Sunday Coffee 3

I’ve gone for a change of scenery for this morning’s Sunday coffee; Peet’s in neighboring Pinole.  Peet’s is largely a California chain although there are a few locations in Oregon, Colorado and of course, Seattle.  Walking in, I noticed that there are outlets galore here.  Ah, more computer friendly than Starbucks.  Logging onto the web I found that I needed an access code which I was kindly provided.  One hour; hmm, not so user friendly.  I'm just going to have to break down and get 4G and the Luddite in me is going to chafe at that notion.

Peet's tries to be a bit more highbrow than Starbucks.  The mood music is jazz or classical whereas Starbuck's leans towards pop.  Peet likes wood paneling and leather(ette) and the lighting is on the dim side.  If Starbuck's is the family room of coffeehouses then Peet's is dad's den.

Dad's den.  For the uninitiated, the best way to describe dad's den is that it was the man cave of fifties and sixties television.  For discussion purposes lets consider Ward Cleaver's (Of Leave it to Beaver) den/man cave.  While a common theme seems to be leather(ette) and wood there are some important generational distinctions to be noted.  Today's man caves are highly infused with sports and games, technology and testosterone; pool tables, sports team memorabilia, computers, big screen TVs, sound systems and weaponry.  Ward Cleaver's, den was simple, wood paneling, leather chairs, bound books and a big desk.  It veritably screamed for a crystal decanter of scotch but Ward didn't drink; well at least not on TV.  Another generational difference is dad himself.  Today's dad hangs out in his man cave sporting flip flops and a baseball cap worn backwards (guys, unless you're under 12 or a catcher you might want to consider turning that cap with the bill facing front).  Ward Cleaver didn't "hang out" in his den (beatniks hung out). Ward, in a manly, dignified manner read the newspaper or did important paperwork while wearing a business suit.  If he was dressing down Ward would be in slacks and cardigan, but would never lose that tie.  I don't know if I ever saw Ward crack one of those books. Maybe they were all for show.  I'd be a well read guy if I ever, you know, opened a book.  Ward's den was nothing if not a reminder of a fifties male dominated society.  It was here in his patient Solomonic wisdom that Ward dispensed sage advise, passed sentence on the offspring's misdemeanors or made a final decision on important household legislation.  Ward in his den was familial chairman of the board, the tribal judge in his chambers and the president of the house all rolled in to one.
 

I've digressed horribly from Peet. When I was handed my coffee the young woman behind the counter said, “We brewed Major Dickason today.”  I offered that it didn’t seem like such good news for the major. After all what had he ever done to them?  She didn’t seem at all amused.  Like I said, they're highbrow at Peet’s.  Major Dickason is the Peet’s flagship blend.  Just for fun I Googled Major Dickason, uh, so to speak.  Is it my prurient little mind working overtime or does that sound kind of kinky?  Googling Major Dickason.

Would I get slapped if I went to a bar and asked a woman if she would like to get together and google?  I shouldn’t offer to google with strange women; I am married.  I never had any luck at that sort of thing anyway.  Except for one time and that one didn’t really work out as planned.  Linda, my significant other at the time (it isn't PC to say girlfriend anymore is it?), and I decided to play out a little fantasy and go to Perry’s near the San Francisco Marina.  Perry’s on Union Street was a fern bar, well-known as the “meat market” as the saying goes, in San Francisco.  Henry Africa’s another fern bar over on Van Ness Avenue was the other popular bar where you might meet your next match.  And then there was always the Safeway in the Marina District.  No Match Dot Com, and Neil Warren hadn’t the vaguest idea yet that he would launch eHarmony. The little game with Linda was to go into Perry’s separately as strangers, “meet”, chat and go home together.  Place was packed on a Friday night and it took forever to get a drink and then forever again to spot Linda in the crowd.  Finally found her, sidled on up, and got ready to hit her with a clever pre-googling line when she latched on  like a leach and said, “Don’t you ever leave me in here alone.”  While I'd dawdled over my drink she'd apparently had some offers to google.  We stayed for a bit and decided it really wasn’t our type of place.  Perry’s was yuppie.  Working retail, Linda and I were well below yuppie pay grade.  Yuppies were materialistic and could afford to be.  We were just living paycheck to paycheck and for us materialism was a new pair of jeans.  We finished our drinks and went home.  I won’t say whether we googled or not.  A true gentleman doesn’t google and brag about it.

I digressed again didn't I.  Major Dickason was a real fellow who lived in Berkeley and helped Peet develop the blend of coffee that bears his name.  It’s a pretty potent brew with a good sturdy backbone.  Not something the frou-frou frappa-crappa crowd would go for.  I like the taste of my coffee so I order mine black, no room for cream or sugar.  I think us no frills folks should have our own express line at the coffee joints.  Standing in line and listening to someone order one of those “blended drinks” is like getting a root canal; “Yes I would like a caramel brule frappuchino, ½ soy, ¼ half and half and ¼ 2%, steam it for 12 seconds please with a 2 count spray of cream and just a dash of chocolate powder and it has to be at 198.3 degrees.”  And then the barista has to do it over because it was at 201 degrees.  Seriously?  It’s a coffee drink not a 60 dollar Porterhouse at Mortons  ordered medium rare.  Now that’s something to be anal about.

A family comes in looking like they're dressed for church.  Even the little boy is dressed in a natty gray suit.  Poor kid. 

Let’s consider coffee.  When I was a child coffee was brewed on the stove top in a pot, called a percolator.  Grounds went into a basket in the top of the pot; water went into a bottom chamber, was boiled and forced through a tube that distributed the hot water into the basket holding the coffee.  A little clear glass bubble on the top of the pot would let you see the color of the coffee as the blackening liquid continued to flow through the tube.  When the liquid was the color of coffee it was time to pour.  At some point my parents upgraded to an electric percolator.  Same theory, different heat source.  Either way, those baskets weren’t fine filters, making coffee some pretty tough, gritty stuff; especially that last crunchy cup.  

As I was just getting out of high school and starting to drink coffee in small amounts, Mr. Coffee made his debut.  Mr. Coffee was shilled by former baseball great Joe DiMaggio who unfortunately is probably best known by most Americans for being a coffee maker pitchman and the subject of a lyric in a Paul Simon song.  Do people outside of the San Francisco Bay Area where he was born and New York where he played for the Yanks know he was a hall of famer who went by the nicknames, “Joltin’ Joe” and “The Yankee Clipper?”

Joe became the face of Mr. Coffee of his own volition. But what about those famous folks whose names have been purloined by entrepreneurs with a questionable sense of propriety? The thought occurred to me as I was driving down highway 880 through Oakland when I was passed by a van emblazoned, LONDON JACK’S CLEANERS.  No, that’s just not right.  I pulled up alongside and there under the name was an image of the great writer himself.  A slap in the face that the great local writer, amateur boxer might have responded to with a solid right cross to the proprietor’s jaw.  I’ve also seen that a plumbing company has appropriated Benjamin Franklin’s name and likeness; a founding father relegated to stopping leaks and rooting toilet lines.  And then there’s Mark Twain Redi-mix in Twain’s own town of Hannibal, Missouri.

My hour of wi-fi is about to run out.  This post has bounced around like one of those old Super Balls we used to play with as kids.  Blame it on Peet's coffee. I told you its strong stuff.