Coffeehouse Euphoria
Diana M. Raab -- December 19, 2007
I write this essay in my journal as I sit in my favorite Santa Barbara coffeehouse. My best work is born in places like this where, under the influence of a strong cup of coffee, my creative energy flows. The ink and tangible pages of my journal compliment the organic, hearty aroma and flavor of fresh roasted coffee.
I often interchange the terms, 'coffeehouse' and 'coffee shop' but I'm told that the term 'coffeehouse' has come to imply the availability of espresso drinks, while 'coffee shop' suggests a diner where coffee is also served. It's the former I've grown to love.
My experiences in coffeehouses have been positive, from childhood memories to recent rendezvous with friends for late afternoon espressos. My passion was sparked as a sixties adolescent on the streets of Paris, where my Austrian grandfather and I traveled during the Christmas season. In between museum visits, shopping, and attending evening cabarets, we'd linger for hours in Parisian coffeehouses and sidewalk cafes, sipping strong coffee, nibbling on French pastries, and enjoying the art of people-watching.
At any time of day or night, the coffeehouses of Paris were packed with readers, writers, and seemingly expert watchers. Those days marked the beginning of my writing career. My all-time favorite dessert at the Paris coffeehouses was chocolate mousse cake, perhaps the reason I later chose chocolate mousse for my wedding cake.
My husband, born in France and descended from Austro-Hungarian parents, is also enamored with coffeehouses. Our first espresso machine was given to us in 1977 as a wedding gift from his cousin, long before those drinks became a national trend. Since then we've made it our habit to partake in two glorious coffee moments each day. Although we enjoy our strong morning coffee at home, our late afternoon fix is at our favorite local coffeehouse. In these less indulgent days, we opt for only one pastry with our two forks.
In the coffeehouse, my husband reads the daily newspaper, as I create a new essay, or more recently, a poem. One of my earliest poems, "In Desperation," is about frantically searching for a coffeehouse in a remote city in Iowa. When I finally found the place I sat in the corner and wrote the poem. I must have written in every coffee shop in every city I've lived in or visited: Montreal, Capri, Sydney, Vienna, Prague and now Santa Barbara.
If you enjoy lingering in coffeehouses, the allure becomes more than simply sipping coffee and taking a break from the daily routine. As a cultural snapshot the coffeehous is an amusement for both the writer and non-writer alike. Traditionally, an essential part of a coffeehouse has been its social function, as it provides a place for people to congregate, talk, write, read, and play games.
My pleasure comes from observing others. It's amusing to take note of how people interact with strangers. If they're not alone, I study their interaction with the person on the other side of the coffee cup. Sometimes I try to imagine what they do in their real lives. Some days I jot down snippets of overheard conversations in my journal.
I like listen to coffee orders being taken. The baristas ask about coffee preferences as if they were sexual positions. Recently, my son, an aspiring writer, took a job as a barista. He tells me that one of the many job requirements is to actually memorize the preferred coffee of the regular customers. What astonishes me is how ritualistic we are -- always ordering the same type of coffee.
Back in the nineties when we lived in Florida, I moved into my first writing studio located above a downtown Winter Park coffeehouse. During the two years I occupied that studio, the scent of coffee made its way up the stairs and into my creative space. To augment the wonderful aroma, my coffee-scented candles burned on my desk. Recently, I read that coffee-scented candles actually aid in concentration and have been suggested in corporate settings.
I am so attached to the positive results of caffeine on my creativity that it has been very difficult for me to kick the habit for the sake of my physical health, in spite of doctor recommendations. Coffee is considered the world's largest and safest addiction, so I am not alone. During a short-lived health-kick, I tried omitting coffee from my diet. To take its place, I ordered herbal tea. I'd sit in the coffeehouse, sipping the steaming tea while stealing jealous glances at those with coffee mugs. Smelling the coffee was simply not enough; I wanted to drink it. Tea just didn't have the kick to push my creativity forward.
Within two days I returned to my twice daily coffee habit. In the end, I'd choose an early death over life without coffee, which, I suppose, means that for me it's a deadly addiction!
Everyone has their vice and coffee happens to be mine. My internal clock is set to the times of day when my body craves coffee. An ordinary cup will not do. It must be an Americano with a double shot of espresso. In my life, regular American coffee brings little satisfaction and the aroma does little for my senses.
My passion for coffee and coffeehouses is simple. I love the scent, the taste and how it makes me feel. Even with my lovely kitchen and yard in which to sip my coffee, the coffeehouse continues to lure me in. Like sultry middle eastern rooms full of hookah pipes and opium bars, coffeehouse people join in ritualized excess, some benign, some dangerous: a vente mocha caramel frappachino, hold the whipped cream.
As long as I can write, smell, taste and watch, coffeehouses will pull me through their doors. With all of this sensory pleasure, what more could a writer ask for?