Grab a cup o'joe and fasten your seatbelts.
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This morning's column in intended to be a Leary-like experiment in high-stakes caffeination. My self-imposed assignment is to visit Sacramento, review as many of the new cafes there as is physically possible in one day, and see what sort of literary hell I can produce. I discussed this with the Blue Marble editor (who pooped on the idea from a great height) and put in a call to my insurance agent who was, unfortunately for me, in Maui (he seems to spend a great deal of time there). So, I'm on my own.
* * * * * * * *
Terra Roxa (address) - 7 a.m.
I have a cafe mocha. On my usual 1 to 5 scale this mocha is barely a 1.5: one point because it exists (don't we all?), .5 because it isn't just hot water. The espresso is weak, the chocolate is inferior, and it was slopped together. Theses people obviously aren't aware of the religious nature of the espresso quest. Come here only if you want tea or solitude.
* * * * * * * *
Gelati Robi - 2317 J St. - 8 a.m.
The proprietors of this stylistic hole-in-the-wall get high marks for their Cafe Mocha. Made with the right amount of chocolate, an adequate strain of espresso, and served in a tall glass with a careening tower of fresh shipped cream - this is a masterpiece. For an extra nickel you can slide a "glace" cookie into the white mountain of cream. Nothing less than a 4.5 for this mocha. The price is a little steep for Sacto ($3.70 with the cookie), but probably worth it, unless you have your heart set on having three.
I have two. It is now 8:30 a.m., and I am reading the script of Ingmar Bergman's' The Seventh Seal. Funny stuff. A lot of Bergman's humor shows up (slightly altered) in recent films.
In one scene, the Knight's servant Jons begins to sing to him as they ride:
JONS: (singing)
One moment you're bright and lively,
The next you're crawling with worms.
Fate is a terrible villain
And you, my friend, it's poor victim.
KNIGHT: Must you sing?
JONS: No.
Monty Python revamped (stole) this same dialogue years later in the now infamous Monty Python and the Holy Grail, where it is placed in the moths of "brave, brave Sir Robin," and his highly imaginative and graphic minstrels who sing of their knight's grisly demise ("He was not at all afraid to be killed in nasty ways!"
* * * * * * * *
Java City - 18th & Capitol - 9:45 a.m.
Java City is Sacramento's only authentic coffee house, now that Weatherstone Coffees and teas (the original coffee house) has been revamped. It has the atmosphere, the decor and the right stuff. The right ingredients orchestrate their Cafe Mocha - and for $2.45 it would be the best buy in town, except that you really needed a double Cafe Mochas as the single does not sufficiently express itself. The double will cost you $1.70, and gets a 4.1. the single receives 3.2 - it's just a glorified hot chocolate.
The patrons here are interesting, as are the young men and women who work here. They are generally good-humored and romantic with a no-bullshit toughness which gives them real substance. The patrons will generally leave you alone if you want solitude, but will engage you in conversation if you seem open and they are so inclined.
I'm not in the mood for talk this morning as I am beginning to experience some slight nervousness and paranoia as a result of the equivalent of four shot of espresso (one-half at Terra Roxa, two at Gelati Robi and a double at Java City.) but it's nothing which can't be overcome.
* * * * * * * *
I am having a hard time concentrating on Bergman's script, so I am switching to Walker Percy's Lost in the Cosmos, which is funny and poignant book.
Mr. Percy looks at things from a sociologist's point of view, but because he is a novelist, he insists on interjecting alien space-beings, and the like, to serve as inquisitors in to the human condition. Personally, I would assume that if an alien space-being could frame the right questions (as we have been enable to do), he might already know the answers, but you never can tell with space beings, particularly not with one's invented by Mr. Percy.
* * * * * * * *
Next on my itinerary is La Boulangerie on Howe Ave.
La Boulangerie - How and - 10:30 a.m.
I'm beginning to wish I had never thought of this experiment. It was a stupid idea. My thought processes are becoming garbled, even by my standard. There is a high-pitched whine which seems to begin in the back of my head, my vision is blurred and I'm getting signals from Scotty in the engine room that all is not well in my lower intestinal tract.
Although I report these facts, I am determined to stick to my original quest.
La Boulangerie is great because they not only serve a great mocha (4.0 rating) but they have food as well. Many cafes do not, serving desserts, but nothing of substance. But I don't' give a shit about other cafes right now because my current bio-chemical needs can only be satisfied by a turkey and cheese croissant.
I manage to negotiate the turkey and cheese croissant, which is devoured in seconds, to the utter horror and disgust of the two middle-aged women to my right. "Such manners," says one to the other. "Happy Halloween Ladies!" I say mimicking the Kergan in Highlander.
As I start on the mocha, my vision begins to clear and I notice that the three bond-haired girls behind the La Boulangerie counter look exactly like Marsha, Jan and Cindy Brady. I'm relieved to see that some sort of order is being restored, although I still cannot remember my name, not even for cash.
* * * * * * * *
After having a cappuccino at Java Junction (2.8), I hammer down to the La Boulangerie across the street from the Proctor and Gamble plant, near Power Inn and Fruitridge, for another Cafe Mocha (3.8 - too much chocolate) and some toxins (no rating).
Amazing how upset people get about the Proctor & Gamble "moon and stars" symbol! Proctor and Gamble could sink millions of gallons of hazardous waste into our air, surf and turf and no one would raise so much as an eyebrow - while the trite symbol on the back of their box calls for a boycott? Are we divorced from reality or what? Lesson: If Proctor and Gamble has sold its soul to the devil it won't be found in it's symbolism - it will be found in the way it treats people and the environment.
Next on the agenda is Double Rainbow on Watt Ave (a Cafe Latte, 3.5) and from there to my present location at the Garden Court in Old Sacramento (cappuccino 2.4). From here my plan is to make my way to The Monterey Baking Co.
* * * * * * * *
Monterey Baking Co. - Howe and Alta Arden - 3 p.m.
I am in deep ka-ka. I am bombarded with feelings about life and the universe, most of them bad, and am suffering a great moral dilemma. I can't decide whether I should stick to my original plan or detour to Tom La Brie's Waterbed Warehouse for complementary cold duck. Too many choices!!
The Monterey Baking Co. is next to Cost Plus. The most beautiful women in the world shop here - no shit. After a Cafe Latte, which I can no longer rate (it is hard to do a taste-test when you cannot locate your tongue), I remember that the beautiful, but dangerous, Brenda Walters probably still works there.
Brenda is even more beautiful than the women who shop at Cost Plus (amazing). I first met her at a party in S.F. down in the Haight. Her large round eyes, beautiful skin and statuesque figure were destructive to my world-view, so I introduced myself and quickly suggested that the party was a dive and that we should go elsewhere.
But, at just that moment in time, a friend of mine ushered Brenda's boyfriend Max over to where we were standing and introduced me as the host. We live in an imperfect universe.
Does she still work there?
* * * * * * * *
I begin moving in the direction of Cost Plus.
As I enter, I notice I am sweating a lot, like I do after a four mile run in Golden Gate Park. I veer away from the wicker baskets because I am suddenly seized with the idea that hundreds of little Gremlins and my two ex-wives inhabit them. I start my way over toward the poster section, noting that everything looks darker and more grey than usual. After I remove my sunglasses, things improve a little.
I look through the posters. Many are reprints from the Impressionist and Post-Impressionist periods. What's that? I could swear that Van Gogh's self-portrait just winked. That's eerie, it reminds me of a video game that I once developed with my computer-genius friend Tony, called Painting Paranoids.
There are several levels to this game, but my personal favorite is level four where you control a Paul Gauguin video figure through the darkly-lit and labyrinth-like streets of Arles. The more wrong turns you take, the more crazed Van Goghs pop out from behind building, slashing and lunging at you with their tremendous knives.
It's great fun, and for every successful maneuver through the town of Arles you are awarded a maximum of ten thousand points, and bonus ears.
* * * * * * * *
I make my way back to the coffee counter to see if Brenda is working. The long row of coffee filled canisters looks menacing and the display of assorted coffeemakers looks like something out of J. Edgar Hoover, or Edgar Allen Poe or J. Edgar Winter - who can remember these things after eleven straight or double shots of espresso!!? Anyway, they look LARGER than life, or at least, larger than MY life.
I hear voices talking to me from faraway, but I am too overcome by these machines of death and madness, particularly the espresso-makers, with their twisting pipes, nozzles and plungers.
"Angels of Light!!, Angels of Light!!!" I scream out, before feeling a hand on my shoulder. I turn slowly (it seems to me, but it must have been fast since she looks startled) and I see that it is Brenda.
Brenda looks worried - even more worried than she did the time I suggested she (touch tongue - ref.)
She looks me in the eyes and says" You lok sakpor Zbignew Brezenski, would you like to come away/ bury the cat with me in Sweden?" I begin to sob like a small child, because she is all I have ever wanted in this world - that and to be Simon Templar and drive a white Volvo 1800 SE.
"Yes, yes, I too wish to bury the cat and move to Sweden," I say, at which point Brenda recoils and looks at me like a referee does at a wrestler when he has been caught with a foreign object. Her beautiful eyes open wide and speak (I swear she did not move her lips - it was the eyes) "Please sit down, you have been drinking." She is offering me something, a small thimble-sample of Ethiopian Harrar. It touches my lips, but it tasted like morphine. The room gets darker and greyer. I reach up to take my sunglasses off, but they are already off.
Everything fades to black.
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