Much of my adult life has been spent in coffeehouses. And given that along the way I've lived for at least two years in each of five states other than the one I was born and raised in, I've logged enough varied café time to claim an honorary although worthless PhD on the subject.

My approach to coffeehouses has morphed over time to that of the quietly observant snob. I like to be recognized by the baristas so long as I don't need to chat it up, but I much prefer anonymity. I drink espresso — a "straight shot" is my favorite way to order. If the crema on top is gone when I get it, so am I. I tip well. Excessively, really. I desire a straight shot in this age to be a flat two bucks. A cent north of $2.30 is a rip-off. $2.15 is average. To drink a shot, you should take a quick sip to taste, give yourself a second or two to swallow and gauge, then toss the shot down in one gulp. Give yourself a few minutes, then drink a bunch of water. And after that, sit back, put on the blinders, and get something done.

As an adoptive Seattleite, I acknowledge that much of the world thinks Starbucks is our baseline style. In actuality, Starbucks is airport coffee for most of us. Starbucks is coffee you resort to when you're in a strange place and hoping for an oasis of better-than-diner coffee. When I lived in Mexico for a month (Cuernavaca — a mid-sized, nothing-special city of 500,000 south of Mexico City), the one Starbucks in that city was a welcomed oasis where I shamelessly wore my expatriate jersey on a daily basis. But a Starbucks here in Seattle is Touristville. The original one across from the Pike Place Market is a newbie landmark that visitors always get a kick out of seeing. There's one in my neighborhood and every other imaginable neighborhood; they employ a ton of people; they were a killer app long ago over-merchandised that is now largely passé. So what does a massive corporation built on a model of franchises strictly designed and obsessively branded do when they need a mongo makeover? They overspend on furnishings and steal ideas that, mashed up, look like a toothless offspring of Pottery Barn and a sexless version of Matthew Barney's "Cremaster" series.

Article Author: E. Magnuson

E. is a writer, a master griller and a silence filler. E. is currently editing a novel that features cyberstalking, sexual obsession and a string of homicides that may be connected. E’s first novel centered upon a homeless picklock and an ex-dot-commer struggling to survive as a petty thief. …

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