Have you ever wondered what your drinking experience would be like if each of the leading presidential candidates were a cup of coffee? I have.
Trump Mexican Grounds – Taking a sip, I shuddered as I considered for the first time what Trump meant by “Mexican Grounds.” On balance, The Donald’s brew was bold, brash and utterly beyond labels. It had a punch, and I don’t mean taste. I mean my drink literally formed a little coffee fist and smacked me in the mouth. It came in only one size – Yuuuge – and I nearly threw my back out claiming it at the counter. The cup was garish, with more starched gold lamé than I’m used to seeing so early in the morning. Scaling the giant perimeter wall to get in was hard enough with my hands free. It was well-nigh impossible on the way out: copious amounts of scalding hot coffee spilled on the masses of humanity huddled outside the wall. I believe this was by design.
Sanders “Feel the Bern” Select – Underwhelming. The coffee shop had all the energy of the third set at a Phish concert during flu season, and while talk of revolution lingered in the air, so did the stench of patchouli. I’ve seen Sylvia Plath readings at Amherst with more diversity. As for the blend itself, I paid a premium for it – from each according to his ability, I was told at the register. Though I spoke clearly to the barista when I gave my name, the cup came back with “1%er, Opposite of Warby Parker Frames” written on the outside. This seemed gratuitous. Inside the cup was no coffee, but rather a note that read “you’ve already had more than your fair share.” Just as I began to complain, a voice came over the intercom saying that a ’92 Volvo in the parking lot with a Free Leonard Peltier bumper sticker had left its headlights on, and the place emptied out. I’m fine with never hearing another drum circle again in my life.
Hillary Clinton’s Morning Brouhaha – It’s hard to review this cup because very little information about this homebrew is publicly available. Through a FOIA request I was able to determine that the coffee wasn’t brewed on site, but rather in a bathroom closet in Chappaqua. This explains the taste, which is vaguely of server. Sales have been less than robust. While the ingredients and roasting technique are “eyes only” confidential, they are somehow readily available on the internet. In fact, a nearly identical cup of coffee can be purchased in Chinatown for half the price. I will say this: it’s a rich blend with a more generous concentration of beans than can be found in any competitor’s cup. What explains her generosity with so expensive a commodity? Savvy commodities futures trading. Husband Bill makes everyone feel a little uncomfortable by standing over the half-and-half, singing to every attractive female patron who approaches You’re the Cream in My Coffee.
Cruz Control Coffee Cup – There was a slick, data-driven feel to this coffee experience. I appreciate the thought that went into the signature brew’s packaging, Morning in America, and its tag line – the right beans, the right time, the right temperature, served the right way. Disciplined messaging, if lacking in subtlety. I pointed this out to the coffee clerk – barista not being a word used within Cruz Control Coffee Place – who assured me that I would nonetheless finish it because there can be “nothing left” when it comes to Cruz Coffee. I then asked if they ever got off message. He nodded nervously to the eye-in-the-sky above the register and whispered they’re always watching. I observed that the initials on the awning outside – CCCP – were the Russian abbreviation for the Soviet Union, at which point all blood drained from the poor clerk’s face. As for the coffee itself, on paper it should have been a winner, with its rich pedigree and clarity of expression. Still, there was something unlikeable about it, right from the start. How best to describe the blend? If it were a character in Animal House, it would have been Neidermeyer.
Kasich Hugs N’ Mugs – This shop doesn’t even have coffee to sell. From the unfinished build-out to the obvious understaffing, you get the sense that nobody expected to be in business this long. It’s the little things you notice, like the dispute over whether the registers should be staffed by humans or fully automated. They compromised by hiring Marco Rubio. Despite all the chaos, when the genial proprietor comes to your table and envelops you in a warm embrace, you really want to believe.
Am I the only American voter hoping that Admiral McRaven announces he is opening a coffee shop, and soon?