I think I'm going to start blogging about coffee spots throughout my neighborhood.
I've done it before, but it's never been a solid priority. Between the mixed reviews of dollar store finds and lazily putting together a string of photos to recreate the idea of a "Masters of the Universe theater," I've hit a wall. It was bound to happen, but so soon? So out of thin air? My only excuse is that my mind is on our new record, and instead of type-type-typing I've been strum-strum-strumming, slowly confirming what exactly I'm going to do in the studio. With a month away to record, you'd think the songs would be one-hundred percent complete by now, but nahhh. Too easy. Gotta live under pressure, gotta write on the wire.
What I'm trying to say is to expect a lot of this throughout the next few months. Coffee house reviews? Really? YES, COFFEE HOUSE REVIEWS REALLY GET USED TO IT.
Where to start? From the beginning, duh:
Where to start? From the beginning, duh:
Whether it be to get groceries, go jam with Calabrese or to get a cup of coffee, I always seem to pass "Steve's Espresso." There's nothing necessarily stand-out-ish about the place, but it's always on the way to where I wanna go. It's either a bold sign telling me that drinking a cup of Joe at Steve's is destiny, or that I rarely venture anywhere that I haven't been to a million times. But if Steve wants my business, through my own repetition and curiosity, he's reeled me in. Well, I've reeled myself in, meaning he didn't do shit, but I've already parked and it's hot in the car.
From outside the shop and inside the privacy and shame-free bubble of my car, there you have it. I hate taking photos of anything in public, for fear of God-knows-what. I have this thing when it comes to snapping shots of anything that could make me look like an pervert or a spy. I understand it's a wild leap from "interested food patron" to "sexual deviant," but it's the way my head is wired. No one knows I'm attempting to blog about Steve's Espresso, they just know I'm nervously fumbling around with my phone with my hand possibly down my pants.
I went it, went to the counter and went over the possibilities. They have everything you'd expect, but I'm a no-frills kinda guy and I wasn't planning on drinking whipped cream, so I got a medium hot coffee. Which, for those curious, was instantly less expensive than you-know-who, and was nice and piping hot.
I think it was, like, a buck seventy? Eighty?
Some blogging skills, eh?
Decor was nice, ranging from "hole in wall store converted into a warm, chic coffee den" to "every other coffee shop ever." Not a bad thing, really. You wouldn't want it to look like, I dunno, Burger King. Or the dentist.
This is where I take a picture to show you what I see. Here is that picture:
Was my shot ruined by Captain Blue Jeans? No, not in the slightest.
I've said it before, but I get a total kick out of taking photos of people in random situations and posting it here, on this blog, for the entire notion that, one day, hopefully, that person will recognize their own butt staring at a case of crumpets. I'm entertaining the thought that Captain Blue Jeans will ultimately be interested, shocked then wholly confused.
"Why would anyone take a photo of my ass?" he would ask. I would respond, "Because you were in the way, and because I get a thrill plastering you, unwillingly, on a tiny corner of this great, big Internet." "What an asshole," he would say.
Well, it ain't your ass that's the center of attention, Captain BJ, it's the cute, chalk-written signs and endearing, brown color scheme. Is there ever a coffee establishment that isn't painted some sort of brown? Why can't the walls be colored hot pink? Or, I dunno, purple? Is it because it would throw you off and make everything feel like shit? Yes, it is because it would throw you off and make everything feel like shit.
Well played, Steve's Espresso.
Which brings us to another high point at Steve's -- fresh, home-baked scones, muffins and sandwich things.
I'm a huge fan of pastries, purposely magnified by the "bite and sip" procedure with a cup of coffee. The taste is elevated with the perfect mix of cake-food and java, nearing an instantaneous cranial explosion. It rivals that of sex, but the comparison is so cliche that I nearly flinched at the thought of actually writing it. I would never commit such a bland, literary faux-pas. Or...would I?
I just did. I just so fucking did.
Now, you might dip your dessert into your drink, as opposed to the act of chomping and slurping, but I think that's weird. Who dips a blueberry muffin? In proportion to the cup, the shape is all wrong. You'd need a saucer, or a gravy boat. Otherwise IT'S ALL WRONG AND YOU'RE GOING TO HELL.
There's a sign on the wall stating that all the coffee was done by a French press, which makes me wonder if, every morning, they press a bunch of coffee and dump it into a big vat in the back or have one, giant French press the size of a doghouse. Whatever the case, the taste is definitely different, leaning more towards a smoother and slightly distinct flavor than drip coffee. Mild, definitely. Watery, in a way.
I'm not even sure I like coffee.