![]() ![]() When she brought the check, we were stunned to see that we owed ten dollars! Back then, that much money could have bought groceries for a week or a really nice meal out, but here we were owing that much for coffee. We said, “yes, thank you.” She poured, repeating the process numerous times. When they were empty, the waitress came by asking if we wanted more. ![]() When I was going to music school in NYC in the early 70s, an ABT dancer and I parked our bottoms in a booth at a coffee shop near Lincoln Center and ordered cups of java. I loved hanging out with her even after her son and I broke up. A few years later the very Bohemian mom of a college era boyfriend introduced me to coffee in a Chemex. My girlfriends and I would go out on a weekend to a diner and drink cup after cup of coffee as we discussed boys and big ideas as one is want to do in those years. My sophomore year in high school is when I had my first real cup of coffee. I don’t recall that he ever drank this at home or next door at his mortuary but anyone who might have been over there wouldn’t be telling on him if he did. It’s made with lots of cream and sugar, leaving just enough room for a splash of coffee. My dad drank “Boston Coffee” for dessert on those rare occasions we went out to dinner. ![]() It would perk away and the smell, not aroma, of a brew-sometimes weak, sometimes strong-made from coffee that had probably been sitting on the pantry shelf for who knows how long, wafted through the house. I remember her hem-hawing and wondering how much ground canned coffee to add. She pulled it out a couple of times a year to serve coffee at piano recitals. My mom, a music teacher, did have an electric percolator that was tucked on a shelf in the pantry. When I was growing up, coffee wasn’t served in our home. ![]()
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