linda di_gusta . copyright 2004 . 212 696 1792

coffee...

The morning ritual of every good New Yorker and, this chilly day, the line snaking around the island with the sugar and milk at Father Joe’s is a little longer than usual. The neighborhood coffee bar with the irreverent church motif is always busy, despite the ongoing invasion of Manhattan by fast-food franchises, and the arrival across the street of still another road-sign-green Coffee House That We Do Not Name.

At all hours Joe’s wooden pews, rescued from a condemned church uptown, are filled with locals and visitors alike; the old looking for conversation, parents towing in their young for the after school snack, wannabe stars plotting fame and fortune over a shared sandwich and free water unaware they are seated next two a pair of bona-fide moguls schmoozing a deal. On surrounding stools, job-hunters search the cafe’s newspapers for leads, while singles perch near the front to people-watch. The faux stained glass window features the beatific likeness of a monk, inhaling the heavenly vapors from a paper cup of sacred brew, with a wink at the flowing-haired she-devil of The Nameless Ones Across The Way. One characteristic both shops share - more than once I have heard a patron at Joe’s proclaim, “At these prices, they must be brewing the coffee with holy water.”

Not that this could ever daunt our hard-core morning crew. The silent faithful wait patiently for a cup of communion with their higher caffeine consciousness, individually prepared to their exacting standards and preferences by baristas who know coffee is serious business.

Some of the waiting are downcast penitents, those who foolishly cast aside their humble java at happy hour and lifted the glass of forgetfulness, again and again. “Bless me Father Joe, for I have sinned. It’s been twelve hours since my last double half-caf skim cappucino. Equal on the side...”

All forgiven, we grasp our sip-topped double cups, toss a few coins in the tip jar and garble a word or two of gratitude. Exiting, I join the masses on the sidewalk, slipping into the flow between a very blonde commuter with her black skirt and white sneakers, still nursing her large styrofoam cup from Dunking Donuts in Queens, and a young Fed-Ex guy chugging a Coke. Another day in the city that never gets enough sleep.