(Written for The Seattle Weekly.)
I am a mug snob. There, I said it.
Coffee snob, no... I mean, I like to think not, but then somebody serves me an americano that tastes like compost slushy and I rethink my self-assessment. But as to whether or not I am a snob with regard to the vessel in which my coffee is delivered there can be no debate. I am. And that's that. Oh well.
This afternoon finds me taking up as much space as is physically possible at Victrola Roastery on Capitol Hill. I have strategically managed to spread all of the resources my writing requires (as well as one or two it does not) in such a way as to barricade 2.7 places at the giant center table into definite "Rose Space." And thus, relieved of any concern that someone might sit next to or near (or on) me (it's happened), I sit and watch people migrate between tables and bar.
For example, at the moment, I'm watching the man on the other side of the room walking his coffee back to his seat -- arms outstretched like Frankenstein, neck locked back, eyes glued to the cup in his hands as he takes baby-steps toward his chair. When will he spill? It's out of the question that he won't. ...Continue Reading: Spilling the Beans.