Though I don’t now qualify – nor indeed have I ever qualified –  as a regular at a coffee shop, I recall my favourite hangouts. My introduction to roasted coffee beans began when I learned of cappuccino. It was 62 years ago. My family – parents, sister and I – were staying at a hotel on the Italian riviera on the Mediterranean.  As my sister and I passed through the lobby on the first morning en route to the beach we stopped at the bar where we seated ourselves and asked for a coffee.  The bartender (or, now, barista) asked whether we’d like a cappuccino.  I had never had a cappuccino.  In fact at that point – in my 16th year of age – I seldom drank coffee of any description. So we ordered one each. The espresso must have hit me.  I was smitten for life. Now whenever I attend a coffee shop it is always a “double espresso” – which invariably the barista informs me is already doubled so I must in turn ask for a quadruple to overcome any misunderstanding. It has become a predictable and repetitive – and somewhat flat – crosstalk.

The coffee shop inherently doubles as a chat resort for friends. People can linger there at table for hours – having paid for only one coffee – without fear of contest from management. Granted the majority buy then leave. But the cozy café theme is never lost. It helps too to have tantalizing pastries on board.

My aged stubbornness prohibits me from acknowledging the exotic names that now circulate for coffee in its numerous and various renditions. To me it’s black or with milk or cream, all of which in any event is irrelevant to me in light of my preference for espresso (the drug). The only distinction I have learned to tolerate is the twist of lemon rind which further propels the panacea. It also makes me feel very Salvador Dali. In fact the entire cozy coffee shop motif echoes its biochemistry definition as “a distinctive sequence on a protein or DNA, having a three-dimensional structure that allows binding interactions to occur”.

Being as I am unfamiliar with coffee shop protocol, I haven’t developed the skill to know if and when one should pay for another’s drink or nutritional accessory. I suspect between regulars the mannerisms have long ago been concluded. On balance I defer to whatever is easy at the moment, depending for example upon who is first to the counter. Other rules governing arrival and departure, mode of travel, invitation for a lift, etc. are all on the table for future resolution. It is generally accepted that a confab at a coffee shop is meaningful to the parties involved, whether sharing currency or catching up. One cannot however ignore the invitation to glance about the room to see who is in attendance – an enterprise especially common in rural venues where familiarity is forecast.

Yet the cozy café has suffered the same loss as those of us who have aged – namely, disappearance from visibility. The decline in friendship and acquaintances with age means less application to coffee outings. Now I contend with my private haunt looking upriver. My espresso is conveniently poured into a small glass mug with a handle, a gift from Nespresso. All that is missing is a Winston cigarette but I haven’t been able to undertake that violation as yet.