It’s a quirky little place. The menu—sandwich and wrap
selections, coffees and specialty drinks—is hand-written in brightly colored
chalk on blackboards hanging behind the counter. Like most coffee shops, the
sound of hissing and smell of freshly brewed beans adds to the ambiance. I glance at today’s selection of coffee
flavors, also written in chalk on a small board leaning on the counter: hazelnut, organic Kona and the regular, fair trade option. But today I’m tempted by a mocha. Why not
treat myself a little?
Tucked among a string of small businesses that come and go, victims of a sick economy, the Steaming Bean thrives on Main Street. We have two coffee shops in town. Both offer clusters of tables, free
wifi, and an assortment of baked goodies along with their java choices. But I like The Bean, as it’s known by. It’s a little funkier, darker,
cozier. I grab my steaming mocha in the
ceramic mug and head up two steps to the platform area to sip, write and
people-watch, one of my favorite pastimes.
A good coffee shop nestled in a small town or neighborhood
takes on a Cheers-like quality, where everyone knows your name. I
recognize a few people, smile and give the nod of recognition. Others walk in
and strike up conversations with folks sitting at the table beside me. The music,
a selection with a Latino beat, pulses in the background along with the soft
conversation and sounds of the espresso machine. Someone has ordered a bagel with black bean
hummus "shmere", and a smoky smell of burnt bagel crumbs wafts out from the
toaster.
A few people are reading. Others, like me, are typing away on
their computer, sipping a warming brew, just right for a cold day. A trio of school-aged girls arrive talking in the excited voices. They are commenting on the wall art, an ever-changing gallery for local
artisans. Today’s art features a male African American dancer wearing a
brightly ornate costume, his legs toned and muscular, his lips full and nose
broad, several portraits of Native American women, rich with ethnic features and native costumes, and glowing with beauty. I know the artist. He is an older student at the local
college, a Native American and has a passion and obvious talent for depicting
beauty as it is, not as the media would gloss it over to be.
I am watching the time. Soon the neighborhood-watch officer
will be by to mark tires with chalk, making sure parked vehicles abide by the
two-hour time limit for street parking. I've already been here for two hours
but am so comfortable and relaxed, I’m hesitant to leave.
I’m skeptical of chain coffee shops—a Starbucks on every
corner, in every grocery, in every discount department store. Men and women in suits, hurrying to order
their double cappacino, no whip, skinny, grandes. Sure these cookie-cutter franchises can serve up a
frothy concoction, but can they offer a familiar smile, a smattering of
local publications to peruse and the quirky creations of local artists?
If I’m in the big city, I’ll seek out the small neighborhood
coffee shop—the one with homemade pastries and fair trade coffees. I’ll look
for the cozy shop with a young barista wearing a slogan t-shirts and dreadlock
hair held back by a faded bandana. I know if I find a unique corner nook like
this, I'll sit down and order a cup-- not to go, but to stay and savor. I'll pull out my computer or flip through a local paper, do a little people
watching and relax. If I know my coffee joints, we won't be strangers for long.
