Thursday, August 26, 2010

And the Nobel Prize for Taking One's Coffee Black goes to...

I couldn't resist the comments to the coffee piece. All 139 of them. Why oh why are comments now closed? This could provide endless entertainment for those of us who are, against their will, without television and out of the Hulu zone.

Many of the commenters, I was relieved to hear, simply loved their vacations to Rome. (The cringe-inducing Europhilia of NYT commenters makes me ashamed to be typing this from a garret-type apartment in Paris while I sip a glass of Cahors, waiting for a giant artichoke to steam.) There's gratuitous and frankly offensive bashing of young people, the unemployed, and parents of small children, none of whom the Romanophiles (I guess not Romaphiles?) believe should be allowed to to take coffee outside the privacy of their own homes. There are the oblivious Mr. Sweatpantses convinced that Technology, and not their own lack of charm, is why the young people in the coffee shop won't start up conversations with them.

But, best of all, there's the inevitable That Guy (or maybe That Girl) who takes his coffee black and is therefore Sartre: "Nothing worse than standing on line behind a bunch of people ordering some half-caff, skinny, flavored, iced, blended, 32 oz. monstrosity (with whipped cream) when all I want is a cup of regular coffee or a single espresso."

You're right. In the entire range of human experience, there is nothing worse than having to wait five extra minutes for a beverage you could easily and cheaply have made for yourself at home.

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