Coffee

I used to drink it with cream and sugar until I noticed that my mother drank it black. The thought of it used to make me cringe, but in an act of solidarity I decided to force myself to like it. An acquired taste, I suppose. Now, the more black and pure, the better.

My current favorite is Intelligentsia, free-trade coffee—especially beans harvested in Latin America, the land of my birth. I used to order cups brewed from the Clover machine, but now I prefer pour over and hand-dripped—“Like they do in New York,” the barista at Saints Café reminds me.

Slowly, I walk my individually-brewed, wide-rimmed, ceramic cup on a platter to the first open seat I can find. “Oh, that’s fancy coffee!” a woman at the grocery store once said to me when I questioned how little she charged me for a coffee, bottled water, and two bagels, which I shamefully admitted was less than my usual one cup of coffee.

Perched on a high chair and tiny table I pull out my barrage of Apple products, just like the other patrons ranging from self-important, intellectual types, to those dressed in grunge, plus a few foreign students, teachers, and locals eager to blend in with the cool kids.

I mostly brew Intelligentsia at home. Tired of shoddy, ceramic dishes that crack and chip before their time, I recently splurged on fancy china. Now I enjoy sipping the warm brew in teacups and platters, just like the ad-ults do.