21 August 2007

Java Woes

Each day, I leave the house armed with my headphones, my weapon against a bad day. I move past the sappy songs, committing myself to that musical genre of the inspiration. It ushers in a faux movie moment where the dame is about to conquer the world. Emblazened with a confident smile and sporting some new specs, I make my way into the ever-intimidating world that is the Distric.

On one street corner, two prominent coffee shops square off in an ongoing competition for consumers, and arguably employees. One is the international behemoth that us Progressives (particularly Portland Progressives) love to loathe while the other is a smaller franchise coffee shop I used to frequent in my days in yet another MidAtlantic city.

On this particular morning, I opted for Cosi feeling a bit too cheap to spring for the vanilla latte, the only drink I can really stomach from Starbucks. I approached the counter and requested an onion bagel. At one time, Cosi advertised their bagels as they truly were: squagels. Not quite bread and not quite bagels, Cosi had tried to master a new product and a new shape. The feat never quite came off successfully enough for my palate, but I elected to make another attempt at this breakfast delight.

Alas, onion was not to be. As I spoke up to request cinnamon raisin instead, the pseudo-helpful breakfast person began listing off every squagel…I mean bagel… they had, completely ignoring the fact that I had presented her with a perfectly valid option. Not wanting to appear disrespectful or rude, I stood somewhat patiently as she recounted her monologue and then repeated my request.

Being shooed down to the cashier, I then asked a perfectly simple question: “What types of coffee do you have?” Eager for the choices of Kenyan, Costa Rican, Hawaiian beans coupled with the flavor of
the day, I was a bit taken aback when the coffee mistress (she wasn’t ready to be promoted the position of barista) looked at me quizzically and said, “We have regular coffee, lattes…”

At this juncture, it was my turn to sport a rather quizzical face. Trying again not to sound rude or condescending, I said, “no, no. I mean what types of coffee? You know, light, medium, dark, vanilla…”

Her face lit up as she pointed behind her and began recounting her own monologue, this time of flavor shots. I was crestfallen and at this point shedding my desire to be polite. Where was the Jamaican Me Crazy, or at least the Hazelnut coffee that every establishment with the nerve to call itself a “coffee shop” should provide. Where were the baseline essentials for such a retail outlet.

I was perplexed. At the risk of being truly impertinent, I cut her off from her ongoing monologue. At a
loss for words, I managed to eek out an explanation that there was one type of coffee. Period. I dared
not ask the country of origin or whether the beans were fair trade. Instead, I asked politely for the
only choice I was allowed: Small, Medium or Large.

Or is it tall, grande or vente?

After paying for the privilege of such little choice, I was passed a large regular coffee and a bag
housing my toasted bagel(ish) treat with cream cheese. As I stepped back outside in the sunshine, with
the “You Go Gal” style music doing its best to wither away at the moment of despair, I dug into the bag
ready to devour whatever was inside.

Biting into this flashback from Philly, I remembered why it was
that I never bought their bagels. For indeed their original marketing was correct. They are truly
"squagels", defined as dry, lifeless crusts of bread attempting to imitate what Bagel Central in Bangor
has long managed to master… the bagel. In the District, bagels are apparently just too square to be hip.

Coffee By Design care packages anyone?