie hang out. It’s where I interviewed Mr. Murray who served in World War II and played with the Marine Corps band for a short period of time.. “Do you think they’ll publish this photo of me wearing a band uniform and playing my trombone?”
Another regular, Mr.Sherman, told me all about his friendship with Babe Ruth and he talked about Alku, the Finnish Temperance Society. Mr. Sherman occupied the post of town historian.
Reading was a possibility, but listening gave me fodder to write.
When the Boston Bean first opened it was the optimum coffee house—a real one. They made all the drinks that require more expertise, cost more, and have exotic names. People took reading seriously. Two long shelves beneath the windows featured pocket books arranged alphabetically by one of the patrons. It’s where I brought my computer, plugged in, poured my decaf into a thermos and wrote.
Small groups formed—one woman, a maker of hats, brought her materials down and sewed. She had a following—a physics professor who spent some time seated talking to her and more time reading one of his books. Another person who tended to sit with her read the newspaper from page one to the last letter on the last page. Then went back and did the puzzle. Another man sat with her for a short time and then went to another table to write. He worked from home. Over a carafe of half and half I met another reader who became a friend.
A drawback was no bathroom. I had to leave and walk to the Town Hall or library.
Two years ago they moved to a new location—with a bathroom. It’s a bigger place with no electric outlets, but comfortable chairs and the inclination to let you sit for hours over one cup of coffee. The lady who makes hats now has a studio and a baby. The newspaper reader sits by himself and the physicist sits with two men who discuss scientific topics. Lily, the vociferous reader, still orders a bagel with cream cheese for breakfast and a bagel with hummus for lunch. She asks about any new books and writes the titles on scraps of paper—and then often loses the scrap. Then there’s the woman who reads mysteries—“Only good mysteries.”
My perfect coffee shop is one that has open electric outlets, comfortable seats, a bathroom and some heat. And, of course, tables filled with readers and writers, but not so busy that I can’t get a seat.
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home