When in Rome

Every city has that quintessential experience: strudel and newspaper-perusing at a Viennese cafe, getting insulted by a Parisian waiter in the middle of the best meal you've ever eaten, and so on. In New York, there is the independent coffee shop. Granted these exist nation-wide, but in New York, things go a particular way. Whereas in all cities, baristas are laid-back, tattooed, and all, I mean all, liked that band before it sold out, in New York, the contrast between the chill barista and the surroundings - hip but harried customers, honking cars, etc. - make them these odd representatives of college-town life. Even through the prices, neighborhood, and pastries scream high-end, the vibe of the place is Down with the Man, leading to a strangely dissonant experience for the customer, and, perhaps, to an overly generous tip.

There's this café in southwest SoHo that's perfect. The barista? Tattooed, scruffy-haired, 23-ish, with his Camel cigarettes displayed prominently on the counter, constantly changing the (very loud - why yes, I am 100) music, all as if to say, 'No, I don't work a 9-5 job.' Everything about him was just so. Even the tone of his voice was perfectly tailored to make each customer sound uptight in comparison. 'I'll, um, have a soy latte.' 'Yeah man, that's awesome.' And so forth. (Not exact quotes, but you get the idea.)

In the brief time I was there, he hit all the items on the hip-coffee-bar checklist: discussed cool bands with a customer; played the new song by a cool band; lifted up his cuff to show a customer (a different one, I think) a tattoo on his leg, explaining which cool band inspired it; discussed the member of yet another band's "solo stuff"; complained about the condos that are taking over New York; explained that Park Slope has "no soul." (This is, I believe, a direct quote. Where does that leave SoHo?) Had the young man made reference to which liberal arts college he'd dropped out of to pursue artistic endeavors and made reference to how Starbucks is evil, and only then, would the experience have been even more of a success.

But it wasn't just the barista. No independent coffee bar is complete without signs intended to make the customer ill-at-ease. Sometimes it's about how you'd better bus your table correctly - usually something involving hard-to-locate, overflowing dirty-dish tubs - or else. At this place, on the door, there's a sign explaining that brownies are "first come, first served." Who'd have thought otherwise? Were people trying to claim these brownies in advance? But that didn't prevent me from being disappointed, though not surprised, to see, upon entering, that the bin labeled "brownies" was empty. (After all, I was by then convinced these brownies must be fantastic.) As I ordered, the barista asked if I was OK. Apparently my 'what, no brownies?' thought process manifests itself as a facial expression, visible to others. Damn.

And of course there was a prominent tip jar. Not only did the container bear some kind of plea, but there was a sign on the register itself admonishing you to "Tip your barista." Which you will be less inclined to do once reminded twice, and still less once his over-the-top understated hipster friend comes by, and he in a loud voice he tells her and her friend, whom he's just met, that whatever they want is on the house. They take him up on this - the hipster woman even reaches oh-so-hygienically over the sneeze-guard glass to grab, without a piece of wax paper (and these were available), the pastry of her choice.

The friends-don't-pay system was particularly confusing, not for me because I'd never seen any of these people before in my life, but, I'd imagine, for the regulars. He greeted all of them as though they were friends, yet they had to pay for their coffees, often quite a bit. The only difference seemed to be that this woman was relaxed, whereas every other customer seemed to accept his or her position of inferiority with respect to the barista's cool demeanor. Attitude is everything.

As I was leaving, a 35-ish man was telling a woman (dare I guess: a date) about how much he loves this coffee shop, both because the coffee is good and because the people who work there are really nice. 'Nice' isn't the word I'd have gone with, but at any rate, although I did not stick around to see what happened when he entered, I can imagine: the barista recognized him and was friendly, the two discussed bands for the duration of the latte preparation, and, at the end, he had to pay (and, heck, over-tip) just like everyone else.