Indoor Camping: Fixing Up the Fixer-Upper

Wednesday, October 27, 2004

Peet’s People

<>Charlie and I don’t meet for lunch; we meet for Peet’s. We can eat at home, but since I broke my eighth coffee-making French press, hot liquids are car trip. Decaf is a destination. Coffee means community. Peet’s means people. There’s no solo drinking in our fixer.

Unlike our little Kosovo, anyone can pass through Peet’s. Last week John Kerry’s brother came in and sat at a table. A little later, a stinky crankster sat at the same table and had a loud conversation with his invisible Mom. If I wanted solitude and control, I’d stay home and break another French press.

We go to Peet’s so often we recognize other addicted customers. There’s the crossword guy who wears bifocals, sits straight, and drinks one small black coffee for two hours. There’s the group of men who sit by the window and say mean things to each other in pleasant voices. I’ve listened to them enough to know they work with each other and hate their jobs. They sound like siblings. They may sound calm, but they’re more confrontational than the General.

There’s one table full of women, always. They’re often dressed in sporty clothes like they’re going to the gym. Everything matches and looks perpetually sweat-free, though. Their hair is perfect, like a newscaster’s. They talk with voices like they’re cheering for their kids at a track meet. They talk about personal stuff. I love it when that happens; I don’t have to strain to hear the embarrassing details. Neither does anyone else.

Since most people take lunch at lunch places, Peet’s is usually pretty quiet around noon. Not this time. Before we even order, we hear what sounds like a bunch of crows. I suspect there must be six or seven women laughing all at once. I look and there’s only three.

Does anyone else notice? I quickly look around the room. The crossword guy puts down his pencil and stares at the crow women. The book reader guy peeks over his book with his mouth open. A couple sitting close to each other stare from across the room. Even the baristas stare over the espresso machines.

“Is it just me?” Charlie says, “Or have people in general gotten more annoying? Those women are hurting my ears, they’re so loud and I’m hard of hearing.”

“I get ready to go out,” one woman says loudly, “I don’t bother anymore. My husband says, ‘You’re wearing that?’ I don’t listen. I buy all his clothes for him. All of them. He doesn’t know how to shop for himself. Why should I listen to what he wants me to wear?”

The women sit close to the half and half stockpile. When I walk by, I yell, “Shut up!” really angrily, but on mute. If they looked up they’d see me but they don’t. I feel better.

The Peet’s manager comes over to check on the half and half. Charlie’s wearing his uniform. This gives the whole world permission to ask him Cop questions.

“Not very busy today, is it?”

“I used to work in Florida,” he says. “It’s like I’m retired working here.”

“He’s joking,” I say. “You’d be surprised what goes on.”

“I love to read the Police Blotter in the paper. The calls you get are so funny.”

“If you think those are funny, you should ride with him,” I say. “They can’t print all the good stuff."

“I’d like that.”

The manager leaves to reload the half and half. I’m the manager at my house; I have to reload everything. It’s worth it to me to watch someone else do my work.

“He’s as excited about your job as you are about his,” I say.

“We should do a job exchange. He can drive around on calls all day and I can help myself to refills right from the spigot. I’d help myself to those almond croissants, too. It’s the same job; we’re both helping people.”

“We can’t do that for Christmas!” one crow woman shouts. “We must tell everyone to dress appropriately. That way they’ll wear their best party outfits. Black tie? No, not for Christmas. No, no, no.”

The crow women laugh again. The rest of the store stares again.

“Shut up!” I scream on mute while walking behind her. No seat is far enough away to stop the ringing in my ears when they laugh.

One of the Peet’s baristas walks by in civilian clothes. “Are you working?” Charlie asks.

“No, I’m stopping by to get a gift for a friend. If they like coffee,” she says, “they get Peet’s.”

She picks up a French press, a pretty one, and I back away. “I’ve broken eight of those plunger things,” I say. “Why do you think we’re in here? If we could make coffee, we’d stay home.”

Another barista overheard me. Apparently the crow women haven’t yet made him deaf. He gets an excited look on his face, races over to the wall of expensive consumer goods and comes back with an oversized glass beaker. “Have you tried this? It’s a Chemex.”

“My college roommate had one of those but she never made me coffee,” I say. “I knocked it off the stove. I’ve only broken one, though.”

“When I first saw it,” the excited barista says, “I went ‘Yes!’” He held up his fist like he scored a touchdown. “Be right back."

A few minutes later he returns with two cups of coffee. “Try this. You’re going to love it.”

“Isn’t it great?” he says. “A Chemex is the best thing in the morning. There’s not much fussing, a little stirring, but not enough you have to be awake. Soon you have the smoothest cup of coffee. The day can’t get better than that.”

“You don’t have to give me a sales pitch,” I say. “You don’t know what a pushover I am. I’ll buy whatever you say.”

“I’ll go find you one in the back.”

“He’s so into it,” Charlie says. “I thought he was going to get up on the table and start dancing.”

I took it home along with the free half pound of Sierra Dorada Decaf and made several test batches. I made them at night; not even the Chemex is easy enough for me first thing in the morning. We had the TV turned up really loud while we drank to get the full community coffee experience. I whined while reloading my own half and half. I’ll never be a full-time stay-at-home coffee Mom.

Charlie and I met for a Peet’s liquid lunch a few days later. The barista rushed over to us like we’re cheating on our new Chemex. “Did you try it?” he says.

“Of course or we would have been here sooner,” I say. “It was fun.”

He gets a serene look on his face. “The coffee’s better than anything from those,” he says, pointing to the pretty French presses.

“Especially since I haven’t broken it yet,” I said. I didn’t tell him I missed the crow women, John Kerry’s brother and even the stinky crankster. Overhearing conversations on TV just isn’t the same.

A little help? [] 5:43:56 PM