This morning, as I made my way to the kitchen for coffee, thumbing through my Facebook and yawning big, my friend Cindy Adams linked me to the essay, “The Case for Bad Coffee,” by Keith Pandolfi. This piece is a rich and sensual drift in nostalgia, steeped in story and grounded in real-time.
Pandolfi took me on a magic carpet ride. I’m wondering if the author and I shared a grandpa, and I was transported instantly to an auto shop waiting room at one of a dozen locations where that acrid cup of coffee in a Styrofoam cup held such strong appeal. I’ll add one more image that I miss dearly. My dad, who was up in the morning long before the rest of us, sitting at the dining room table in his robe and slippers, smoking cigarettes, sipping coffee, and reading Zane Grey westerns. If I surprised him by waking up early, he’d wink at me and say, let me just finish this chapter.
You might wonder about this musing in a travelogue, but read Pandolfi’s essay and see where he transports you.