On my return trip to Sweet Java Brown the place was called Gathering Grounds. They appeared to have the same operating hours, but, as I have been privately insulted for making an issue out of coffee shops that close absurdly early, I will not rail too much on the fact that Gathering Grounds closes at 8PM on weekdays. I managed to roll in on a Sunday at about 11AM on my way to work. The hours of the beleaguered black collar slob begin to run together, it takes a force to pry oneself free from the trajectory to the office, even on a Sunday, yet I did. What takes even more effort is to scoop out of one’s day the mental space to enjoy such a deviation.
I wrote that first portion about three weeks ago on an airplane flying to Texas. I had to stop because I grew afraid that we were about to fall out of the sky.
Revisiting now my feelings about the place I find more tenderness in my views. I let the hours slip from my radar and see a well put together little shop with pockets of space called into being by furniture arrangements and taller elements (which might be shelves, yes, in my mind’s eye they are shelves) that remind me of what Mani’s Santa Monica would have been if the furniture store and the coffee shop that occupied a 5000sf space were drawn down to a more cozy 900sf. There was one strange detail that I did not care for. Instead of a wainscot or chair rail, there was a fairly heavy steel angle bolted to the wall at precisely the height that my ear would fall sitting in a seat close to the edge of the space. Although I am not so rude as to presume that it would be acceptable to lean my greasy head against the wall, it stirred discomfort in me just by making me picture how frustrating it would be to want to lean against the wall and find a cold unfinished piece of steel against that bony protuberance behind and slightly behind my ear.
There was one reason why I could not stay long that was not related to my desire to get to work. The clientele that was in the space with me was a bit too ‘regular’ for my taste. I like regulars. I have even been one for short periods of time. But there is a character within the pool of regulars who I find intolerable: the regular who wants everyone to know how regular they are. They force the barista to recognize it, to tout it for them. “You know Marcus needs space in his cappuccino for honey, right?” “Oh yes, I always forget that.” Or, “Do you remember that dog that was hanging around in the lot across the street?” “Yes.” “Janine finally caught it. She is taking care of it until she can find someone to adopt it.” “Here is Janine’s hazelnut steamer.” There is also the aspiring regular, who sits near the bar and attempts to insinuate theirself into conversations with other regulars, or to distract and garner the attention of the barista by starting catchy conversations. What is most painful, and what drove me to the door, is the failure of such aspirations, most notably, a baited prompt that began, “I saw Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young last night, they played for 3 hours.” “How was that?” “It was intense.”
18th Street Coffeehouse
Palm Coast Coffee
Java Break
One Caffe