South Side!

The wife was out of town this weekend, enjoying some long overdue time to herself, putting aside the role of respectable mommy for a few days and getting reacquainted with the hot mama she was back before diapers and day cares and after school activities became the center of our universe. She got back in Sunday night... I'm glad to have both of them back.

For our part, the kids and I managed pretty well. More importantly, I managed pretty well, juggling a 5 and 1 year old for 96 hours. That said, there's only so much time that a parent can spend one on one, much less two on one, with their children. I decided I'd head down to Colorado Springs to wish my mom a happy mother's day, and to re-distribute the amount of attention the kids would require from me. And of course, to get in a couple of cuppas.

Aside from all the incessant focusing on other people's families, I really like CS. The arts scene and gay community are made all the more vibrant by the fact that they're basically ghettoed in the charming downtown. Yeah, the culture and entertainment options are behind the curve of Denver, but seeing as Denver herself is catching up on the curve behind bigger, more sophisticated cities, that's saying something. The hipsters manage to pull off the mellow, hippy dippy edge that comes across as mere posturing in a town like Boulder; even the Shamanic Hypnotherapist Dreamworkers advertising in the back of the free weekly aren't as affected as the "more-enlightened-than-thou" types in the People's Republic. Not only that, but CS has the highest per capita of African Americans anywhere in Colorado. Unlike Boulder, where squeaky clean white folk outnumber people of color 5 to one.

For a community like Colorado Springs, a coffeehouse is a vital resource - a place where the class clown and other assorted social rejects can begin to see the world from a wider perspective than is offered to them in school (or in the workplace, as the case may be).

The most high profile place to assume this role in the downtown is Pike's Perk, which holds it's own, business-wise, against the Starbucks directly across the street. I appreciate what these guys are doing; fair trade certified coffee; organic milk... but the business has gone under new ownership in the last few years, and I could easily tell the difference from previous visits. When I visited on Saturday, the huge space, a 2 story building with patios on both levels, was nearly devoid of customers, matching the sparsely decorated walls... but merchandise, they got that. You know, if I'm looking to buy a coffee maker, I'll go to Cost Plus. Or Target. But at a place that should be your friendly neighborhood coffee house, home espresso machines that invariably make bitter, burnt coffee are just an eyesore. The trouble continued at the counter; when I ordered an iced coffee, the barista asked me which one I'd like. This sounds innocuous enough, until you realize it translates to "which scalding hot coffee would you like me to use to torture the innocent ice cubes sitting in the bottom of this cup?". Disappointed, I changed my order to an iced americano. Telling someone how to make coffee at their joint is like telling someone how to serve communion at their church; maybe I was in Colorado Springs, but that's not the way I roll.


I fared a little bit better later that afternoon, at Boulder Street Coffee - at least aesthetically. The place seems to be the HQ for the Colorado College subculture kids, and featured some gritty hip hop as an antidote to the Billy Joel playing at Pike's Perk. You know, I even have some nostalgia for early Billy Joel, but it just doesn't sit well with coffee. At least get some Coldplay, or some other inoffensive, so called "Adult Album Alternative" - hell, stroll across to Starbucks and pick up one of their company approved mix CD's, even that would be better than 70's top 40. This time I ordered an iced americano right off the bat, figuring it was a pretty straight forward proposition. The barista asked me how many shots I would like. I felt like offering to put on an apron, go behind the counter, and whip the thing up myself, but I held my tongue.

Le Sigh.

Maybe I'm being harsh; the drinks were okay, and service came with a smile, et cetera, ad infinitum. But the big chains already have the market cornered on consistent mediocrity. And service, even quality aren't the only factors to consider. There's a torch that these places need to carry, particularly in CS. Everywhere you look, you're being told to support local business, to "keep ____ weird". And Colorado Springs, you are weird. Embrace it, love it, live it.

Otherwise, if the big corporations shut you out, you've got nobody to blame but yourself.

Desperately Seeking...

Copy of my ad on Craigslist...

"crush"ing on that barista?

Do you have a thing for the cutie who makes your cappuccino every morning? Do you drop their name in the "missed connection" section, hoping in vein that they'll at least acknowledge your adoration?

COFFEECRUSH (http://www.coffeecrush.blogspot.com)- the World's Greatest Blog, featuring Denver cafe reviews and coffee talk, is seeking submissions for a new feature - COFFEECRUSH OF THE WEEK.

I'm looking for photos of and interviews with beautiful baristas from local coffee shops - addressing the hard-hitting questions that are vital to the cowtown coffeehouse community, like...

Name of Shop-

What would it be called if you owned it?

If you didn't work there, would you hang out there? And if so, what would you be drinking?-

Other Job / Artistic Persuits

Is that your natural hair color?-

All Time Favorite Coffee-house Album-

Most obnoxious drink order / customer request-

make your obsession known... and maybe even break the ice with the object of your affection.

email or visit http://www.coffeecrush.blogspot.com to submit

New Haunt

The first few visits to a new coffeeshop can be like the early stages of a new relationship. Do you share the same taste in music and books? Are you ideologically and philosophically compatible? Erotically speaking, are you charmed by (or at least tolerant of) one another's various eccentricities and fetishes?


So it's been this last week, ever since I began haunting SML Coffee on the corner of Speer and Washington. The cozy space is essentially a bunch of art deco furniture narrowly situated between two identical garage doors, like a recreation of what Frank Loyyd Wright's carport must've looked like. The drip coffee I ordered from the utilitarian menu on my first visit was hot and fresh, and the folks behind the counter are friendly an un-affected. But as a matter of sheer practicality, since I live in South Denver, I figured we'd just be two ships passing in the night, a one night stand.

Until, that is, I saw the schedule for their "Free Movie Night".

In the past, I've fallen firmly into the "against" camp, as far as the whole "coffee shop as multimedia experience" thing is concerned. Maybe it's a knee jerk reaction to all those times I couldn't find a seat among the cyber squatters with all their high tech accoutrements. But movies are different; instead of everyone being plugged into their own screens, it's a communal, community experience. And if you're not interested in what's showing, the right film can serve as the visual equivalent of ambient music, where attention is optional.


For their inaugural showing, they featured one of my favorites - "Ghost World". Not only is this film
a classic story about living in the post-modern Bardo realm of mid-America, where smart people wait in vein for better things, and learn about their capacity to hurt others in the meantime, but it stars the two slices of bread that make the most delicious Caff_X sandwich, Scarlett Johansen and Thora Birch (tho if it was an open face sandwich, it'd be all Birch, bee-
yotch)








so hot.


The Wednesday night showing was a casual affair, with just a few of us in the audience. There was plenty of room for more, which means it's up to groupies like me to turn folks on to what a sweet deal this is. The film was projected onto a sheer screen against one of the garage doors... in the summer, the door will be open, turning the parking lot into not only an impropteu drive-in theater, but for you smokers, possibly the city's last remaining smoking section.

(one cine-suggestion; a Halloween screening of Bucket of Blood, where all the employees dress up like beatnicks, would make me a customer 4-eva)

But more importantly (is there anything more important?) -the coffee. Full disclosure - when I hit a new place, I usually order just straight, black coffee. One, because it's my "usual". Two, because once I know a place uses quality beans, and can brew a good pot of coffee, if I ever do get a bad espresso drink, I can pin it on the individual barista, and not hold the establishment as a whole accountable. But there's something about art house movies that just screams "cappuccino". The barista, a female of the species, whipped up the best one I've had in recent memory. To the extent that, when I couldn't sip any more from the bottom of the cup, I was clawing my hand in, so I could kiss the thick froth off of my fingertips.

Could this be love?

Another One Bites the Dust...

"The wisest man is he who admits he knows nothing at all" -Socrates

"he's stupid, but he knows he's stupid, and that almost makes him smart" -3rd Bass

Naturalistic philosopher John R. Searle says there'll never be a truly "conscious" machine, a la the android Data in "The Next Generation". As an argument against those who believe otherwise, he came up with a thought experiment called the "Chinese Room". Basically, he asks us to imagine a room, where a man sits, translating Chinese into English. But this imaginary man is no cunning linguist. Basically, he has a table that he works from; when he receives a piece of paper with Chinese calligraphy on it, he consults the table, which shows him exactly what that particular symbol translates to. Thusly, he's able to completely convey what the message says, but is at no point himself able to understand the original language.

Searle argues that this is essentially the case with even the strongest computer; it doesn't understand, it just performs the functions which it has been assigned.

Sometimes, surfing the internets, particularly with the "blogosphere", I get the sneaking suspicion that, rather than living in the Matrix (duuuude), we're actually all just in the Chinese Room. If you're the sort of Bozo who's inclined to get into arguments on the internet, you can plug a few key words into Google that will generally express your opinion and VOILA! You can now attribute your worldview to somebody with a lot more credentials, degrees and kudos than you yourself can ever hope to achieve, since you spend all your free time on your computer, arguing about which of the Star Wars prequels sucked most.

("Attack of the Clones", by the way. But only by a smidge.)

I mean, look at me. What gives me the right to comment on what makes a good coffee house? I've never owned a coffee house; the only time somebody would let me so much as manage one was when it was already run so far into the ground that they figured I couldn't make it any worse. Sure, I was a better barista than some of those places deserved... but I'm hardly an authority on what makes a successful business.

So when I say I'm not surprised that the Uptown Perk and Pub closed down, does that sound like an "I told you so"? While I had good words for that particular location, I've never been fond of the whole "Perk and Pub" concept. The business plan listed on their website is a manifesto that would make the unibomber jealous, laying out plans for world domination, neighborhood by neighborhood (Washington Park Perk and Pub! ... Uptown Perk and Pub!... Commerce City Perk and Pub!... Kabul Perk and Pub!) I've heard some rumblings that the owners intend on re-opening the location, though the "for rent" ad in Craigslist suggests otherwise.



Research and market trends are fine and dandy when you're designing a logo for a new brand of laundry detergent (or, yeah, okay, when you're Starbucks). But when you're attepting to (from the P&P website) "offer services in locations that have a more intimate and neighborhood feel to them, even in the most urban or suburban settings", and create "new vibe of togetherness that didn't exist before", It's better to focus on coffee, rather than "concept". Be the wise man; admit you know nothing; let the customers decide what the joint is gonna be.



Take, for instance, Fluid Coffee Bar, which, at only one (1) block away, was a no brainer for being my next stop after descovering the husk that was once the Perk and Pub. One of the P&P's best assetts was their beans, supplied by Novo Coffee, who are fast on their way to becoming my favorite roaster in town. Lucky for me, Fluid uses the same product. This, however, is the end of any similarities between the two. Where P&P tries to package a homey, neighborhood feel, Fluid knows their exactly who their clientelee is. The joint is located on 19th ave, in a prefab condos n' wine shop n' yoga studio ghetto where the denizens all survived the first dot com bust just fine, thank you very much. Fluid's design is neo-futuristic in a Jetsons (as opposed to Blade Runner) kind of way. If your laptop isn't working, they've even placed terminals along the bar facing the window, so you won't have to look at that forsaken "outside" place. The lighting is lounge-y without being self consciously hip (see: Xandos Coffee in NY), and if cyberspace isn't your bag, you can sit in the comfortable chairs and peruse the wall of books, among which are some science fiction classics, which certainly keeps in the spirit of the atmosphere.

As I said above, the coffee is quite good, and the workers were friendly enough when I asked to wait for the new pot to finish brewing, rather than take the old stuff. More surprising, and worth mentioning was the overall positive attitude of one particular barista (soma in the coffee, perhaps?)

To wit: I love me some gossip. Especially of the coffee variety (hence, the blog). One time, when I was still in the biz, I let slip to the employees of a competing shop that their employer grew hydroponic weed at his house. It turned into this big mess, and the owner showed up one day as I was closing and freaked out about how that he was so big and successful, and had so much to lose, and how, "When you're (Joe), you can't even go out to a movie without being recognized!" Because, apparently, when you own an espresso bar in the basement of an office building, suddenly you're as recognizable as Tom Cruise standing on Oprah's couch.

Hydroponic weed makes you paranoid.

Anyhoo, I was fishing around for some gossip with this particular barista at Fluid about whether she knew anything about the P&P's closing. She showed genuine concern for their well being and, with the utmost sincerity (this is sooo cute) said she hopes that they're back in the neighborhood soon!

Doesn't matter to me, one way or another... I'll be sticking with Fluid.

But what do I know?

THIS JUST IN...!

Coffee is good for you.

Stay tuned for conflicting details.

technical difficulties...

Pisces - April 24th, 2006 - Today, you are Blogger's Bitch. Bend over and enjoy!

You know, I thought I was being all clever, using a customizable template as a way around my weak HTML skills, in order to have a simple, personalized logo. However, I've come to realize that in order to allow everyone to post comments, I'll have to shut off word verification and allow everyone to post comments...

Can I interest you all in some spam w/ your coffee? MMMM mmmm!

Funny story... the wife ordered a decaf iced latte from a certain downtown coffee shop (which shall remain nameless). When they handed it over decaf and "skinny" (skim milk) which tastes, of course, like crapola - she called them on it. The barista (who is known for this kind of monkey business) came up w/ the brilliant solution of "topping it off" with half and half. Because as everyone knows - mixing skim milk and half and half magically creates whole milk.

Unfortunately, this is kind of what we've come to expect from this particular downtown hot spot, which, of course, will remain (ahem, cough) unnamed.

Jack'd Blak

I finally got a chance to sample a bottle of the new Coca Cola Blak. Okay, okay, so I had four bottles. They were on sale for .50 cents each... I was supposed to save at least one, so I could get scooterdad's take - but what can I say? After a years-long embargo on soda, I had been drinking the stuff during my vacation in S. America, where, I have my suspicions, they may still use cocaine as a key ingredient. My insatiable addiction was back in full swing. The sad sordid truth rears it's ugly head; I cannot hold my sugar.

Suddenly, I was that 11 year old borderline-anorexic all over again, with all the obsessive compulsive behavior that implies. If you were to look at this in psychoananlytic terms, the super-ego would put the stuff aside altogether; the ego could have practiced moderation, or at the very least would have made some attempt at rationalizing my indiscretion. Alas - I may not be a Freudian, but baby, I was ALL ID. Once you take a bite of the forbidden fruit, you're goin' down anyway, right? Deciding to enjoy the trip, I poured the stuff down my gullet, in the manner of anyone suffering from DT's.

This proved to be problematic, and not just because it was the twisted behavior of an addict, but because that first gulp, which amounted to half the bottle, tasted precisely like a drink of plain ol' American Co-Cola. The coffee flavor is more of an aftertaste (as in way after - like, time released poison after) which, in the manner of most coffee flavored products, after-tasted like Hello, Boss.

Scooter-d did finally get a hit (not from my stash) but his assessment was essentially the same as mine. "Not bad". But is anyone really gonna pay One Bone-Seventy when they could enjoy the Th' Boss for half that?

For my part, I'm gonna stick with drinking my coffee black, rather than "Blak".

coffeecrush... en Espanol!

At long last, I've returned from Chile. We've officially been back since 11 am Friday, after 12 long hours of worth of airplane rides... so you'll have to excuse the fact that I'm just getting around to writing now. Besides, I get my best writing done when I should be working, anyway.

Actually, that's not entirely true; I've discovered that some pretty nifty writing occurs up in my noggin, while I'm jammed in a steel tube high above the Earth, bumps of turbulence jolting adrenaline-fueled twists of phrase in and out of my brain. Of course, at said times I was without pen and paper, much less a computer terminal to get all my thoughts out onto. But it was really boffo stuff. Seriously. You really should have been there.

In truth, I'm glad I've waited a few days to write anything; given my thoughts some time to brew over the events of the last week or so. The thing is, Santiago is an incredibly difficult city to get your mind around, to square with the impression that one generally has of "South America". Sure, the people are speaking Spanish; cars, the color and contour of jelly beans (and only slightly larger) all have foreign names like "Peugeot" and "Citroen", and stray dogs stroll
amiably enough through the streets in search of food - but otherwise, there's very little to distinguish it from any nameless metropolitan city in North American. There's certainly some authentic, beautiful old architecture in the downtown area. And along the coast, in Vina Del Mar and Valpariso, pastel colored buildings still cling to the hillside along the ocean - but these things stand in obvious defiance against the relentless tide of modernization.

As an amateur student of pop-anthropology, experiencing the world through the memes of novelty infecting culture at large, that normally wouldn't present a problem for me. But see, there's the rub; the indigenous pop culture - the billboards and industrial design - it all seemed to merely mimic what can be found "up north". There was definitely a sense of it being foreign, but nothing about it came across as particularly South American.

There's culture, here, to be sure - in the meals and bottles of wine, in the homes and hearts of the people who are proud to call this place their home. But this is a blog about coffee, after all. And any time I find myself in a new place, the first thing I do is to find that place where locals and tourists go to get caffeinated. In Seattle, it was Bauhaus, in New York, any number of joints in the Village or Chelsea. In Chile, the first time I ventured out on a quest for an authentic cup of liquid, Latin American life-force, a coffee that I would experience and savor in a way that it couldn't be experienced or savored in any other place in the world, this is what I got ...









This conspicuous clone, with it's several convenient locations throughout the city, does a respectable business through the simple strategy of placing ashtrays prominently at each table - unheard of at your neighborhood Starbucks (which has a location just a half block from the home where my 63 year old father-in-law was born and raised). I kept thinking of "2001, A Space Odyssey" - the way the aliens tried to make Dave Bowman comfortable by setting him up in a hotel suite based on television transmissions they received from Earth - but when he tried to pour himself a bowl of cereal, blue nutrient pudding slid out from the box instead. (I'm talking about the novel, of course. No place could be as weird as the end of the Kubrick film. Maybe Tokyo.)

We fared better later in the week, when we got to the real downtown, the old city. There, I finally got my authentic cup, served up by a traveling street vendor pushing a cart which looked suspiciously like a household trash receptacle. Nothing more than a scoop of Nescafe in a styrofoam cup of piping hot water, which was quite possibly teeming with bacterium waiting patiently to mutate into Montezuma's Revenge, - but I didn't care. I was among business men and artists, hipsters and beggars - and yes, more stray dogs (where are you, Bob Barker?) - I was beginning to feel a sense of place.










But I had an ulterior motive for going downtown. In Chile you can count on great wine; you can drink your agua, "con" or "sin" gas, and the Coca Cola, which I can take or leave here in the states, for some reason in S. America is tastier than Scarlett Johansen's bathwater. But, my visit - nay, my life- wouldn't have been complete without a sip of that most unusual Chilean beverage, "Cafe Con Piernes" (coffee with legs).

Here's the story: sometime in the last 30 or so years, attempts were made to introduce Euro-style coffee bars to Chile. The locals, however, were content with their Nescafe. (to this day, in fact, they consume the stuff like it's heroin) The coffee bars bombed, until they added the one thing that sells even better than Nestle products. (Seriously, EVERYTHING in Chile is Nestle, from coffee to yogurt to baby food. Signs for Nestle products outnumber grains of sand on the beach.) Now, espresso bars come with a kick - from the leggy counter girls who do little more than smile and hand you your drink.

These places range in MPAA rating between a soft PG-13 and a hard R, where women in sequined bikinis perform lap dances and presumably pay extra special attention to avoid spills. (Urban legends about X-Rated variations persist, but that sort of paranoid rambling is to be expected in a predominantly Catholic culture) Seeing as I was with my family, and kids 5 and under are a total buzzkill when you're trying to enjoy boobies over a cup of coffee (believe me), we wound up at Cafe Haiti, where the girls all dress like mid 60's era flight attendants. The bean juice was unorthodox (the Mrs. cappuccino was topped with a cloud of whipped cream) but not bad at all.

I don't know if I experienced the "real"Chile. I don't know whether I entirely missed some "point", and am now coming across like one more obnoxious 'Merican tourist. I do know that the next time I'm on a plane for 9 plus hours, I'll be getting off someplace in Europe. And I know I can't complain... I had a pretty good time. Worth the used-up vacation time.

And the view at Cafe Haiti, more kitschy than sexy (a pretty good deal when you think nothing is sexier than kitsch) is definitely worth the 1900 pesos.

tHERe and HIM...

When I was in my early 20's, my friend Ryan dated a girl who had gotten a college scholarship for the fact that she was 1/16th Native American. Overnight, she went from being a middle class girl from Aurora to an insufferable (if somewhat misguided) activist who believed she understood "The Ethnic Experience" in its entirety. (Really, do I even need to mention what the other 15/16ths were?)

She could have used the opportunity to explore her cultural heritage, to consider the injustices experienced by her ancestors, or to perhaps become a mentor or role model in her newfound community. She attempted instead to exploit her newly discovered ethnicity to garner an imagined street cred that hadn't come solely from her ability to dance like a "Fly Girl" or her encyclopedic knowledge of Boyz II Men and Cool Moe Dee. Because, hey, what's the point of identifying with a minority that's not hip? I bring this all up not to ridicule her (we got plenty of that done back in 93), but because on some level, I'm just as bad as she was. I am happily married, the father of two beautiful children, and I am painfully, almost embarrassingly straight. Vanilla, even. But today I'm coming out of the closet. In the past I"ve been referred to as "Straight but not Narrow", a friend of "the family"; but that just doesn't do it justice. I am a gay groupie. A lesbian lackey. An http://www.armisteadmaupin.com/Armistead Maupin-reading, L-Word watching, house music dancing homo hanger-on.

From the time I was 15 years old I have identified with what I would call (probably to the chagrin of many) "gay culture". I say that realizing- yes, yes - gay men can join the army and lesbians can listen to Eminem... hell, it's the 21st century, you can even be a gay republican (realize, yes understand? Not so much) But lets not obscure the point in political correctness, we all know what I'm talking about here. I grew up on musicals and drama class. I wasn't punk, I was "new wave", while everyone else was shaving their heads into Mohawks and moshing, I was listening to The Pet Shop Boys and writing band names like "The Communards" on my notebooks. During my bourgeoisie, white boy neo-beatnik stage, there loomed in the background the homo shenanigans of Dean Cassidy and Allen Ginsburg.

Yet for all the time I spent being called "faggot" in high school, and regardless of the hours I spent manning the espresso machine at "Sisters" on 9th and Downing, I am well aware that I haven't earned the title of gay man. There's my damned sexuality, for one. Despite all those nights at clubs during last call, desperate men singing the swan song of "come on, we're all bi", no one ever managed to convince me.

Yes, really.

My wife, the ex-dancer, who grew up around artists and New York and people living with AIDS, was attracted to me, at least in part, because I was comfortable in her life, with her history, and around her friends. But as we became more serious and she had a chance to see me get all misty eyed over the Erasure song "Hideaway", she started in on the questions "you're sure you're not gay? Not even bi?" We joke between us that she is the butch; and I, the "bitch". Even now, confident in my sexuality as she is, she doesn't know quite what to make of me when I'm paging through the Out Front or going to happy hour at JR's rather than The Red Room. And sometimes I have to ask myself the same question; what is this fascination I have with "the family"?

I must confess it's not all just open mindedness and respect for diversity on my part. I've always had a certain fondness for the women in the entourage of so many gay men; those soft, archetypal Gal Pals (sorry, just can't bring myself to say "fag hag") with their great hair and ribald sense of humor. A couple of years ago at a party in Capitol Hill, I stood among a group of gay men as they took turns feeling the breasts of one particularly cute specimen (something about her wanting to know if they were firm enough). A friend who had little sympathy for the dilemma of being a monogamous straight male looked me in the eye and taunted me under his breath "you could totally go there right now, no one would know any better". Membership, even if it's by association only, definitely has its privileges.

Frankly, there are plenty of self serving, petty reasons to love the community. As a rule, the clubs play better music; and at 34, if I am the oldest guy on the dance floor, nobody much cares. At the gym, the guys can show you how to work muscles that you didn't even know you had. And, come on, I am still a straight male. Those all-girl volleyball matches at Cheeseman in the middle of summer are hot.

So, with all of this in mind, I found myself the other night at tHERe Coffee, a lesbian owned and supported joint. The space has had a couple of different incarnations over the years, but I've always been wary of the location, as it is situated on Colfax; that long, slow crawl up evolutionary ladder. The 'fax has seen something of a cultural renaissance in recent years, a benefactor of the gentrification that has been a sore spot for other neighborhoods. But my apprehension on that night had to do with something else entirely... would I be welcome? Am I intruding on sacred grounds? I mean, I dig women, too... can't we all be friends?

People can decry this as being some sort of reverse descrimination, but I should say here that I understand the sentiment. One day, working at Diedrich's across from "Queen" Soopers, I served a guy wearing a shirt embroidered with a "Focus on the Family" logo. How dare he come to this place, in our blue city, a safe haven from the rest of the red state? Especially when he could have gone to any number of other places... hell, any other Diedrich location (except 12th and Clayton. Yeah, that one was ours, too) On the other hand, we never saw the guy again. Probably had something to do with all the publications by the bathroom.

Once in the door, though, my fears were put to rest. This place is inviting in a way that most living rooms aspire to. And the woman working behind the counter, alternately pouring coffee for the people who wandered in and scribbling in her sketchbook, was completely charming and amiable.

The coffee was a little on the cool side; I'm sure she was letting it dwindle, as it was just an hour to closing time. Okay, it's not something I'm usually very forgiving of... but I can't help it. I LOVE this place. It's the warm colors on the walls, the intimate, low ceilinged loft (something not featured at nearly enough coffeeshops, nowadays) perfect for the mild, lazy flirting exhibited by the 2 girls sitting up there with me, or for spying on the rest of the crowd down below. I didn't even mind the big screen TV (for group viewings of the L Word on Sundays, of course) though I was more intrigued by the promise of the collection of 12 inch vinyl that was against the wall.



My only real complaint was with the hours. A place like this should be open late into the night, so the clientele can talk and read and laugh and admire the barista's sketches. Not (strangely enough) 10 pm on weekdays and 8 pm on weekends. If their liquor license goes through I'm sure that'll be remedied.


So my fascination with the GLBT community? I've come to recognize that gay influence in literature, music and the arts is so pervasive that to speak of "gay culture" is redundant. There's a reason universities call them "the humanities"... this is part of our collective human identity. When I spend time in the community, whether its at a club, out for coffee, or at Cheeseman Park, where my kids often wind up befriending children of gay parents, there's a vitality and sense of unity that I've never experienced in any religion; particularly (and ironically) any religion that co-opts the word "family" and uses it as a password to a secret society which I'm welcomed into simply for my sexual preference. My adoration stems from the fact that, in the face of fear and hatred, the gay community, at it's best, thrives with an openness and honesty that is lacking in the "straight" world; a vocal, heartfelt unity.

All the qualities I look for in a coffeehouse.

Coffee Under the Bridge...

I was sitting at work last week, paging eagerly through Westword's much coveted, annual "Best of Denver" issue. I was performing the "hip-check", sort of a low tech variation on Googling one's own name; looking to see how many DJ's I recognized, how many places I've been to, and how many local inside jokes would produce a knowing chuckle (congratulations, "Bitter Biker")

As you can imagine, one of the first things I check every year is which joint will receive the honor of being named "Best Coffeehouse". For 2006, the love went to the respectable choice of St. Mark's. The entry, like anything to do with St. Mark's, (or it's sister-business, the adjacent bar "The Thin Man") always stirs mixed emotions in me. It occurred to me then, that anyone who reads this blog, who has spent any time exploring Denver's cafes, must be a little perplexed by my omission of this institution, this fine specimen of coffee-culture.

When I was a kid in Denver, the emerging hipster class had two choices as far as hangouts were concerned; Paris on the Platte or Muddy's. As a VERY rough guideline, Paris was for students, club goers and neo-beatniks; Muddy's was for Burn-outs, Hippies and Dungeons and Dragons fanatics. If there wasn't nearly so much going on in the city back then, we didn't care. There was a sense of ownership among the places that were "ours"... you never had to worry about a pissing match between two frat boys at a warehouse party, and Rock Island didn't throw bikini-foam-parties to prove that Denver was great as LA/South Beach/New York/Your-Coastal-City-Here.

I didn't (and don't) completely disparage the cultural / economic shift that occurred. Along with a bunch of bars and clubs I would never set foot in, it brought with it a slew of new independent coffeehouses; Cafe Euphrates on 17th avenue, Black Pearl, Gasoline Alley, and of course, the Original St. Marks at 15th St. and Market.

St. Marks was one of the last bastions of cool in downtown Denver. That said, it wasn't about to be defined by the joints that preceded it. A ping pong table provided a sense of humor that was the anathema to the Muddy's kids who never did anything more athletic than thumb through their "Sandman" comics. You waited at the counter for your food and drink, like in Seattle, as opposed to having it brought by a waitress. And Eric, the owner, had a strict "no performance" policy that was unusual at the time. The formula was a success, evolving it's own indigenous clientele; smokers in the back, pre-club goers, first daters, bohos who prefered to read a book without hearing some neo-Arlo Guthrie wailing in the background, and the occasional yuppie who was adventurous enough to walk the extra block past The Market in Larimer Square.

This rag-tag group coalesced into a "scene". Relationships began here. Friendships. Alliances. When Eric opened his second location, and when that became his ONLY location, we followed. When he opened the Thin Man, and turned that block into a mini nightlife destination, a few of us friends who had met there felt responsible. We occupied that place in a way that went beyond just having our butts planted in the barstools. This was ours.



A few years ago, I had a falling out with one of those friends in particular - having to do with nothing so much as needing to grow up - and needing to stand up for the things in my life that are most important. There was no argument with Eric, who I've never known well, but has always seemed like a straight up guy. Not with any of the workers, some of whom I had gotten to know, some not. Just another patron, like me. But with cafes and bars, the clientele is as important as the staff. And as he, admittedly, invested more time (smoking on the patio) and money (on coffee and beer) - in the divorce, I begrudgingly let him keep St. Mark's.

But when they got the Westword nod, I knew I had to go back for my few devoted readers who may not have had a chance to visit this gem. Smoke still floats to the front counter from the back, past newspaper clippings decrying the inevitable smoking ban. The hot, punky BWA (Barista With Attitude, the only kind St. Mark's has ever employed) made me a spot on cappuccino and called me "hon". They still offer the same delicious peanut butter / chocolate chip cookies, the size and consistency of fossilized dinosaur droppings. The acupuncture student (possibly a professional, now) still sits at his exact same table, though the "subvert the dominant paradigm" bumper sticker appears to have fallen off his laptop. And the back room still looks like it's holding auditions for an East High School stage production of "Ghost World".

You know, I thought I'd still feel my old friend's presence haunt this place, even though he wasn't there. I was wrong... things change. Even the "no performances" rule has given way to the Ubisububi Room, an intimate setting for shows in the basement ("this is David Lynch month" reads a chalk board at the top of the steps).

I was going to call this entry "Good Coffee, Bad Blood"; I think what I went with is better.

They say you can't go back. I concur. But that doesn't mean I can't stop in for cuppa and peanut butter chocolate chip cookie every now and again.

Man Cannot Live on Coffee Alone!... or... Bahn Mi Oh My!

There are a couple of rituals I follow pretty faithfully when I'm on my lunch hour. Generally, I go to the gym in an attempt to counteract the effects of sitting dormant in a cubicle all day. Either that, or I'll hop on my cruiser and tool through the Auraria Campus, formulating fantasies about being a handsome pop-cultural anthropology professor taking advantage of undergrad students desperate to boost their GPA (it could happen!). Alas, even the most unusual preoccupations can become a bore when repeated often enough. When that happens, I'll usually get into my trusty automobile (that's right ladies, it's a Hyundai. Accent.) and head up Federal in search of Dollar Mercados or Asian owned video stores. I'll roam through byzantine strip malls, usually with no intention at all of actually buying anything, as in the case of "Cowbobas" (which is the unlikely marriage of a smoothie joint and a steak house, as opposed to the all beef equivelent of a McNugget).

But today I was hungry, so food was the order of business. Seeing as I had all of $7 in my pocket, and that has to get me my Friday morning coffee as well, my mission was clear -- I needed Bahn Mi.

I headed up to "Ba Le", a small sandwich chain (!) from Hawaii. Now, one doesn't usually associate Veitnamese cuisine with sandwiches, but this little torpedo of a meal - pickled carrots, daikon, onions, cilantro and meat (or not) on a baguette -born of natural selection from the French occupation of Vietnam, serves as possible proof that one itsy bitsy good thing has come out of Western style imperialism.



You may not have a lot of choice in the matter as far as what you're gonna get - traditionally, the bahn mi is served w/ pork - but there are options. I went for the ga (GA!) which is a grilled chicken variation. Sure, sandwich shops like "Heidi's" have enormous menus, but by the time you've ordered, you're too exhausted to protest the fact that you've just spent 9 and a half dollars for a couple slices of bread and some meat. On the other hand, you can go to any Vietnamese bakery in the entire country and order this tasty, filling, and unpretentious little sandwich and not pay more than 2.50 (this includes New York, people!)



Today, for under 5 bucks, I got my sandwich and a 16 oz. Cafe Sua Da (Vietnamese coffee) which tastes a little like melted Frappucino (TM) over ice. Seeing as it's made from condensed milk, it's probably as fattening as 5 Frappucinos (TM), which is frightening. But yummy.

Join me next time, as I continue to sate my wanderlust with the bean juice by visiting a Middle Eastern cafe and sipping Turkish coffee...

Only 2 more weeks 'til Santiago... Coffee with Legs!

Coffee Science Theater 3000!

Man, if you've got a high speed conection, Youtube.com is the promise of the internet fullfilled. WAY better than the jet packs and robot servants we thought we'd get, living in the 21st century... Kaiju action, 60's comercials, Japanese Spiderman, the opening credits of "Joanie Loves Chachi" ... between this site and the new, "Doctor Who" series (which is the first science fiction show to capture my attention and imagination in quite some time) I can't believe I 86'd my "Popflotsam" blog last week.

In honor of my wife, who is letting me use her computer (since I've been too busy to blog at work) I'm posting a couple of clips featuring 2 of her favorite men. And no, neither of them is me.



This 1984 campaign was designed to target the emerging yuppy class and offer them a viable alternative to cocaine. Look at the star power they got - Vonnegut! Bowie! Cicely Tyson! Cicely Tyson?! Just listen to her voice; she needed the caffeine in order to amp up and bitch slap that dude!



Here we have Ewan McGreggor, one of the greatest film actors of our generation. Notice how he levitates that beverage - yeah, sorry, boy-o; "the force" is going to stick to your career like "stale" to a cup of Diedrich's coffee.

I had a can of "Roots" once. I'd maybe consider drinking another if they gave me all that schwag on display at the end of the commercial.

(for the record, the "favorite guy" in the first commercial is David Bowie, not Kenny Anderson. In case you were wondering.)

Season's Greetings

Had he made it another 37 years, Sunday the 12th would have been writer, drunk, and occasional Denver resident Jack Kerouac 84th birthday. Now, I don't pretend to be a scholar of his works, or even the most avid fan. Hell, I only ever finished "On the Road", a few assorted "pomes", and parts of "The Subterraneans" (an attempt at "Desolation Angels" nearly put me into a coma). But a blog devoted to all things coffee, especially to those things intangible and, dare I say -transcendent- would be remiss to not mention the "King of the Beatniks", even though the man himself shunned the title. (I use "beatnik" over the preferred and pretentious "beat" precisely because it makes his silly Naropa progeny get all huffy and spout off all manner of angry and monumentally dull poetry... and that makes me laugh)

Beyond his association with a counter culture that he rejected later in life, I think it's only fitting that I pay tribute to him here. His "Stream of Consciousness" writing style -of which Truman Capote said "That's not writing, it's typing"- qualifies him, I believe, as the Original Blogger.

Happy Birthday, JK/Sal Paradise/et al, if there's an afterlife, I hope you're getting some "kicks" there.

Thirty-Four...

Next Saturday is my birthday. My wife gives me a hard time over just how much I obsess over my age (which is to say, only slightly less than I do my weight) But I'm actually not sweating it that much this time out. I mean, relative to the ambivalent feelings I've had towards it in the past. I'm not as worried at, say, 33 and 345 days about turning 34 as I was on my 28th birthday about turning 30. I have a good job, a great family, and I have a couple of trips planned for the year... one out of the country (travel being one of those holy grails for the aging crypster, one barely sipped from in my 20's)

That said, however, I am now "In my 30's". Not "almost 30", where it's charming to pine like a "Must See TV" character about "what to do with my life?". Not "just turned 30", where all your friends get cutesy-poo and tease you about getting older. No, I am "In My 30's"... a grown man; and as such, I'm starting to behave like the person I want to be. It occurred to me, upon waking a week or so ago, how great it would be if I awoke on my birthday in the best health of my life. What if I lost those last lingering 5 lbs? What if I looked in the mirror and could see just a little bit more definition around my stomach, not Marky Mark "YO, boyeeeee, feel the vibration!" style, but just enough that my pants fit just a little bit looser?

What that means is, no more sneaking smokes from co-workers (as I've been known to do. Occasionally). It means riding my bike to work when I can (no problem there, my cruiser is my zen). It means knocking off the sweets (check). It means jumping rope and lifting weights a little more diligently (let's go!).

And then there's coffee. The Stuff. Though a diuretic, with some healthy benefits all it's own (in addition to all the other lovely things I can about it)- coffee, in excess, absolutely ravages the metabolism and adrenal system. In a fit of righteousness last week I promised myself that I'd detox for a couple of weeks, until my birthday, giving my body an opportunity to calibrate. Oh, I knew I'd start up again, but not until I'd given my nervous system a chance to... well... not be so nervous.

I made it four days.

Coffee is my last remaining vice, the one thing that I do for myself, whether the news says it's good for me this week or not. And let's face it... there's a lot worse vices out there.



I tried drinking green tea, but I just can't get behind that. I know that the stuff is supposed to help us achieve enlightenment (TM), and is thusly crammed into a strange array of products, and packaged w/ pictures of wizened men on mountain tops prepared to answer our most profound questions.






But try as I might to visualize myself as the 21st Century post-post modern sensitive Tai Chi master, it just didn't take. Yeah, yeah, green tea has caffeine. And "the patch" has nicotine. It just ain't the same, people.

But in the end, it's not just the caffeine. The ritual of going to a different shop every morning; the music, the mish mash of people from different walks of life, the awkward attempts at innocent flirtation w/ the girls behind the counter (just, you know, to keep in practice) all stimulate my brain nearly as much as the caffeine does. If this is "addiction", so is when my grandmother takes communion.

Hmmm. Maybe that means I've got some of the old spiritual awakening coming my way after all.

But I'd rather just have my coffee.

Triple Shot (three short reviews)

Various members of my family have been going through various degrees of sick lately, meaning that a full night's sleep has been somewhat elusive. One morning, about a week ago, a few hours after my daughters middle of the night feeding, and a few of those miserable, near waking minutes prior to my alarm clock Wah Wah Wah'ing! me into full consciousness, I was having one of those false awakening... those pseudo-lucid moments, where you're convinced that you've already gotten up, showered, fixed your oatmeal, and made it out the door. Except in this one, I could see with perfect, vivid clarity, an image of myself sitting at the Dazbog on Speer, (a place that I hadn't been to in a couple of months) sipping a perfect double shot from a porcelain demitasse (the only way to drink straight espresso, no matter what kind of hurry you're in. Even in my dreams I'm a stickler for such things)



Well, I'm psychic. Within an hour, I was doing precisely that. Mad props go to the girl at the register - a verifiable Coffeecrush, with her blonde bob and cat-eye glasses, she reminds me of Lisa Loeb on that show, but actually cute and goofy and independent, not just a self absorbed twit - for remembering that I used to order a coffee w/ a shot (redeye, shot-in-the-dark, "Keith Richards", etc.) But that day, I needed it straight, like a liquid defibulator. And special mention goes to the sweet faced barista, for pulling just the shot I had dreamed about.

Ever since then, any time I've got a couple extra minutes in the morning, I've gone out of my way to get 2, or 4, or sometimes, if it's a dire emergency, 6 ounces of pure awakening. "Little cups of black coffee, strong as heroin" as Douglas Copeland said in Generation X.

********

For Valentine's day, Mrs. X bought me a coffee card for "Perk and Pub". I was generally unimpressed with their original location near Washington Park, a little hole in the wall only slightly bigger than the Laundromat next door. But I've since discovered the Uptown P and P, which used to be Sweet Rockin' Coffee, one of those open mike places that scared away the paying customers. The space is comfortable, but it'll be nice when time takes it's toll and gives the place a more lived in feel. They have a nice long bar at the front, ideal for small talk w/ the baristas and a few quick sips to start the day.

The owner (?) manager (?) was nice enough, since I like a few raw sugars in my espresso, to make it up Cuban-style for me, brewing the grounds and sugar together, in the porta-filter. This is the first time I've had it that way, as I've always heard an urban legend that the sugar can possibly gum up the machine. The "Uptown" is currently only open until 2 pm, but there are signs stating that the location will soon be offering beer and wine and they'll have entertainment at night. I've recently acquired a taste for the vino, so I think this'll make a nice "grown up" date kind of place for me and the Mrs.

********

So there I was, in my review of Leela, pissing and moaning about the lack of 24 hour joints in our fair city, only to come across an article in the Capitol Hill paper about Aviano Coffee, located on Lincoln, in one of those upscale prefabs that look like a cross between an exceptionally large home in Highland's Ranch and something out of Tim Burton's Batman.

Aviano boasts that it will be open 'round the clock, Friday thru Sunday (to be fair, the only time in Denver you really need to be open 24 hours) Much ado is made of Aviano's dedication to the art of coffee and barista culture. Waiting for my espresso, I read a sign about the "head barista" a guy who apparently has placed 7th in a national barista competition. Pangs of jealousy set in as I read on; I've heard the reverent stories of professional baristas in Italy, artisans in a respected profession. I always dreamed of that sort of respect when I was a coffee jockey. Alas, I'm doubtful that level of "groupiness" will ever exist on this side of the Atlantic, but they'll get it from me... my triple espresso, no more than three ounces (as it should be) was EXCEPTIONAL. Easily on par with any I've gotten from Kaladi Bros. (My usual vote for best trained baristas) And that's saying something, seeing as they use the bulk roasted (though still good quality) beans from Allegro. Not only that, they use a completely manual machine, like their Italian forefathers. My only complaint is with the atmosphere. Considering the shop's proximity to Broadway, the late weekend nights will bring in the posers and frat boys from The Church / Vinyl / Funky Buddha (I feel less hip for even typing that last one), and the stock Italian prints are something of a buzz kill. Some minor touches and some appropriate acid jazz / trip hop selections should help to bring some true cool into the lives of Regas Christou's minions.

So there it is, folks, 3 more reasons to not go to Starbucks. Get out and keep these guys in business!

BELA LUGOSI'S DEAD!

Yesterday, while perusing Craigslist, I came across an a "coffeeshop for sale" ad. This was a straight forward, turn key deal; walk in, hand the previous owners a mere $5,000 (!), hop behind the counter, pull a couple of shots, start a-steaming the milk and commence sneering at the customers when they ask for their soy chai. I'm in no position at this juncture in my life to attempt such an undertaking, but when I saw that the location was in Congress Park, I knew just where it was (this will be their 3rd owner in the last 2 years), so I had to go check it out.

Lo and behold, by the time I got there, there was already a quite obviously new, makeshift sign hanging above the door. The inside is spacious yet intimate, perfect for a neighborhood joint, and quite a lot could be done with it. Unfortunately, the hours posted out front say it all; the joint closes at 5 pm, meaning that this will be one more $8 sandwich shop with an espresso machine gathering dust alongside the cash register. I wish the best for the new owner, I really do. As someone who managed a coffeeshop in that neighborhood at one time, the best advice I can give is, no matter how much the misguided clientele tries to berate you into serving Southwestern Style Sprout Salad and organically grown, herbal-icious healing teas, what Congress Park REALLY needs is a decent coffeeshop. And I believe it can happen... look at the mustard yellow Diedrich's down the street; one drink of a latte prepared by one of their untrained, slave-wage earning baristas, and you'll know that location really IS everything.

All this has got me thinking about my all time favorite coffee shops, those proto-bohemian places that keep me dreaming of one day having my own joint. I love Denver, I really do. By all accounts, I am a townie. Any time an East-or-West Coaster takes issue with my beloved cowtown, I'm the first to stand up on the defensive. But lately, it's bugged me that I have to choose between atmosphere and a great cup of coffee. I want comfy couches and piles of dog eared books AND a golden crown of crema on top of my triple espresso so rich and creamy that I can use it to shave my head with.

In short... I want Bauhaus Coffee.



1994; "grunge" was in; everyone had seen "Singles" and owned at least one flannel shirt. Like so many other alt-kids around the country, 2 of my compatriots and I "moved" ("visited", briefly, is more like it, but that's another story) to the promised land of Seattle, which at that point was both a noun AND an adjective (the Seattle Sound!/Scene!/Style!)The SECOND we crossed the Washington state line in my 1989 Ford Festiva, Pearl Jam came on the radio and rain fell from the overcast sky.

Hours later, when we pulled into the city, we looked for some landmark to orient us, a starting point, an event horizon like Lady Liberty must've been for our cold, tired and hungry. What we got was Bauhaus.



Bauhaus was then, and a quick Google search will show, now, as much of a Seattle destination as Pike's Place Market or Bruce Lee's grave, but somehow, it managed to maintain the feeling of a speakeasy; it was certainly our clubhouse, where we leafed furiously through The Stranger and the Seattle Weekly desperate for jobs and apartments. A staircase, alongside a honeycomb of books, led up into a loft, overlooking the entire city. If that wasn't enough, this best seat in the house was also the smoking area (which was HUGE for me back then) high enough above the main floor that the people below couldn't bitch.



The menu offered up coffee and all the standard espresso drinks, "Granita" (a pre-Frappucino coffee slush) and a selection of those little itty-bitty boxes of Kellogg breakfast cereals, and That's It. These guys knew what they were there for, they knew what they wanted their business to be, and you knew if you didn't like it, you could walk out the front door and step on a handful of Starbucks. In Seattle, it's law that a good barista can scowl at you with disdain if you tell them you think it would be nifty if they sold hot dogs/personal pan pizzas/greeting cards. And in Seattle, they are ALL good baristas. I myself, full of hope and dreams, kowtowed to the front counter, asking if they "needed any help".

"Nope. But if you have a resume..."

I heard a lot of that over the next 6 weeks that I was there. Sound excessive? When you hear people say Seattle has the best coffee, you'll know it's no mere hyperbole.

Bauhaus was the source of all my best memories in Seattle. I haven't been back in 11 years now, but I know I will go someday. If nothing else, when they spread my ashes there, while Jimmy Summerville's rendition of "Never Can Say Goodbye" blares in the background.

Hell, Yes, I am!

You Are an Espresso

At your best, you are: straight shooting, ambitious, and energetic At your worst, you are: anxious and high strung You drink coffee when: anytime you're not sleeping Your caffeine addiction level: high

What Kind of Coffee Are You?

Lola? Leela? Well la di da...

Whew. Been awfully busy here at work the last few weeks, causing me to unhappily put the blog on hiatus. (I've missed you, too, Cas)

On the bright side, if you're looking for some wit and wisdom on where to go to get a cuppa, it seems like everywhere you look nowadays, coffee is back in the popular consciousness. Jason Sheehan reviewed Monkey Bean last week in the Westword. Dave Flomberg revealed his somewhat questionable taste in java joints in the Rocky Mountain News. (Michaelangelo's? Really? Dude, I've had a better capuccinos at 7-11) Faring better is one of my favorite entertainment writers in town, Ricardo Baca, discussing Leela European Cafe in the Denver Post, inspiring me to give the place another look.




I have, as a rule, a 3 strikes policy as far as coffeehouses are concerned; and that applies only after it's passed my stringent, if entirely subjective, criteria as to whether it's a coffee house (vs. an espresso bar like "Ink" or cafe like "Taza De Cafe") at all. (I.E., how late is it open? How likely is it that someone would hang out for an hour or more? How hot are the girls making the drinks?) I was pretty jazzed when I heard that a 24/7 joint was going to be opening up, and even more pleased with the fact that it would be right down town. It seems that with every passing year, there are less and less good reasons for cow town locals to go into "The City Proper", which is turning into more of a city-themed amusement park, with bars and clubs catering to tourists and girls from Littleton looking to make out with a second, or maybe third-string Bronco. I appreciate that this has caused Capitol Hill, "Uptown", and even my own digs, at the southern most tip of "Sobo" (yeah, I said it) to create their own identities. Still, I miss places like City Spirit Cafe and the original St. Marks, where I could stroll out, high on moonlight, and take in the towering buildings, thanking the stars that I worked at the espresso bar on the bottom floor, and not in the offices above.

"Cozy" is an oft-over used adjective when you're in the coffeehouse reviewing biz, but there's no risk of it springing to mind, in Leela's case. That's not necessarily a bad thing, it's just that Leela's enormous, utilitarian space with it's high ceilings seems more conducive to storing top secret UFO's than sitting with your knitting group and sipping lattes. Luckily, for me, I don't knit. And the fact of the matter is, the "Lovely Latte Ladies Auxillary" would never approve, seeing as there's no "No Smoking" section, and a well stocked bar is more immediately noticeable than anything indicating you're in a coffee shop.



Regardless of the overwhelming space, my first 2 visits to Leela left me feeling a little underwhelmed. Anytime you have a joint that's open all night long (regardless of how badly I want it to succeed), you risk taking on that underfed, gutter-punk aesthetic (see: Cafe Netherworld on 13th and Penn) And while my all-time favorite bars(City Spirit, Thin Man and Cafe Cero, in it's earlier incarnation) have a sort of cafe vibe, having a coffeehouse that serves hard liquor this close to the 16th Street Mall, along with the smoke 'em if you got 'em atmosphere, can be a risky endeavor, (that I'm sure the baristas have compiled some war stories about).

But you know what? On my last visit to Leela, I got the feeling that these guys are gonna make it work. Sure, I was a little skeptical when the kid sitting next to me at the bar told me he hated cooking, only to find out that he works AT Leela. But a few more minutes of small talk with him and the cute young barista behind the counter, and I found myself smitten with the place. Maybe it's because it wasn't so lonely as it's been in the past, customers being the most important decoration you can have in a big space like this... and they weren't just folks treating the place like the Mile High Smoking Section. Maybe it was the fact that "The Chef" told me their busiest time is after the clubs close, and I love the thought of there being an alternative to Pete's Kitchen and Denver Diner right outside the door of a club, even if it's a some Lodo "shake your junk" club that I'd never be caught dead in.

I'm not usually the type to give advice to somebody on how to run their business. Especially with coffehouses... why bother? If you don't have "it" when you open your doors, the sad fact is that you're probably not gonna find it anytime before you go out of business. So that I'm offering advice to Leela here is a compliment, because I honestly think they're off to a good start, and I desperately want Denver to prove it's cool enough for an all-night coffeehouse.

First, find a local roaster. Hell, even Dazbog will do; it won't make an immediate impact on your business, but it'll speak volumes to the "support your local (fill-in-the-blank)" townies like myself who'll ultimately be your regulars. Second, you've got a great space for entertainment... but you've got to handle that delicately.

Lastly, it's a shame about your name... my grandmother in law is named Lola, I hope they don't make her change it, too. Leela just doesn't roll of the tongue the same way. How about Lulu? Lulabelle? Maybe Leeloo, after the futuristic hipster from "The Fifth Element"?



But what do I know, you're lucky enough to do this stuff for a living. Maybe someday one of the local rags will want to hire somebody to write reviews of local java joints. Until then, I gotta get back to the grind...

Turn into Stone...

Here.

UPDATE

I've been pretty busy lately at work, what with the new year and all, so I haven't had much time to write ... I do have two big "scoops" (in the Jimmy Olsen vernacular) I'm working on that should be posted here over the next week. In the meantime, I found a couple of Asian markets I hadn't been to before, so I thought I'd post a few more examples of the fine coffee confections available from the other side of the Pacific.

not much to say about these, other than that the gum was by far the best of the bunch. Like a can of Hello, Boss! in a thin brown stick...

By the way, you can find my other little cyber-pulpit along the information superhighway here