Coffee and Cones
Back some 110 milesaway in Simsbury, the household was starting the day free of any real worries. That is what life is like these days. Other than learning about that, the first morning of the year was pure enjoyment. You can’t do much better than waking up in snow-laden rural Connecticut, all sunny and shiny, with good friends, a savory breakfast and children begging to go outside to go sledding. We pulled out a couple of plastic sleds and bobbled down a little hill in the backyard. Technically it was a slant if anything. In fact to call it a hill would be like calling a puddle a sea, but I tell you, that slight gradient provided all the exhilaration our aging bodies could want. We carried on for about an hour until we tired having packed snow stuck to every nook and cranny of our clothes and we then got things ready for the journey back. We said our warm and heartfelt adieus to our friends and began the return.
The first leg didn’t require much traveling. Three miles down the road, we entered the suburban world of broad and open shopping centers. We stopped by a couple of stores somewhat relieved that the new month meant setting the reset button on our credit cards. New year, old habits. Not even the shops respected the holiday. Fine, they opened a little later than usual, but that hardly constitutes a day-off. This used to be a full-fledged holiday, but maybe I am going too far back in time. We decided to seek temperature asylum inside the inviting warmth of a Starbuck’s. I thought I would never hear myself say such a thing, but when in a desperate situation, one needs to take desperate steps.
We went in and while the girls gawked at the window with the cakes and cookies, I tried to get a handle on just what I was supposed to order. It isn’t easy at those places. A simple coffee with milk isn’t often uttered.
Now, of course, let me make it clear that I almost never go into the place because I really can’t stand it. More than anything I think I have a greater loathing of the clientele than its coffee; and the cups I have tried, while acceptable, are hardly worth calling home about either. But it’s really those people. All of them. A lot of them. Some of them. The guys who like to talk really loud about the kind the coffee they want, and carry on tight-knit conversations with the servers as if they have been best friends for years just because share a common liking for brewed toasted beans. Just drives me up the wall. Then there are the ones who sit and read their books, or browse the internet, or play with their iPads as if they are steering wheels. Those people who just plain try to be cool there.
But why is it? What makes one of the nation’s largest chains cool? Would they do that at a McDonald’s? Hardly. But I have to admit it, Starbucks has miraculously made itself seem both unique and ubiquitous at the same time.
Even so, Starbucks has had a rough time of it over the past few years. The novelty began to wear off as the numbers grew and, of late, the crisis has slammed them because gourmet coffee stops are becoming a luxury rather than a necessity. Those are certainly understandable factors, but they were not the only ones: according to one recent article, many of its customers have grown tired of its vast expansion, and some have left. A woman and former patron decided to go elsewhere when they felt the Starbuck’s was becoming yet another “cookie-cutter” production, like other fast food chains.
Jeez. Now, how’s that for a shocker? Does she mean to say that when there was something like only 875 stores she felt she belonged to an intimate circle of intellectual friends?
For some reason this never seemed to occur to the immense number of knuckleheads before, or maybe it did and they simply accepted that there was no alternative in their lives, which says volumes about their understanding of free thinking and nonconformity. It is a sad when I feel closer akin to Sartre by chomping on an Egg McMuffin than slurping a piping hot Starbucks coffee. But in a sense, I do.
Starbucks has been aware that its appeal was beginning to tire and couldn’t help noticing that for the past few years profits (“profits” I repeat, not “losses” as some understand) have declined. The noticed that people were starting to feel more akin to the real local café touch, that Friends ambience. So, what did they do? They began to regionalize their produce. Instead of making the world to conform to its methods, it took a look at local customs and interests and geared its offer towards that. McDonald’s has been doing that for years, which is why they sell beer inSpain (in part because they can, God bless them) and because Madrilanians probably wouldn’t go for Egg McMuffins. Spaniards just lack the proper taste buds to appreciate fine American fast food cuisine.
The company took it a step further. They have gone so far as to change the name of their cafés so that they sound more like a local place. This would have been the equivalent of McDonald’s opening up a place under the guise Micky’s Bar and Grill and having a suspicious looking red-haired clown say while wiping the bar counter, “So what’ll it be boys? Burgers and Coke on tap?” Those fast-food chains don’t venture there, but massive beer producers do, for example. They’ll come up with their own version of micro-brew brew, and marketed it as a select product, concealing the company name if and where possible. This brings me to my point, why should Starbuck’s get the recognition it gets when it behaves like most other multinational? That is why there is something that’s not quite right with the whole operation. Something that doesn’t fit. Some fundamental flaw in the Indie movement law. I digress.
The rest of the day turned into a kind of tour of Connecticut. First it was down toDurhamagain to have a New Year’s lunch with Janet and Bill and their son Rick, a good friend of ours. We had a mid-afternoon meal. Since it had snowed since the last time we were there, everything look just right for the occasion. The hue, that undying afternoon light. It starts around two in the afternoon and evolves constantly for a couple of hours. The snow was aplenty, and the temperature right, so we decided to make a snowman. Getting the initial ball together was easy enough, but once it came time to rolling it around, roll it did, but grow it didn’t. I trekked all over the place until the wellbeing of my back found itself challenged. Just what kind of snow did they have up there in centralConnecticut? We abandoned the main goal and reduced our objective to snow-gnomes, and that worked out much better.
Then it was over to my parents’ place where we met up with my brother and sister-in-law. We had a little bite to eat while we combed the internet for some information on how to keep a little family tradition on January 1st: eating ice cream. It’s a dicey deal planning one filling your belly with it on a melancholy New Year’s Day evening, but we managed to track down a local place that happened to be open, as if it had heard our beckoning; all it took was for one call to confirm.
The owners specialized in homemade ice cream, and boy were they good at it. The place was one of those tiny wooden shacks with doors that creaked when you opened them, tables and seats that wobbled, ceiling lights that would serve nicely for long-term interrogation, and ice cream servers whose average time as an employee was about three weeks.
The ice cream was outstanding, as were the portions. Thank God the previous days preparation stretched our stomachs to just the right size to handle the load. It had one of those quirky features in the form of a map where people could pin their hometown on. The United States was well-represented, except for maybe North Dakota, as were various places in the world. The girls proudly pierced the paper of a dot which read Madrid.
Years ago, places like this weren’t that uncommon in Greenwich. Now they are a rare and endangered species, which was partially why we had to go to Hamden to find one.
We finished. It was time to get in the car and work off the calories at the accelerator pedal.