Obadiah T.
Yelp
Ah, The Coffee Bean, another blighted bastion of modern indulgence where sugar reigns as king and the humble coffee bean bows its head in disgrace. I entered with hope--a fool's hope, I'll admit--that perhaps here, amidst the clatter of overpriced ceramic mugs and the hiss of overworked steam wands, one might still find coffee as the gods intended: bitter, bold, and unapologetic. Alas, I found not bean water, but liquid cake masquerading as sustenance!
In my time, coffee was an honest drink, born of toil and fire. We grew the beans ourselves, sweating under a sun that had no pity, then roasted and ground them with our own two hands. The brew that followed was strong enough to wake the dead--or at the very least, a man exhausted from plowing fields until dusk. It was never intended to be drowned in syrups or topped with whipped dairy confections. No, sir! It was a drink for laborers, philosophers, and insomniacs, not sugar-fueled sprites seeking their next saccharine fix.
What, pray tell, is the meaning of a "Caramel Brulée Latte"? I did not survive wars, pestilence, and the ungrateful mewling of countless offspring to be assaulted by such concoctions. One need not torch sugar atop one's coffee to find delight! And let us not speak of the so-called "Frappuccino," which I'm convinced is but ice cream's cowardly cousin. In my day, we took our coffee black or with a splash of cream if fortune favored us--not blended into a dessert fit for a child's birthday celebration.
Even the process has been diluted. Where once one would grind the beans in a mortar with the resolve of a man grinding his last ration, now machines do the work with their shrill whines, robbing the ritual of its soul. The Coffee Bean's baristas, bless their harried hearts, don't brew; they assemble. Their task is not to create but to placate the ever-growing whims of the modern palate.
And yet, I cannot entirely fault the establishment, for they merely pander to the times. A time where beans have been betrayed, where the coffee cup has become a stage, and every sip is measured not by its bite but by its Instagram appeal. I pity those who have never tasted the simplicity of true coffee, untarnished by sweeteners and ambition.
So, here I sit, sipping what I can only describe as a dessert masquerading as a drink, longing for a time when men drank their coffee with grit, not glitter. The Coffee Bean, I fear, offers the latter.
