A Life of Coffee
How a brown liquid I once couldn't drink has become something I couldn't live without.
So glad you’re here for another Wednesday. Grab a cup of coffee. You’re gonna want it for this one.
Coffee is Life
I waited tables decades ago with a guy named Fred who had googly eyes that bugged out even more than mine. He was older than me by about twenty years, married to his third wife, and was the sole supporter of a bunch of kids from all three women. He worked a nine-hour desk job as an accountant all day then showed up at the restaurant and worked again until closing. Since he could only afford the one car that his current wife drove, I’d often drop him off at his third-floor apartment late at night after we finally clocked out for the evening.
Fred would come strolling in just before five, right before our nightly shift meeting began. His hair was jet black, curly, and long in the back. It wasn’t quite a mullet, but it wouldn’t have taken much to get there. He’d light up a cigarette and pour what would be the first of his many cups of coffee for the night.
While not a 5-star joint, James Tavern* was still pretty swanky. All of us waitstaff wore white shirts with velcro strap-on bowties, black pants, and red aprons. Our chefs were excellent. They weren’t the most personable folks, but there was no arguing about their skill in the kitchen.
At our staff meetings, the head chef each evening presented us with the day’s specials. I was so poor at the time that I frequently had my telephone or electricity shut off. I once went with no power for almost two months and either showered at a friend’s apartment or filled my bathtub with cold water and let it sit for a whole day until it was tolerable enough to endure a quick bath. I’d lost so much weight that I was punching new holes in my belt every few weeks.
My one meal time most days was when I got to work and could help myself to the soup of the day and a salad. And after all the waitstaff had taken their fork-full of the night’s sample entrees, I’d hover around that plate like a turkey vulture waiting to finish it off.
Fred, with his ever-expanding family, often joined me at the plate.
James Tavern was a sprawling restaurant with lots of dark wood and stonework. It was divided into several rooms, many of which had roaring fireplaces and enormous insets to the side with intricately stacked wood piles. There was a general dining room, a smaller intimate library, a more open bar area, and several other dining sections, each with its own wait stations placed off to the side with glasses, ice, and coffee makers spread throughout the restaurant for quick access.
I could always tell where Fred was stationed each night if there was a half-empty cup of coffee tucked out of sight at one of these stations.
“I’ve never been able to get into coffee,” I told Fred one night when were both stationed in the same room.
“Put some sugar in it,” he quickly advised, as if this was a problem he’d encountered before.
It was good advice.
I was admittedly too generous with the sugar at first, pouring an entire packet into a mug before adding in the coffee. A month or so later I went to visit friends in South Carolina and ordered coffee when having breakfast with my buddy, Susan. She watched in horror at the amount of sugar that went into the cup.
“Goodness, son!” she said and laughed.
That’s all it took for me to switch to black.
From there, my coffee consumption kept etching upwards. I moved out to northern California for a very brief stint and would make cup after cup of drip coffee in the morning, one cup at a time until my sister-in-law — who lived just two doors down — made a full pot of coffee every day at three. I could set an alarm to it and would walk down and drink my last two cups of the day (except for the time she made coffee flavored with oranges — that whole pot got tossed out).
I moved back to the Ohio area after a few months and started taking college classes again. I’d often get up at five and brew an entire pot for myself. One cup would be downed while I got ready for the day and the rest was emptied into a giant thermos. The campus bookstore sold these massive plastic mugs for five bucks, and refills were forever after only 49 cents at the student center. Midday, after most of my classes were over, I’d refill that thermos and buzz through the rest of the afternoon.
A couple of years later I moved back to Atlanta and enrolled at Georgia State University in the heart of downtown. A few blocks from campus I discovered a little hole-in-the-wall coffeehouse called Java Jakes that, despite its simplicity and builder’s grade white walls and lack of ornamentation, regularly had lines out the door throughout the day. The Atlanta Journal-Constitution was just a quick jaunt to the west, as were several other major downtown businesses whose employees found escape — as I often did — at Java Jakes.
The place was managed by a short and kind little woman named Tammy who, on the one day I happened to have a guitar with me, invited me to sit in the corner and play a few songs for latte and tips.
I’ve never been the greatest singer, but I’m a decent faker and managed to make more than a few bucks that day. I started bringing my guitar with me just about every day after that, and would often leave it at Java Jakes as I headed to class.
On a fluke, I auditioned for the college production of Prelude to a Kiss a few months into the year and somehow landed the lead role (the same one Alec Baldwin played in the movie version). I instantly made a gaggle of new friends who I soon introduced to Java Jakes. Most afternoons, between classes and rehearsals at night, I’d down another free latte, prop up a cup for tips, and howl like a back alley cat for a couple of hours.
One afternoon I was sitting on a high-top chair in the front corner by the window looking out on Marietta Street. Across from me sat two of my new friends from the theater, Jennifer and Karin. I learned later — from Jennifer — that Karin confided that afternoon that there was something about me that she found attractive.
“I just want to get Greg in a corner and maul him,” was allegedly what Karin said.
Jennifer, who was the female lead in the play, apparently saw me in a new light after Karin’s bold proclamation.
After rehearsals, the performers often hit up Manny’s Pub for a beer in the evenings. As we got closer to the show opening, and Jennifer and I spent more time going over lines and becoming close friends, we’d often peel off from the larger group and grab a two-top at Café Diem* a few blocks down.
By the time the show opened, I’d fallen in love with her.
In the weeks after the show closed we’d meet halfway between our homes at a Waffle House later in the evenings after she got off work. Despite the late hours, we’d order coffee and I’d stuff napkins in my pockets that I’d later use to write love letters to her.
One of our theater friends gave us a stainless steel coffee carafe a few months later when Jennifer and I got married. We met in December, started dating in February, I proposed in March, and were married in September.
It had never even occurred to me that a carafe was something one would have in their home. I’d only seen them in 24-hour joints during college when I’d huddle in a booth at Perkins or IHOP when pulling an all-night study session.
As newlyweds, Jennifer often slept in on the weekends. On Saturday and Sunday mornings we had the paper delivered and I’d climb out of bed early, make a pot of coffee, pour it into that carafe, and sit on our living room floor sifting through the paper. I never felt as settled and right as I did in those early days of being a husband, drinking coffee in that first apartment while my wife slept soundly in the next room.
Years later, when Jennifer and I had so many kids that I had to find a retreat outside of the house to get more work done, I learned of a place a few miles from home called Kaiteur Coffee. The first time I walked in, Moose, the store’s proprietor, instantly started asking questions.
“How’d you find out about the place? What do you like to drink? Latte? Yeah? How do you take it? Why latte?”
With its warm colors, super comfortable leather loveseat, round tables, and nice seating, years after Java Jakes had long closed down, I felt like I’d discovered another treasure.
For the next few years, I escaped to Kaiteur several times a week and engaged in countless debates and longwinded discussions with Moose until he closed the doors there, as well, back in 2010.
Since then, going out for coffee has just become too cost-prohibitive. So for years, we settled for run-of-the-mill grocery store dredge until our good friends, Mac and Katherine, started roasting their own coffee beans. We already had discovered the beauty of grinding coffee fresh before brewing, but following Mac and Katherine’s lead, we started roasting beans, as well.
After twenty-seven years of marriage, there are unspoken rules and habits that are formed, often without us even realizing it. One of my favorites is that whoever happens to get out of bed first makes the coffee.
I love how this often plays out.
There may be several days in a row where I’m still in bed long after Jennifer has brewed the pot and poured it into a carafe (sadly our original wedding gift finally wore out after about twenty years of use). But then my body will go into some weird cycle where I’m the one who ends up waking up way too early for no reason and then it’s my turn to make the pot for the day.
Then, another small, loving habit formed.
In the mornings, once the first sign of light can be seen in the crack under the bedroom door, a hot cup of coffee will be delivered to whoever remains in bed.
This morning, my internal clock rang a bit earlier than I wanted. Nevertheless, I got up and dressed, brewed the morning pot of coffee, poured a cup for myself and the rest into the carafe, and set about to do my morning prayers. After some time, knowing Jennifer doesn’t like to sleep too late, I quietly entered the bedroom, still dark from the drawn shades, and silently placed the carafe and an empty mug next to her side of the bed so it would be waiting for her when she started to rise.
While I don’t drink as much coffee as I did back in my college days, I pray I never encounter a health reason that would require me to give it up.
While I’m sure I could substitute it for tea or the like, I can’t imagine substituting the emotional connection and the joyful experiences I associate with coffee. All those endless cups and pots and carafes full of coffee have been a long brown river of warmth and love that has streamed throughout my life and marriage.
I can remember specific days and seasons and events and how they’re tied to cups of coffee.
But I can’t remember Fred’s last name. I wish I could.
I wish I could look him up online and tell him how much I appreciate his suggestion all those years ago to just put sugar in my cup.
Thanks to his advice, life has been sweeter ever since.
Name Endorphins
Welcome to all you awesome new subscribers. Thanks especially to Julie for signing up as a paid subscriber! I’m working on some bonus ideas I hope to unveil soon for paid subscribers. Founding members already get the cool benefit of naming a character in my serialized novel.
Final Thoughts
Are you a coffee addict? Who’s responsible for your addiction? Leave a comment and let me know.
Endnotes:
I Googled James Tavern and learned it was changed to Parker’s Tavern in 2000 but unfortunately closed for good during COVID in 2020. Earlier this year it was bought up by a company in Florida and will be converted into a daycare center(I don’t understand that transition at all).
Both Java Jakes and Café Diem have long closed down, as well, but Manny’s is still an Atlanta mainstay.
Moose and I stay in touch and I consider him one of my best friends, even though we don’t see each other often these days. He’s even made multiple appearances on our podcast.
I’ve only drank coffee for a couple of years. I generally drink it black but still love a good mocha latte as a treat. Those that don’t drink coffee don’t get it (and I was in that camp). Once you build the habit it becomes a part of you.
I like your essays.