This post is dedicated to all the spoiled rich kids in Vancouver with the ultra delicate spoilt rich kid palettes so that they must have their coffee, oh, just so! The right blend, the right roast, the right subtleties of discreet undertones and flora, and oh I could go on, but like you, Gentle Reader, I really don't feel like throwing up right now. But first, let's deconstruct this a little, shall we?
I remember the days, when coffee was coffee was coffee. That's what you ordered...And that's what you got. Coffee, and nothing but coffee. Black and bitter, it usually tasted gross. But it was cheap, affordable and strong. It did the job. I remember the cheap stale brew that passed as coffee in the Langara College cafeteria back in the day. I was twenty-two. What year was it? Don't ask, don't tell. The coffee was legendary. It generally tasted awful. But it was strong. It kept us awake through midterms. It did the job. Cream and sugar were freely available. Only the very stupid or only the very brave would drink it black. I drank it black. So, shut up, eh!
Refuels, or should I say, refills, were often free. Then sometime in the early seventies, coffee shop owners started to get stingy, or greedy, or both. A thirty cent cup of coffee would also set you back fifteen cents per refill. In the eighties the price climbed up to fifty cents, twenty-five cents a refill. I was regular, in those days, in a place on Davie Street called Chino's. Now, if you are particularly politically correct and squeamish about it, then this is where you are going to end reading this blog post. Otherwise, do soldier on.
In this coffee shop, Chino's, the ownership was taken over by a family from Hong Kong. A mature gentleman and his somewhat younger wife, Nancy. Nancy and I got on well. She was friendly and professional. And strict about refuels, or refills, which is to say, no one got a free lunch, or coffee. She also had a number of younger sisters who all worked there, and I came to call them all the Nancy Sisters, since she was clearly the Sister in Charge. And they all had a rather endearing way of saying to their customers when offering refills, "Mo coffee fo yo? It was cute, but I couldn't help but notice underlying (and sometimes more evident) racism and contempt in some of the comments others made about them, so I tried to distance myself, and fortunately all the sisters and I got on rather well, and I never expected a free refill, knowing I was not going to get one, but also out of respect. The coffee was pretty awful by the way.
It wasn't till ten years or so later, when various coffee chains and independent operations were opening everywhere, that it became evident that coffee, that lowly brew, was taking on snob appeal. I first became aware of this shift in the late 90's. I was seated in a fairly new coffee shop, and casually eavesdropped as the owner waxed on to someone about the importance of terroir, quality of sun, air, altitude, climate, just to ripen the bean to such perfection as to give it such and such a bouquet of flavours and notes. That's right. He was going on just like a wine snob, only it was about coffee.
Even now, all I can do is laugh...
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