30 Jan Coffee Demons
by Jason Dixon
My first taste of what was to become a lifelong (at least so far) addiction was in the form of mall cappuccino. As I was to later learn, what I actually drank was more like much-too-sweet flavored coffee, a sort of syrupy concoction that I wouldn’t now use for anything aside from glue.
Yet, as a slave to a then-underdeveloped palate, I preferred quantity of sugar over subtlety of flavor, so I declared myself someone who “loves cappuccinos.”I worked a retail job in the mall at the time, and a co-worker from a store I won’t name (after all, I’m already admitting much too much here as it is) mentioned that a friend of his just opened a coffee shop.
A coffee shop? In my little old town? I mean, it’s a tourist trap on the coast, but that’s the island, and this new place was on the mainland! I went there the following Sunday.
Greeting my senses the moment I stepped in was a mélange I’ve cherished ever since: that mingling of beans freshly ground, espresso recently produced, milk just steamed — and, of course, coffee being brewed. It’s interesting that even people who don’t drink it love the smell of coffee brewing, or even just coffee beans; there must be something to the harvested plant that tickles the nose and shoots straight to the brain. Personally, even with a momentary whiff, the smell of coffee seems to awaken every brain cell I possess, which in turn tells me to sit up and take notice — a memorable event is taking place.
That first memorable event was upon me. Still chained to my underfed palate, I chose, with the proprietor’s help, an iced café mocha. It was summer, after all, and I still wanted sugary sweet. Add chocolate, and I thought I’d have it made.
Oh, surprise. That first taste of true espresso, even if hidden behind layers of velvety chocolate and icy-cold milk, made its mark on my taste buds. This was a coffee that made itself known; it refused to be ignored, as if that were even possible. It was no less than the real thing.
Of course, I was ruined. Starting that Monday, I started every school day with a morning stop for iced mocha that would transport me to bliss while I sipped it (ok, more than sipped) in my car, reading and waiting for the starting bell.
One doesn’t spend time (and money) in an establishment every single day without getting to know the owner and the regulars, even if only by sight. Fortunately, this was a small struggling café in a town full of philistines. It was my cultural island: here I could listen to music I’d never heard before (Jazz), meet people I’d never met before (artists, thinkers, some lazy potheads), and best of all, taste things I’d never tasted.
I still stuck to espresso drinks (I’m fiercely loyal to things I like) but I experimented with less sweet drinks, and even with some straight shots of the stuff itself.
This bohemian enclave was also small enough for me to finally get behind the counter. First I just watched my drinks being made. Then I started asking questions. And then, to my delight, I was allowed to be guided through the process myself.
I’ve always had a need to understand things I love, and this was no different. I grew obsessed about timing, ground size, tamping, and exact and optimal order of preparation. I became more than a regular; I practically lived there. And the result, after months of ceaseless questioning and learning, was a job.
It wasn’t a big leap for me to go from enthusiast to watching the store for short intervals while the owner, Kelly, ran a random errand. When Kelly found herself in need of someone to help on weekend evenings while she worked at a part-time job, I immediately volunteered — unpaid. I had planned to be there anyway, and this was a chance to repay her for her patience and willingness to teach me what I’d learned, not to mention a chance to learn even more. I was on a business track in school, and wanted to understand the financial and business end of running a coffee shop. Ok, the free coffee certainly didn’t hurt my decision, I admit.
When I later moved to Atlanta for a full-time position, one of my first ideas to get out of the apartment and meet people was to take a part-time job in a café. It wasn’t independent, but I have no bias against corporations; it was in a bookstore, and I certainly have no bias against a discount on books.
In the café I met a wonderful person with whom I worked most of my evening and weekend shifts. We shared our histories (she was new to the city, too), our love of knowledge and culture, and our passion for new experiences. She was a good sport, but was sometimes bewildered by my obsessions. She was indulgent when I tried to teach her how to tell the difference between decaf and regular coffee just by looking at the beans (the former is dull in color and almost odorless; the latter is aromatic and shiny). She was frustrated when I criticized her milk-frothing skills (“No, no, you’re putting the wand too deeply in the pitcher!”).
Yet she understood, as perhaps no one else could, why the greatest compliment I ever received was from an Italian on an extended business trip. He was a regular in the bookstore for several months, and spent hours in the café. His words to me: “You make the best cappuccino I’ve ever had in America .”
Now that was a compliment.
Photo: Kelly Cline
Jason Dixon was an assistant editor here until his coffee habit became a “problem.” He is now in a twelve-cup program.