West with the Best

This summer was a summer of relationships. My friendships deepened so much that every goodbye felt like a knife to the heart and every time I wiped away my tears and said “You’re ok,” a thin Band-Aid (that would soon fall off) came up over the wound. I hate goodbyes. Goodbyes are a thing of the devil but this summer was particularly hard as I headed off to a new school, a new year, a new state, and new cafes (ok that part is pretty nice). Let me first take you back to June. I finally saw the West Coast (men). What a lovely place to be and dwell (and date) -- gosh it was a trip that flew by yet I can’t seem to get it off the tip of my tongue. Here is a log of my time out West based on not the sights or the cities, but the coffee.

In the air:

            After the words “The decaf is instant,” I found myself being poured a cup of regular coffee at 9 pm. It was weak and burnt and tasted like what I imagine death to taste like or the underside of a rock, either one. Nevertheless I was headed to the West Coast and paid for my plane ticket so I was going to have that “free” beverage and straight up enjoy it.

Portland:

I had the jitters for most of my trip to Portland, mainly because of the over consumption of coffee, but also because there was a small (large) part of me that truly believed that I was going to have a bicycle related death while roaming the city. I forced my two West Coast traveling buds to hit up Coava while in Portland. Other than a rather sketchy car rental company, it was our first stop. I spent most of the time there staring at the general area that Fr

ed Armisen and Jerry Seinfeld sat when they stopped by there on Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee, although their table was missing. Of course I know it didn’t matter that I couldn’t physically sit in the two seats that they did, and it’s not like I was planning on doing that for the last three months. . . (flips over a table). The hipster wait time was about 10 minutes and the baristas were pleasant and laid back, much like everyone I encountered in Portland. I got drip coffee in a mug so heavy it sent my hand straight to hell (like a good mug should).

The cafe was constantly filling and draining of small clumps of people who are starting trends or at least attempting to. There were qualities of Brooklyn that I somehow felt at Coava, but the overall ambiance was still very much its own. With a bamboo shop in the back and man buns everywhere, the place was as smooth and tasty as the coffee. I snagged a bag of their delicious beans before heading out, because nothing tastes better than coffee that’s been stuffed into a suitcase for a week.

Seattle:

            See ya later – I’m moving to Seattle where the city is fine and the mountains on the horizon are even finer. It’s the reason New York and I are currently fighting. The low humidity was reason enough to make me lease an apartment and stay forever. (Please note that I am usually a mere five on the scale of all things shallow, aka the scale of attraction, aka the scale created by men, however, with the West Coast’s low humidity, my curls and I become a generous five and a half). My five-and-a-half-self strutted into The Oddfellows Café after a great night in Seattle, consisting of Mexican food on a dimly lit rooftop and cocktails at a speakeasy whose secret door was only opened by the press of a doorbell. (I would like to take this time to formally apologize to that speakeasy for the ding-dong ditch we performed that same evening). So needless to say at this point my five-and-a-half looking self was on cloud nine, not to be confused with looking like a nine because I was still generously applying makeup to pass as what I felt was a six.

With a large airy space filled with big windows, an open kitchen and large oak tables, this café felt like the screened-in breakfast nook of your dreams. My friends and I tiptoed to the back of the café where we snagged a table outside in the four table sized alley with lights up above and plants as well as paintings scaling the brick walls. I squealed countless times in delight only stopping when our waitress popped up behind us. Thus beginning the coffee. I branched out as I often do on vacation and got a cappuccino. Maybe it was because the roasted bean color of the mug complimented my nails, or because the cappuccino actually was life changing, but listen up people, this cappuccino had me reaching nirvana. After about two hours curled up at our small table we hit the road mainly to get fish thrown over our heads. CAUTION: Fishes will sometimes be thrown too low and hit you in the head (wipes fish off my own hair). I’m still having dreams about The Oddfellow Café and ya’ll should be too because its ambiance is, dare I say, the best I’ve ever experienced.

Somewhere along the Oregon Coast: Espress(o) yo self with an Espresso Hut, east coast. It’s a drive through hut that has more promise to make me happy than any man ever will and for that reason the east coast has got to get a hold of one of these ASAP. I had a chai that was so good I nearly died. Thanks hut, for helping three girls with a mid-day sugar rut.

Bend: Bend felt like the city in “The Truman Show” and I’m still slightly convinced that it is. Everyone was attractive, almost a little too nice and somewhat doing well. It could be because if you didn’t want Starbucks or Dunkin which were right there, then you could go to any of the 4,254,689 little mom and pop coffee shops that were around town and if you really didn’t want that, today you could stop at a nearby espresso hut or by simply getting caffeine injected straight into your veins on the street corner down by the park. (The latter is of course a joke but if there is a thriving market for that, someone please let me know).

            Needless to say it was an amazing trip out west. Thanks for the memories, West, keep a mug of coffee waiting cause I’ll certainly be back. 

Blue Bottle Coffee: Brooklyn, NY

               Blue Bottle Coffee. Was I disappointed my coffee didn't come in a blue bottle? Maybe a little if I'm being honest but after my first sip of the dear-God-how-is-this-heaven-legal-to-sell coffee, all those thoughts were gone. But I’m a bit ahead of myself. Let me start at the beginning of my day.

It was a Sunday, so Brooklyn was a bit sleepy. At 2 o'clock families and hipsters, which are seemingly interchangeable, began their day or so it seemed. My party of four grabbed a table at Juliette on North 5th Street. We happened to be surrounded by French natives, although we enjoyed this, by the end of the meal we felt rather ashamed at knowing only one language. Unless you count knowing how to say "I cry and drink wine" in French then I do admit I am only fluent in English. So off we went to get a cup of coffee, American coffee that would or would not come in a blue bottle. Two steps, a skip and a hop around the corner and we were there. No flashy sign to be seen, just a simple chalkboard out front causally hinting that something life changing is right inside. 

             Blue Bottle Coffee is one for the books. It started out in California but I found its delight right here on Berry Street. It has expanded in the last ten years to cover multiple cities on the west and east coasts and somehow I swear I can taste that growth, success, and community right there in the coffee. There was a bit of a line as we entered but it moved at a slow-down-you're-in-Brooklyn-now-not-Manhattan pace. As the line died down and I was getting closer and closer to the barista, I began to panic. Who did I think I was walking into the infamous Blue Bottle Coffee and assuming I knew how to order? I didn't. I was a deer in the headlights who was trying to focus but there were too many attractive Brooklyn men around, too many little hipster children dressed better than I. I tried desperately to push my brother ahead of me in line but Clark is nearly 6'6” and the shove would not have been discrete. I considered crying, a logical option. Walking up to them and just crying. Crying until they assumed I needed a drip coffee, or maybe the cure was a mocha, or a flat white. Who knows? Not me, that's for sure. Although at this point I had thought through several grand ideas, I settled for the act-normal-confident-and-order-the-first-thing-your-eyes-fall-on attempt. This attempt brought about me ordering a mocha. And just like that, the stress was gone. I could again take in my surroundings and think about if we would be so lucky as to find a spot to sit with their two long tables surrounded by stools. As I waited for my mocha and Clark waited for his cappuccino, we observed the openness of the back room. We saw the shelves of coffee sitting in their warehouse. Only a simple half wall between us and all the coffee our hearts could desire. We pondered the thought of jumping over the half wall but my legs are rather short. (This was the only reason we did not do such a thing.)

                They are open from 7am to 7pm everyday (open until 8pm Saturday because falling asleep at a bar isn't as high class and safe as it sounds) so there really isn't a reason why you can't swing by and grab a cup of coffee, and since there are seven locations in New York City alone I really see no excuses that are relevant at this point. The price of Starbucks but with actual freshness and taste. I'll pay for that. Maybe it was the mocha going to my head or the crowded tables, line out the door, but I like when my coffee is an event. I felt as though I had been awarded a Golden Globe. Getting in line was like being nominated and then there I was accepting, being quickly cut off by the next person in line as I tried to give my acceptance speech. And I'm gonna go out on a limb here and say there is a large chance getting and enjoying a cup of Blue Bottle Coffee will in fact feel just as good as accepting a Golden Globe. And the nominees are...