“You can’t buy happiness. But you can buy coffee. And that’s pretty close.”
I’d agree with that. I found that truth on a wall canvas at a local coffee shop and I really couldn’t agree more. I’ve grown to like coffee in all forms. I like hot black coffee, iced coffee, artisan blended coffee, café au lait—you name it. I’ve learned that the best iced coffee is cold brewed, and my brother has convinced me that excellent coffee begins with the whole bean. He’s become a bit of a coffee snob in his post-retirement leisure time and I fear I’m not far behind him. I’ve already become super selective, even in the ground variety, preferring Mr. Gene’s Beans Southern Pecan selection for hot brew, while Blueberry Cobbler from Strange Brew is my absolute favorite base for iced coffee. Folgers and Maxwell House are just blasé, and store brand is never on the grocery list, even in a tight. I might make an exception for Eight O’Clock, but that’s just because it’s a sentimental favorite. I can say all that now, because Pampers and private school tuition are also not on the list.
There’s a fine line between being selective and being a coffee snob, or being any sort of snob for that matter, which is why our youngest daughter was mortified when she inadvertently cut off another driver in the Starbucks drive-thru. She was painfully aware of her apparent privileged status as a young, white girl in a late model white Lincoln, in a hurry for her daily latte. She threw off her Ray-Bans and avoided eye contact until the incident passed. I wouldn’t call her a coffee snob. Yet. But I’m working on it.
Being a coffee snob is OK. Being a snob is not. Know the difference. Maybe that should also go on the wall. It covers a lot of territory.
In my infinite coffee shopping wisdom, I also know that a local coffee place trumps a chain setup any time. Dunkin’ and Starbucks chains are predictable stops. They’re consistent, convenient, and color coordinated. Nothing fancy and nothing shabby. Just totally middle-of-the-road to satisfy the greatest number of choosy, but not very creative, coffee connoisseurs. Fourbucks, as my friend Roger calls it, is as non-quirky and personality challenged as coffee places come, as bland on one extreme as it is expensive on the other. Its bare, advice-less walls don’t inspire but don’t offend. It’s a place where nobody knows your name.
On the other hand, my husband and I recently happened upon the Olde Coffee Shoppe in Huntsville, tucked away on a shady side street and nestled beside a low perimeter fence lined with overgrown shrubbery that makes the place seem literally rooted to its surroundings. Fronted by a narrow plank porch, the tiny eatery features all variety of coffee and deli sandwiches, with fresh-baked pastries and artisan chips available at the checkout. A sign above the door advises hippies to use the side entrance, so we came in the front. We may be a lot of things, but hippies we’re not.
I placed my order of a café au lait with almond milk, and chicken salad sandwich, while he predictably stayed in his lane with a plain coffee with cream. He’s such an adventuresome soul. Before vanishing behind the floral curtain-lined doorway to the kitchen to make my sandwich, the proprietor quizzed me on my selection.
“White, wheat, rye, or sourdough? Or maybe a croissant? We have one left.”
“Wheat.”
“Toasted or not?”
“Not.”
“Lettuce and tomato?”
“Just lettuce.”
“Mayo?”
“Well, of course.”
“Classic or baked chips?”
“Classic.”
It might have been easier just to order a plain coffee with cream.
“Be Curious. Not Judgmental” is the first piece of wall-mounted advice I glean from the visit. I like it. It sort of takes the edge off of what would be a negative and gives it a positive spin instead. I’m not judgmental, I’m just curious. I’m already glad we came.
A great coffee shop, one that is connected to place and secure in its quirky character, welcomes you with a heady aroma of fresh coffee beans and old leather and homey disarray as soon as you walk in the door. Worn out club chairs snatched up at the thrift store are grouped in cozy clusters alongside the threadbare couch that was no doubt similarly selected. The girl at the Java Jaay checkout knows my order before I place it because I do the same thing all the time and she remembers me. It’s going to be an iced Milky Way. Always. At Java Jaay, you slow down…relax…exhale. Get swallowed up by the club chair and read the morning paper. It’s a place where maybe not everybody, but at least a few know your name.
“Believe in the power of music, equal rights and opportunity for everybody, chicken fried in a black iron skillet, a free and independent press, the beauty of red dirt and blue skies, a woman’s right to her own body, tomato sandwiches and peach ice cream, the resilience of the human spirit, trap beats and banjo twangs, the power of the ballot box, a more just and humane society, mercy, forgiveness, a better tomorrow & a better South for all.”
That framed piece of wordy sentiment just about covers it, I think—especially the peach ice cream bit. A good credo for a well-lived life. It’s as simple as the coffee shop that promotes it.
Berkeley Bob would definitely agree. He’s the owner of the coffee shop by the same name in Cullman. A former hippie and Berkeley college student, he makes regular solo appearances on the band stage, banjo in hand. He can do that because it’s his place. On the day we were there, he sang his original Colonoscopy Blues number to the coffee crowd, drawing more than a few empathetic nods. That would never happen at Fourbucks. I’m sure it would offend someone. Berkeley Bob doesn’t care.
“I love coffee. That’s all.” Succinct advice from the California hippie turned coffee shop owner. Not bad. That one must have been an epiphany for him on some dark sleepless night. I’m betting he loved more than coffee in his younger years but learned the value of greater simplicity and clean living later on. And then he bought a coffee shop.
Rivertown, in Florence, is a favorite hangout for college kids, hipsters, pastors, free spirits, and downtown professionals. Located on the same block as the historic Shoals Theater and just across the street from Wilson Park, it has a front-row seat to just about every city festival and outdoor concert and theatrical production in town. On a scale of 1-10, with Berkeley Bob’s being a 10 (far out) and Starbucks hanging at a 1 (cookie cutter), Rivertown is about a 6. It’s creative but consistent. Predictable but still fun.
Most days, you’ll find Larry sweeping the sidewalk in front of Rivertown or stocking the coffee shelf. Larry is a semi-homeless middle-aged Florentine who works part-time at Rivertown. You’re just as likely to see him sitting out front eating ravioli out of a can as you are to see him doing anything productive for Rivertown. He needed a job and Rivertown gave him one, although I have a sneaking suspicion that he needed the job more than they needed him. Most great coffee shops are as kind as they are quirky.
“It’s strange how drinking 8 cups of water seems impossible, but 8 cups of coffee go down like a chubby kid on a see-saw.” Another truth. Probably too politically incorrect to make it on Java Jaay’s wall, but Strange Brew or Brewpolo would snatch it up in a hurry, fun-loving places that they are. They’re both about a 7 on the Starbucks to Berkeley Bob scale.
I think that’s really what makes me prefer the offbeat coffee place to anything attached to a bookstore that sells S’mores frappuccino freezes. It’s personality, comfort, and a sense of humor. It’s a coffee bean fix in a world that only does packaged ground. It’s an exhale when you need it the most.
“Black as the devil, hot as hell, pure as an angel, sweet as love.”
Approved by Berkeley Bob. And entirely inappropriate.
