Wake Up and Smell the Cafe

Wake Up & Smell the Cafe

You better not ask for your espresso to-go. Want your Americano extra hot? Not happening. Iced? You’re better off standing outside and hailing a cab in Montana—Good fucking luck.

Time to get real: I love hipster coffee shops. Even though the H-word is dirtier than an unwashed, pseudo-trendy mullet, there’s something about a cafe with a $20,000 Japanese siphon bar that really turns me on. Maybe it’s the old-school Belle and Sebastian on the record player, or the cooler-than-thou baristas and their perfectly groomed mustaches. I don’t know, but I like it. A lot.

The down side? I feel like a poseur ignoramus before I’ve even crossed the threshold. I may like my coffee strong and Fair-Trade, but I can’t tell the difference between Ethiopian and Venezuelan beans to save my life. And those baristas? They can smell mainstream. My glasses will never be big enough, jeans never skinny enough, tattoos never referencing the right French New Wave film director or obscure shoegaze band. Hipster cafes never let me forget that I’m an observer, an outsider, a poor man’s Manic Pixie Dream Girl—but at least I have my delicious, pretentious, $5 latte. —kc