Coffee Culture: Encountering Hipster Baristas

Is It Hip To Be Square?

My wife and I visited the new and improved Fort Worth landmark, Sundance Square, a while back. Beautiful place, well planned and functional architecture; good job, Bass boys.
After a few loops, we hankered for a cup of coffee and maybe a pastry.
We found a coffee house cafe with little sidewalk tables. Not our style to sit on a busy sidewalk, so we went inside.

Passing through the door, I caught the name on the storefront window, “The Door to Perception.” The famous beat author Aldous Huxley wrote that book. He and Jack Kerouac birthed the beat generation with their unconventional literature; this might be a cool place.

We queued in line at the counter. The young man in front of me smelled of Petiole oil, an odd scent for a man; it didn’t mix well with my Old Spice. Hippie chick perfume is what we called it back in the day.

My wife nudges me and whispers, “What kind of place is this? These kids all look alike.”

Her observation was spot on. Every male in the room had a similar symmetrical haircut, facial hair, garage-sale chic mismatched clothing, and skin-tight jeans. Birkenstock sandals and Doc Martens seemed to be the shoe of choice. The girls were ditto but without facial hair. Stepford children they were. I knew immediately that we had stumbled into a Hipster coffee house. I told my wife to please be calm. This is no more dangerous than wading into a gob of old hippies at a Steppenwolf reunion concert. She wasn’t amused.

The Petiole boy in front of me was ordering his coffee. I caught the conversation between him and the barista.
“I’ll have a Trenta in a recycled rain forest cup, free-range, green label, fair trade grown, Andean, but not from the higher region but the lower valley, harvested by virgins no older than 16, aged in a cave on the coast to a bold bean, roasted on a log fire made from non-endangered rain forest trees, lightly pressed, and kissed with a serious pour of steamed spotted Syrian goats milk, then ever so slowly, pour two Cuban sugars at the same time on opposite sides of the cup. Oh yeah, and Kale sprinklers. Don’t stir it, I need to experience the aura.”

“Ahhhh… that’s my favorite. An educated choice, sir,” cooed the barista.

We are stunned. What in the hell did that kid just say?

I stepped up to the counter. “Two coffees with two creams and sugars each, please,” I say.

“And what region will your coffee be from, sir,” says the young barista.

“How about from Columbia, you know Juan Valdez and his little burro,” asked I.

“Don’t know that one, sir, don’t know a Mr. Juan Valdez,” she replied.

“Got something from Mrs. Olsen or Mrs. Folgers ?” I asked.

“No, sir, don’t know them either,” she replied.

“Got anything that comes in a vacuum-packed can?” I say.

“No, sir, our beans come in hand-sewn organic burlap bags from India,” she smugly replies.

“Do you have any coffee grown in the United States?” asked I.

She perks up and replies, “Yes sir, grown in California, Big Sur area by the Wavy Gravy Mystical Coffee Co-op. I hear it’s harvested every third quarter when Jupiter aligns with Mars, and the moon is in the seventh house. You know, sir, this is the age of Aquarius.”

“Yes, I know the song,” I say.

“Is there a song, sir?” she replies.

At this point, my head was about to explode, and I needed to wrap it in duct tape to contain the splatter. My wife saved me by stepping up to the counter and addressing the barista.

“Look, Moonbeam, just give us two cups of that Gravy Wavey coffee, and you pick out the sugar and cream, deal?”

“Names, not Moonbeam’ mam, it’s Hillary,” says the barista.

“Of course it is, sweetheart; I should have guessed that. I suppose you have a brother named Bill too? “No, mam, just a little sister, Chelsea.”

My wife shot me her “get me out of here before someone dies” look.
The barista sensed where this was heading and promptly pushed the coffee across the counter. I paid, and we left.
We stood on the sidewalk, took a sip of the gruel, and poured it into the gutter.

On the way home, we went through the Mcdonald’s drive-through for a red, white, and blue cup of coffee. Can’t go wrong with good old Mickey D’s. None of that Hipster crap.

“I’ll have two coffees with cream and sugar, please,” I said to the voice.

“Sir, will that be a Latte, a breakfast blend, a dinner blend, a dessert blend, an anniversary blend, an I love you blend, a save the children blend in a reusable cup, or an expresso, chilled or topped with sprinkles,” the speaker’s voice asked?

I pulled out of line, and we headed home to our old and tragically un-hip, Mr. Coffee.