culture over price
Loustic, Arrondissement
I can get a lot for under five bucks, in this case, euros.
I get so much from the expenditure of my well earned coins in exchange for a cup of coffee, that it’s rare that I complain about price.
I do understand that for many daily coffee drinkers when an average cup of coffee costs $3 or under, paying 50 cents more than that or even a $1 can seem far fetched and not worth it. But lets be real, I’m not talking about average cups of coffee, even if one can’t see whats special in the cup just yet.
I aim to spend my dollars or euros, on coffee that doesn’t have to live up to an expectation, when entering a place for the first time. Entering without expectations is not so that I won’t be disappointed, rather, it’s so that coffee by way of place, through experience, can tell me how it wants me to feel about it. I’m going to give coffee a shot – no pun intended – at telling me who it is before I put upon it an expectation that it doesn’t even know that I want it to measure up to.
When I spend nearly five dollars or euros for a cup of coffee, I often get an environment that isn’t mine; I get music that’s selected by another’s taste, yes drown me in your sonic sensibility. I get – welcomed or not – the chatter of conversations by those who are living an entirely different life than mine. Oftentimes, this amuses me for the mere anthropology of it, that I get to sit in the comfort of some intentional cushioned inches of space and be a voyeur. I get design from the tile on the floor to the door, which might be hand carved woodwork, upcycled and a discovery find by the owner of the cafe who couldn’t bear to live without it.
I get the hands of a farmer, that I may never meet except for this cup, a cup that has arrived to me because of cross the table negotiations of a producer with a buyer. I get a coffee, once sampled in a place only as far away as where I haven’t traveled, now with a contemporary barista who has figured out how best to display the art of another while showcasing their own individuality.
For five dollars or euros, I get a chain of interlinked choices delivered in this Bleu de France ceramic with a perennial tulip – poured with oat milk.
I often get a lot for under five bucks. In this case, euros.
I get so much from the expenditure of my well earned coins in exchange for a cup of coffee, that it’s rare that I complain about price.
I do understand that for many daily coffee drinkers when an average cup of coffee costs $3 or under, paying 50 cents more than that or even a $1 can seem far fetch and not worth it. But lets be real, I’m not talking about average cups of coffee even if one can’t see whats special in the cup just yet.
I aim to spend my dollars or euros, on coffee that doesn’t have to live up to an expectation especially upon entering a place for the first time. Entering without expectations is not so that I won’t be disappointed, rather, it’s so that coffee by way of place through experience can tell me how it wants me to feel about it. I’m going to give you coffee, a shot – no pun intended – at telling me who you are, before I put upon you an expectation that you don’t even know that I want you to measure up to.
When I spend nearly five dollars or euros, for a cup of coffee, I often get an environment that isn’t mine; I get music that’s selected by another’s taste, yes drown me in your sonic sensibility. I get – welcomed or not – the chatter of conversations by those who are living an entirely different life than mine. Oftentimes, this amuses me for the mere anthropology of it, that I get to sit in the comfort of some intentional cushioned inches of space and be a voyeur. I get design from the tile on the floor to the door, which might be hand carved woodwork, upcycled a discovery by the owner of the cafe found who couldn’t bear to live without.
I get the hands of a farmer, that I may never meet except for this cup, a cup that has arrived to me because of the table negotiations of a producer with a buyer. I get a coffee, once sampled in a place only as far away as where I haven’t traveled, by a contemporary barista whose figured out how best to display the art of another while showcasing their own individuality.
For five dollars or euros, I get a chain of interlinked choices delivered in this Bleu de France ceramic with a perennial tulip – poured with oat milk : yes it’s possible.
Maybe if this coffee didn’t taste like a rocky road cake pop, with soft warm, gooey marshmallows sinking into the finish, I would think it wasn’t worth it. And maybe if it didn’t feel like an afternoon where the school bell has rung, and I’m given another chance at teenage freedom among ocean air that’s a plush carpet ride, I would think the euros weren’t worth it, but everything else has already made it a lot more than five bucks and euros.