A person who had radical answers on just about any question you could think of, sure must have lots of favourites: favourite color, flower, season, tea flavor or at least a preferred coffeehouse… I am that person who radically answered any question on life, love, ethics and values, but could not make a constant choice […]
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For The Love Of Coffee

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A person who had radical answers on just about any question you could think of, sure must have lots of favourites: favourite color, flower, season, tea flavor or at least a preferred coffeehouse… I am that person who radically answered any question on life, love, ethics and values, but could not make a constant choice in regular day-to-day matters. That’s when it hit me; how can I be sure of anything if I can’t even tell what’s my favourite coffeehouse!

On my birthday, I decided to go on a soul-searching trip to find out where I would like my coffee better, and to announce that place as my favourite coffeehouse.

Le petit prince and I used to go to Dunkin Donuts, this place reminds me so much of him. Back then, I couldn’t really wake up without that strong black coffee. Being a night owl, I would go there in the morning without having slept at all. Black coffee without sugar, I don’t think I could drink it anymore without risking an ulcer.

Then there was Costa, and those hot summer days with parties, having no worries and those frozen frappés. A Mocha Frappuccino with cream and caramel, but summer doesn’t last long, and a frappé in the middle of winter would not do you any good.

We had our first date at Starbucks, me and Mr. Ex-Socialist. He used to smoke a lot back then, I still don’t understand why would he order my coffee without asking me, he didn’t know I didn’t drink those silly skimmed milk latés. I got up, walked in, and got me that Venti – extra coffee shot – Mocha. Coffee was sacred to me, so was my freedom to choose whatever the hell I wanted to drink. When he quit smoking, we switched to Caribou. There, I sat, licking that small piece of dark chocolate treat, feeling the sweet bitterness of it rolling on my tongue, holding my Mocha, dazed by the shining green of his eyes, thinking to myself that I have found my place.

Three months later, I’m standing in my PJs, in this hideous kitchen with broken shelves and full sink. I pick up my mug, preparing my coffee from scratch. “You make terrible coffee”, he tells me, “but I enjoy every last of sugar crumb and messed up foam in it.”

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