Java Junkie Refuses Rehab

It's official: I'm addicted to Starbucks. What's interesting about it is that I'm not addicted to their coffee or to the proverbial sea of cool-sounding espresso drinks that they offer; not even to the same damn pastry selections that they serve each and every dreary day. I'm addicted to their coffee shops. I know this sounds very pitiful, but I can explain.

About six years ago, I decided that I would give in to the whole Northwest obsession for steamed coffee beverages, and have my first espresso. It was at a movie theater concession stand. I simply asked for an espresso—not knowing exactly what I had asked for. Now, the only reason I'd asked for one was because my date had asked me to get one for her. So, in an effort to be tres chic, I ordered one for me, too. I figured that it was worthwhile to forego the lard-drenched popcorn that time, and slowly sip (or so I assumed) the espresso with her while I labored over the subtitles at the bottom of the screen.

"One or two shots?" asked the pimple-faced, after-school teen who later clearly proved that he didn't know what the hell he was doing. By asking the question as he did, though, momentarily made me raise him up a notch on the evolutionary ladder. Not wanting to reveal my complete ignorance of the art of compressed caffeine, I confidently replied, "Definitely two."

I managed to calm my shaking hands while he handed me two small Dixie-esque cups containing two espresso shots each, which barely occupied a tenth of the damn cups, and wondered at that time if I got the right drinks. I paid five bucks apiece for these?! I remembered thinking to myself, but immediately dismissed the thought for fear that Clearasil Boy would see the doubt in my mind. I did not make eye contact with him for the remainder of the transaction.

I returned to my seat, handed one of the cups to my date, and watched the smile disappear from her face. "Is this supposed to be funny?" she asked, as I sank more deeply into the fake leather of the reclining seat. In a last-ditch effort at machismo, I snickered and chided her for not having had espresso that way before. I realized how convincing I was when she smiled and said, "Oh, well. There's a first time for everything." It was then that I made a mental note to send money to the descendants of whoever coined that phrase.

The bitterness of my first sip was enough to have subtitles of my own in five different languages displayed beneath my distorted grimace. Thank goodness for the darkness of the room. As I sat there, I could only imagine the many disfigurements my date's face had undergone while imbibing the evil drink.

We never went out again. When I bumped into her brother a week later, and asked him why his sister was not returning my calls, he told me simply, "Dude, go to Starbucks."

One day, I did. And I was bombarded with Italian words attached to food that made the word spaghetti seem less exotic to me. I stood in line to get to the counter, which I thought was odd, since I didn't remember paying a cover charge at the door. When I finally got to the counter and was asked what kind of drink I wanted, I quickly scanned the beautifully adorned menu of beverages on the far wall. Lost and bewildered, I ordered a hot chocolate.

Seeing the discouraged look in my face, the friendly barista asked me if this was my first time. Recalling the same question that I was asked when I went to my first brothel, feelings of comfort and care flooded me. And I wanted to make love to her right then and there. The guy behind me snorted a subdued laughter, and brought me back from my reverie.

"Yeah," I replied. "I just want to try something." She smiled, nodded in approval, and yelled to the other barista, "Tall, 2%, with whip, mocha!" The other barista acknowledged by repeating what she said verbatim. "Please wait there for your drink," she pointed to a spot in front of the counter where two other patrons were patiently awaiting their beverage. "It's on me. I know you'll like it."

Contrary to my theatrical disaster, the first sip from the mocha was divine. It was a fusion of coffee and chocolate, which satisfied both cravings. I was in heaven. I found a table in a corner, and for what seemed like hours was lost in the hypnotic hissing sounds of the industrial strength espresso machines, the soft clanging of the tongs as pastries passed from their well-lit display cases into thin, recycled logo-emblazoned paper bags, ready for the ultimate delightful consumption. And the Italian words-- both real and corporately concocted—- flew around the room, ricocheted off the walls, and permanently imprinted themselves into my waiting brain.

In the ensuing years, I've graduated from the mocha and discovered other beverages that the geniuses at the Starbucks factory have created. When I gave up coffee two and half years ago, it didn't stop my daily sojourn to the land of machiattos, americanos, and mochaccinos. I turned to chai tea lattes for that fooled-you-into-drinking-tea-while-you-thought-it-was-coffee mental fix that I so desperately need to get me going. I even tried other coffee shops (i.e. Seattle's Best Coffee, Coffee People, the 7-11 on 45th and Hawthorne, etc.) which, although were great in their own unique ways, did not measure up to my Starbucks.

Today, when I walk into my favorite Starbucks coffee shop about a block from where I work, I don't even have to say a word. Upon sighting me, the barista at the order counter immediately recites to the other in front of the espresso machine six wonderful words, which by themselves already begin to brighten my day. And, although I prepare my vocal chords in the morning to be able to flawlessly say "venti, soy, hazelnut, extra hot, chai" at the order counter, the Cheers-like feeling that I am afforded by the angelic baristas at my favorite Starbucks coffee shop is a welcomed substitute.