Two Descriptions

Two Descriptions Paper Revision

Brian Mizell

The first thing I noticed was the aroma – warm, earthy, familiar. Coffee – coffee being ground, being brewed, coffee being held and smelled and savored; a scent that takes me back to my Grandmother’s kitchen, safe and warm on a biting, wintry day. Peals of laughter, murmurs of easy conversation are overlaid onto a lilting jazz instrumental flowing from nowhere, or maybe everywhere at once. Along one side an elevated seating area invites with a comfortable mahogany leather sectional, and soft amber glow diffuses through the canvas shades of lamps placed round. As I took a pull from the smoky Colombian brew I settled deeply into the soft sofa, too deeply – I winced as my mouth was suddenly awash with steaming hot coffee, stinging tears squeezing out the corners of my eyes. Through the blur, on the wall, are cleverly made pieces, frames wrapped in burlap that once brought flavorful beans from exotic places…Ethiopia, Kenya, Brasil. Opposite are gleaming machines are hissing, grinding, burring and percolating beneath an enormous chalkboard colorfully announcing flavor and satisfaction, hot or iced, cream or no cream.

The smell assails you instantly, an almost scorched whiff, like the bottom of a pan left on the burner too long. The next sensory assault is the din of too many sidebars at once, competing with the Muzak piped in to camouflage the clinking, whirring, and roaring of industrial-sized Mr. Coffees – all essential if one is to justify $5.00 for a tablespoon of ground up bean and some water. As incomprehensible as the conversation is the theme in which the space is furnished: a few tall Formica tables here, some low wooden tables there, a couch….and bags on the wall. Hoping to insulate myself from the buzz of commotion I dropped into the old sofa – it was as if I’d mounted an old swayback horse. My knees were suddenly level with my shoulders, and three dollars-worth of my five dollar coffee shot down my...