I'll Take a Hot Black Coffee, Please

As a sober person, coffee is my only brain jolt that isn't supplied by exercise, and I drink it hot, black, and watery — the way it's meant to be enjoyed

I accept that life is complicated. Thank you, therapy. Although my relationships and career are knotty, I remain optimistic about the future.

But there is one aspect of my day, one small ritual, that I keep blissfully simple: my coffee order. This morning, a person in line ahead of me briefly forgot the details of their coffee order halfway through reciting it. The barista patiently waited for them to remember. Finally, they said, " Venti caramel triple shot macchiato.”

It was early. These things happen. Baristas should receive combat pay instead of subsisting on tips, but that’s another essay.

My coffee order is thus: black. No milk, no sugar. Hot. I drink hot black coffee in the morning, not swamp green matcha or aromatic chai lattes. I eschew milk and milkless milks: almond, oat, soy, coconut, hemp, rice, flax, etc. The same goes for science's various sweeteners. My order is humble. Coffee is bitter and honest and should not be diluted or tamed. I love coffee on coffee's terms. 

According to a study by *puts on reading glasses* the "National Coffee Association," coffee is more popular than ever. But more to the point: the NCA reports that so-called 'specialty coffees' have exploded in growth, with almost 57 percent of adults quaffing at least one in the last week, with lattes being the most in-demand, followed by espresso and cappuccinos. I am among the 43 percent who do not drink "specialty coffee." No, thank you. Drip, please. Easy. I prefer the classics. I order my coffee the way 007 says his name: "Coffee, black." Hot black coffee is the vinyl of the Breakfast Industrial Complex.

I am the outcast here, the freak forgoing cinnamon. Hazelnut? Uh-uh. Whipped cream? Please. Coffee should be black like the abyss, like a collapsed star or the eyes of a shark. Ice? (I gasp). Please don't get me started on iced coffee. Coffee should be hot. What temperature precisely? Whatever is beyond boiling. Lava? The core of a nuclear reactor?

When I ask for hot black coffee, I feel part of an ancient tradition — I keep the old ways. Of all my relationships with beverages, coffee is the most practical. A partnership. A handshake. As a sober person, it is my only brain jolt that isn't supplied by exercise. I drink it hot and black (and watery) during meetings. I drink it after meetings. Every cup is the same. Every cup, so singular and unfussy, is an opportunity to stop for a second and dwell on all the good things I have in my life. 

Coffee is not ice cream. If your palette cries for sugar in the morning, then enjoy orange juice, that's what it's there for. I respect that decision and do not judge anyone who drinks orange juice for breakfast.

Coffee doesn't entertain. There is too much to do. It doesn't want to please or distract. It focuses the mind. Clears the proverbial cobwebs. Coffee wants to help. Coffee is proof that God loves us and wants us to be productive. (If you don't believe in God, that is fine. I don't either, but I bring him/her/them up every so often, just in case). Regardless of your theological leanings, I do not think it is ridiculous to imagine a supreme intelligence—like aliens—planting coffee beans to jumpstart mankind's ability to reason, build, and complain. This is a theory. 

America's manic success over the centuries has been fueled by coffee — and whiskey, too. And soft drinks like egg creams and Coca-Cola. But mostly, coffee: our ancestors choked great lakes of it down their throats. How did they drink their coffee? Hot. Black. Coffee was the friend of the garment factory worker and the miner, anyone who toiled on assembly lines and in darkness. Where would capitalism be without a cheap drink that gives drones a little pep without sacrificing their senses? The heart of the American economy pumps coffee. 

Even today: college students cramming, late-night truckers driving, ER doctors making their pre-dawn rounds. A cup of steaming coffee for each, for the hard workers and the hopeful. I suppose there are other ways to guzzle yourself awake but energy drinks taste the way oil spills look, only cold and fizzy.

I am steadfast in my loyalty to hot black coffee. I am reminded that the best things in life are straightforward. Plain. I have so many feelings and responsibilities to juggle, but my morning coffee is a prayer, short and centering — a quiet moment before an otherwise noisy day. My life is simmering chaos, my coffee a cup of serenity, black like the bottom of a well full of wishes.