Ode To Cheap Coffee
I find enjoyment in cheap gas station coffee. Sure, I like the good stuff too, but I don’t scoff at the shit. I love it. I enjoy burning my fingers on the too-thin cups. I relish the fear of the blow-out top, poorly applied by my still groggy hands. I long for the inevitable tongue burn from the molten-hot liquid drunk too quickly.
Honestly, it’s hot, bitter liquid, and who’s to say this hot, bitter liquid is more enjoyable than that hot, bitter liquid? Not me. They’re all good. They’re just different.
And I don’t cut it with cream or sugar. Give it to me straight-up or give me death. Well, maybe not death, I do enjoy a little milk now and then. Black coffee is like vanilla ice cream — toppings and additions just cover up the pure enjoyment of the base flavor. They get in the way.
Lisa disagrees. Me, I think you’re tasting more than the coffee when you pay $3 for a cup, get served by a semi-professional ‘barrista’, and are asked for a tip. You’re buying more than coffee, and your mouth knows it. But more on that in another post.
Coffee is like a morning back-rub for your brain. There are good back-rubs and there are great back-rubs. But nobody scoffs at a back-rub. Nobody should scoff at cheap coffee.