Fair Trade
Saturday morning I drove to Square One Coffee. They did not have either of my favorites: Brazilian or House Blend. Hadassah told me that most people like those because they have imperfections. This is an element of democracy. Quality suffers so that reach can extend. We all think Ford invented the car; he invented the American car culture—a car in every driveway.
Square One buys beans from third world farmers and roasts them on site. Hadassah said they roast Brazilian because that’s the kind of taste Americans, raised on dirty coffee, like. I thought I was a connoisseur because I had a preference for organic and because I had latched to a geographical brew. Brazilian was $9.95 per bag as opposed to $12.95 for other regions. Coming off Café Bustello and 8 O’Clock, ten bucks was bad enough. I was a pink wine connoisseur.
My first coffee was tin can instant mocha and French vanilla. I switched from tea to sugary, instant coffees during high school. My grandmothers were coffee drinkers. Short Nan had a pot of Folgers or Maxwell House, I don’t remember which, but it mattered, on at dinner: fried chicken, home fries, butter bread, and applesauce. Long Nana takes her coffee black.
My first attempt to make coffee in college involved running instant through the machine. The drink looked like rust water from a faucet. My college friends liked coffee joints. Places like Funk’s Democratic Café and The Charles Street Café. My roommate Damian took me to the local Communist Party coffee bar. They charged fifty cents for a paper cup of coffee. It tasted worse than instant. It turned me against my nascent Socialist leanings.
My beginning teacher’s salary forced me to drink the cheapest coffee I could find at the store. I considered a bag of Starbuck’s a luxury; a bag of Dunkin Donuts a special treat. My joints creaked and cracked. I clouded the chemical brew with cream and sugar. Acid reflux woke me up at night.
A janitor at the high school told me the acid reflux was from milk and sugar. He switched to black coffee years ago. It ended his problem. Drinking black coffee was like licking hot blacktop. Stale chemicals attacked my tongue. No hiding the cheapness. The throat dried and shriveled.
One day we walked into Square One for mocha and cappuccino. We went home with a bag of beans. We must have been flush with summer painting money. The fresh ground brew hit the tongue infused—smooth as a Cuban cigar. It was like melted Godiva. It was Brazilian, but so much better than the store-bought brands.
All we drink now is Square One. My bones stopped creaking and my joints stopped cracking. My chiropractor said, “Drink organic coffee.” Our bones are not made of the same stuff as our grandmothers. They ate off lead-glazed plates and smoked cigarettes. We worry about paint fumes.
Matthew Hummer is a teacher, writer, father, and artist. He is finishing work toward his M.F.A. in Creative Nonfiction at Sewanee's School of Letters.