The Coffee Shop Philosopher The coffee shop philosopher roasts his beans between midnight and sunrise in the Coffee Company roaster with instinctive precision, at the same time dwelling amid various divinations. The Universal Constant for example, and its explicitly flawed relationship to the Laws of both Chaos and Coincidence, which he fully intends to illuminate clearly one day. Possibly inscribed on the head or even the point of a pin, whereupon an appropriate number of angels might argue upon the virtue of his assertions as he reflects upon his discoveries through the dusky amber of whiskey and LSD. In the meantime, exotic blends of aromatics and volatiles mingle with indefinable subtleties of flavour and a trinity of wisdoms ancient, new and as yet, unheard of. He has an angular countenance, vampiric in complexion, cut with piercing eyes tending toward the blue end of the spectrum, though where exactly remains forever indeterminate. He has a quietly measuring smile, in the manner of a man who might know something you don’t. He wears second hand suits with more panache than the dead men they were made for. Im knocking on the Coffee Company window. ‘Hey Pete…’ distracting him from his work, Gotta smoke? The question is rhetorical, asked with the universal gesture of the smoker. Pete acknowledges. Dude moves with a serpentine grace in a tall mans casual lope. He’s always got a cigarette. He unlocks the doors, lets me in. The place is warm with the heat of the roaster. The café smells richly of coffee, roasting and raw, 60 kg hessian sacks of green beans, 15 kg buckets of roasted, a steaming short black by his laptop on a table, a bottle of Jamesons within easy reach. He produces a pre-rolled cigarette, magician like, plucked from the air, presents it with a casual flourish, a Zippo appears in his other hand, the distinctive metallic clank announces fire. `Thanks man I said, and dragged the cigarette into life. The roaster chugs away permeating the town with its aroma. Rotating coffee beans rattle gently, undergoing their metamorphosis. The alchemist works his magic at 4 o clock in the morning. An unfamiliar song emanates unobtrusively from the house sound system, lyrics to do with death and love and something about a swamp. An empty glass by the whiskey bottle awaits attendance. Youre late he smiles. Story of my life, gizza whiskey ‘Help yourself’ I do. I ask him, ‘What you working on?’ ‘It’s a play’ he says, ‘it’s about a radical militant underground organization, dedicated to the liberation of pot plants by violent means if necessary, the PPLA.’ ‘So, would they be vegetarians? Or full on meat eaters…’ ‘Interesting point, a question of motivation I suppose.’ ‘I wouldn’t wanna be a plant rescued by a vegan Want some acid?’ Certainly Pete replies. Two tabs. This shit is almost as good as it used to be thirty years ago before everyone went all designer-drug and some of the finesse went out of that old school psychedelic chemistry. Pete pours another whiskey, gets a new glass for himself adding symmetry and perhaps a little decorum to the table. We drop the tabs, shoot the whiskey, he checks the status of his current roast. Be ready in two minutes he reckons. I gesture toward the short black waiting in its demitasse, Your coffees gettin cold... Na its for you, he said, sourced some new beans, tell me what it tastes like I oblige. ‘Spicy’ ‘That’s right’ said Pete. A new song, love and death but no swamp this time. More whiskey. Precisely 2 minutes has elapsed since Peter referenced his timing. He empties the barrel of the roaster into the cooling pan. Hot beans undergo a gentle agitation combined with cooling air to bring the temperature down. Last batch of the morning before the acid kicks in. I think to myself, maybe some plants like living in pots. I mention this to Pete, which leads to a philosophical reflection on Malcolm X’s parable of the house nigger and the field nigger. There’s a knock at the doors. Pete welcomes three Irish girls across his thresh hold. They are fresh from downstairs and a lock in at The Monster Bar located in the basement of the Coffee Company building. Traveling girls come down to the Land of the Long White Cloud in search of exotic adventure. One of my grandmother’s was Irish. Jim came shuffling in behind them on his never-ending quest for the very last drink. Everyone got what they came for.
Posted on: Sat, 02 Aug 2014 04:08:48 +0000
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