Most Expensive

 “What’s the most expensive coffee in the world?”  The question came at the close of a lively discussion in my International Problems class. This lively group of high school seniors included many recent coffee drinkers. In studying the relationship of poor countries to cash crops, they were eager to learn about the economics and politics of coffee.

“ I guess it would be Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee,” I responded.

“What makes it so expensive?” “How much does it cost. Have you ever tasted it?”  The questions kept coming.  I told my class the price is about $40-$50 a pound because it’s usually a very small crop. I tasted once when my local Peet’s coffee shop brewed some and offered small cup tastes one afternoon. It was gone in about an hour.

Taking note of the enthusiasm and interest in this topic, I made my class an offer. 

“Maybe we can taste it here in class.” 

Quickly polling the class, I saw that most were interested. I then took up a collection of quarters, one per person, and promised to make up the difference needed myself.

Shortly before the last day before Winter Break, I stopped by the coffee shop to purchase a pound of Jamaica Blue Mountain. No dice. Apparently Japanese coffee buyers had bought the entire crop.None was available. So I settled  for the second most expensive, which happened to be the most expensive available. That turned out to be Arabian Mocha Java. 

Next day there was some disappointment, big with a shortened class period and coffee tasting the only thing required of them, the disappointment quickly vanished.

My class began their vacation with a belly full of “the worlds most expensive coffee.

10 years later. On the last day before Winter Break, a figure appears in the doorway of my classroom right before the end of the last class.

Im vaguely recognize the person. It’s Sofia, a former student from what? Six years ago, eight...? 

She hands me a paper plate of impressive Christmas cookies saying she must rush off and can’t stay to chat. I thank her and put the plate on my desk. A few minutes later, while gathering up my things before the break, I decide to sample the cookies. It’s then that I notice the plate is resting on a small attached parcel. I separate the parcel from the paper plate. Opening it I find that in my hands I’m holding one pound of Jamaica Blue Mountain coffee.

My Hood

 I take my walk at about the same time every day. Early afternoon is usually enough to see if the sun will appear or if rain will accompany me. It’s 2 blocks to the main drag.  I turn right and walk past the clothing store with high-quality merchandise that few in this town can afford. They buy anyway. Literally, anyway they can. Two doors down is the music store that formerly was a boutique. COVID had its way with about half the businesses in my town. Only the 3 dive bars in the next block survived and Slims, the most favored of the trio even underwent a makeover of sorts. The facade was crumbling so the entire front entrance was closed for months. The loyal clientele easily found their way to the back entrance, so even the grizzled day drinkers who usually sip and smoke at the small sidewalk tables up front never missed a beat.

There is a daycare and martial arts gym next. The kids in the daycare always prompt a glance from me. It’s a bit like looking at puppies in a pet store window.  In the next block, I see book racks out on the sidewalk. They are in front of the small radical bookstore that always has timely window displays. This was once the location of a small neighborhood barber shop where one man, Wayne, cut hair for decades. The transformation from a mid-century barber shop to a business that specializes in hard-to-find political books, vinyl records, poetry, and posters is breathtaking. Fortunately, it has the look, feel, and sound of a shop where a little bell rings when you enter. 

Today there is something new on the sidewalk. A young man who looks to be 19 or 20 is sitting at a small table with a typewriter in front of him.  For a modest fee he will type out a poem for you. The aesthetic of a typewritten page is the lure. His typewriter is an old portable but looks solid and works fluidly. I stop and look. 

“I went through college with a typewriter,” I say. He smiles and makes a face that suggests that would be a challenge. We talk briefly about paper quality and erasures. I walk on.

I glance across the street and see the facade of another neighborhood restaurant bar.  The Wishing Well is ready for a movie scene.  Aside from the classic Chinese and American Foodpainted on the sign.  There is the faint neon outline of a wishing well. Not all the letters light up these days, but their following remains strong.  People in my hood don't need or demand fresh paint.  Tsay that Willy Nelson played at the Wishing Well sometime around 1953 when he was a DJ  in Vancouver, Wa.  I doubt he will be returning.

I continue walking. Past another coffee shop, another pizzeria, and what was once an old bank is now a kid-friendly coffee shop (yes another coffee shop) called Wonder World or something like it. The owner is a talented cartoonist and there is a joyful, if not chaotic vibe about the place because his life-size signs and characters decorate the area. Caffeine definitely thrives here.

I turn around and double back. Passing all I have previously traversed I step up onto the southbound block. Another changing of the guard as what was once a Starbucks and then two other restaurants is being formed into a Korean fusion eatery now. Next comes the Rockabilly Cafe. Someone’s dream comes to fruition. This small pop music-themed diner is just getting off the ground. I’ve yet to try it but soon will because I think it might be just the place I can donate my collectible “Always Elvis” wine bottle. It would look good on a shelf, especially if the poem by Col. Tom Parker is visible.

Mid-block is the shell of what was once The Man's shop. This was a real old-fashioned men's haberdashery run by a pair of brothers.  It had been in operation since the 1950s and had a big following as we;; as a great seamstress who could make anything fit right and look good.  Today the windows still have some Christmas boxes and wrappings scattered around and the entire store is filled with motor scooters.  It is soon to be a Vespa dealership.  No more will the younger of the two Man Shop brothers tell you everything you ever wanted and did not want to know about the Levi Strauss company and its iconic jeans.

I turn the corner and head up the block.  Soon I pass the Northside Barbershop.  It's my hipster Barbershop, where I can sip whiskey while I wait for either Cash or Dash to cut my hair.  It looks like something out of the 1890s, all wood and whiskey bottles.  They often play great music, too.  This is not my father's barbershop.  No Sports Illustrated or Argosy, or True magazines in sight.

I end near Beto's food truck.  Authentic Mexican cuisine is only a block away. He does a good business and I worry that this little gem will be a victim of the rampant crime that hits the little guy trying to make a living.