New York, 2001 |
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The Coffee |
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Outbound, Penn Station. I try and order a coffee, Seattle style. Foolish
me. I only want a double short Americano. Discussion ensues regarding who can operate the
machine. Seemingly, no one knows how. The manager has to go into the back to find some
beans. Finally, I get my "espresso," a murky, scummy soup filling a fourth of
the cup. "Uh, would you mind filling it with hot water, about two-thirds full?"
She glares at me, fills it. Now there’s no cream dispenser. "Uh, excuse me,
could I have a splash of milk in this?" She complies. "You done? Anything else
you want me to do?" she says, plopping the cup on the counter. It was a terrible
coffee. In preparation for tonight at the Irish American Cultural Institute Ball, I got a New York haircut. I had a recommendation for a shop in the East Village. My hair is the shortest it’s been in 35 years. "It’s how everyone in New York looks now," my friend Marian said. It must have worked, because two different women asked me for directions today. When it's the boys who start doing that, I’ll know that it’s a really good haircut. |
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