But in our neighborhood, I find a certain emptiness that manifests itself as an ennui, a fog of lassitude that settles into the powdery cracks plunging it into a perpetual 4pm and rolls down properly-lined chimneys into sitting rooms (of course, the ennui that flows into unlined chimneys presents as crumbling plaster and water damage).
After much transcendental meditation, the solution came to me. We need caffeine. And not just any caffeine, but the best caffeine in the world, from the best coffee in the world...coffee that comes from the best cats in the world, the wild civets of Malaysia.
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| Mmmm...I want to drink that. |
These civets, Jungle Connoisseurs, eat only the very best coffee cherries and lay only the very best turds throughout the underbrush, which are picked up by bands of artisanal turd-pickers and the indigestible coffee beans are picked out by hand, roasted, and sold for $500 a pound. It's a steal!
As I raced to my iMac to book a trip to...umm...the capital of Malaysia (note to self: check if Malaysia really exists/ has a capital) the Urbanite informed me that Zeke's Coffee had obtained a small quantity of this manna and was selling the brewed product for a scant $10 a cup. We actually had to buy tickets online to drink this. Timed tickets. Like as if the David or King Tut were on tour.
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| "I'm sorry, it's only 8:57 and your ticket is CLEARLY for 9" |
At their roastery off a strip mall in Lauraville, we were assaulted with a dense aroma that was at once nostalgic and revolting...what was it?...oh yes, the smell of burnt toast and carbonized "toaster leavins'" - a familiar smell in the Figueroa household of yore. Trying not to vomit in the Audi, the kids, Sean and I tumbled out and exchanged our timed ticket for a small cup of black coffee. Although it seemed a meager portion, after a few sips it started to resemble a punchbowl. How could I possibly choke down 6 whole ounces?
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| Blegh |
How did it taste? I would describe it as "liquid ick" with notes of "burnt toast" (although that might simply be the aromatic quality), peppered with some "blergh" and "I paid how much for this?" A glance over at Sean's beatific smile indicated that I was alone in revulsion, probably caused by my plebeian palate. I looked around the tables for allies-in-disgust but was met by nothing but the upper-middle-class glaze of dreamy Anglos, lapping at their cups of gut-processed (yet fair-trade) coffee.
I walked boldly over to the milk-and-sugar station, ignoring the sudden silence and horrified stares of the blissfully employable, when a goateed hipster clucked, "We...uhh...strongly recommend...that you drink it black." "Well, then you obviously haven't tasted it," I replied snarkily.
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| Forced smiles |
The sugar was scant help, and by the end I was bribing Julian with $1 if he would finish it. He took one sip, said "I like the sugar" and gave it back while loudly announcing to our staring audience, "That is the best coffee I've ever had but I don't want to drink any more even for a dollar."
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| The Sycophantic Son |
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| Tristan, speaking truth to power |
Let this serve as a testament to those who might try to battle the boredom of affluence with a beverage from a rodent's nether-parts. Just buy Zeke's Ethiopian Harare from Cross St Market.
