"Bro, where are the bathrooms at?" my friend Rocky said."Big ass place with no bathrooms."
"They're right around the corner," I said, pointing him in the right direction.
"I went around there," he said, scratching his head, "They all said nonbinary or something."
The bathrooms, the cell phones, the fashion, the cops, God-awful social media rules, catfishing, pill addictions, scammers, block rules, the young boys, the gunslingers, pronouns, beat cops that still beat, the plainclothes cops that beat, too, the nonprofit hustlers, the pyramid scheme pushers and all of the other rules I have to teach Rocky because he was newly released from a stretch in federal prison.
"The nonbinary with the dude logo next to it is the one you use, bro," I laughed, "I'll explain later."
Rocky and I took a food tour around Baltimore when he came home, hitting up the Ethiopian spots with the fresh fish, Italian spots where they make their own pasta, Korean BBQ spots that close at 4 a.m., and American fusion food spots that mix and mash multiple cultures. Things didn't change too much over the time Rocky was gone–– he was still good with four wings and fries smothered in ketchup and hot sauce. Some of the fancy stuff I became hooked on like foie gras, Kobe A5 Wagyu, niçoise salads, flambés, and all that didn't really interest him.
Well, except for the coffee. Not precisely my coffee, even though he still calls it coffee, but my latte.
My drink is an oat milk latte with maple. Add an extra shot if I'm burned out.
My drink is an oat milk latte with maple. Add an extra shot if I'm burned out.
Lattes entered my life back in my early twenties. Admittedly, I had never even heard of a latte, until the morning I left a house party that ended around 8 am. Disgustingly hungover — blood eyed, and smelling like yesterday mixed with the day before — me and two of my homegirls, Big Dessa and Candy, stumbled into the shopping center in Canton, home of a new Starbucks.
'I'm trying to get an egg sandwich," I told Big Dessa, "What do they sell?"
"Everything, drunk ass!" she chuckled.
I like coffee. My babysitter Boo Boo always told me how I have been sipping her bitter Maxwell House since I was two years old. I don't remember drinking coffee that early; however, I remember guzzling cup after cup at eight years old while I sat in the back of my dad's Narcotics Anonymous meetings, listening to the participants tell their recovery stories.
"Shorty, make sure you don't use all of the sugar," one of the dudes in recovery said, "We ex-junkies, that can't have anything good, but sugar, we need that." I agreed with the guy and learned to love plain black coffee at that early age.
"Nah, I'm drunk as hell Dessa, my head is ponding. I can go for coffee, too, I guess," I replied.
The line was out the door–– full of suits, heels, and people in surgical-looking scrubs, all on their cell phones. Everyone was in a rush, bust, and knew exactly what they wanted. Americanos, macchiatos, iced coffees. "Who drinks an iced coffee?" I thought. Shouldn't coffee be hot?
Big Dessa ordered two Caramel Frappuccinos, whatever the hell they were. "Get extra caramel on mine," Candy ordered, "What you want, D?"
I thought about snagging a black coffee and keeping it simple, but I heard the woman next to me order a soy latte with vanilla.
I asked Candy, "What's in a vanilla soy latte? Can you ask the clerk?"
"Dummy, he is a barista," she informed me.
"Expresso, soy milk, and vanilla syrup," the barista instantly responded, "We also have 2% and whole milk."
I had never heard of soy milk, but like most Black people, I am lactose intolerant, and whole milk makes my stomach do backflips. I had started drinking 2% milk in middle school and none by my second year of high school.
"Soy milk," I asked?
At the time, that was their only non-dairy option. Now, these spots have almond, cashew, coconut, and even oat milk. But back then, soy was king.
I pulled out a wad of cash and peeled off some bills to pay the tab, which also drew eyes–– these were debit and credit card people who probably hadn't seen cash in a long time. I was surprised when the price of three drinks was close to $15. "Is it alcohol in them?" I said. A gray-haired white lady in line chuckled, "You and I wish, buddy." I dropped a $20 on the counter, said keep the change, and went outside to huff a cig.
Big Dessa and Candy walked out moments later with my drink.
I was surprised when the price of three drinks was close to $15. "Is it alcohol in them?" I said. A gray-haired white lady in line chuckled, "You and I wish, buddy."
"Yours smell good ," Candy said, pulling her nose away from my drink, "Can I get a taste?"
"Hell no," I replied, grabbing my cup, "I don't like backwash."
"Too bad I already sipped," Dessa shrugged. I laughed, but not too hard, my head was killing me.
I sipped the drink, and it woke me a little–– and then sipped again, sipping my way into addiction I never expected. Even though it did nothing for my hangover, the drink has become part of my morning ritual for the past 20 years. And strangely, when I don't have caffeine, I often get the same kind of headache I used to get from hangovers.
The soy latte from Starbucks was my go-to drink. I played that spot more than the employees, initially rolling solo, then bringing all the homeboys. My block went from guzzling Pepsi soda and Ever Fresh juice to becoming a little hub for lattes, riddled with all kinds of street dudes that suffered from caffeine headaches. There was nothing funnier than watching a corner for off-tough guys, alleged tough guys, and dudes who were tough guy-adjacent sipping on $5 coffees before handling their business.
My Starbucks addiction led to me exploring the local coffee shops in my city of Baltimore — the places where the real drinks are made. No disrespect to Starbucks, but the local shops made that place seem like McDonald's. I wouldn't drink Starbucks now unless you paid me.
Those local shops introduced me to high-quality espresso, more options for nondairy milk from better brands, and homemade syrups like maple, lavender, and honey oat. The employees at these local coffee shops had so much information on beans that they were happy to share, as I was eager to learn, that I unintentionally turned into a coffee snob. The workers introduced me to everything from where they source their beans to the appropriate times for drink consumption (such as cappuccino in the morning and lattes at night). And, of course, I walked my friends into the local coffee shops just as I did with Starbucks years earlier. And now, there's no going back.
"You messed me up with the coffee," Rocky said at 8 a.m., coming out of one of my favorite local coffee shops, "Got me spending $15 per day on fancy coffee with foam hearts."
"And there's no tough way to order it right?" I laughed, "Mocha drip with extra foam, semi dry."
We laughed. Rocky had been home for a year at this point, found his footing, his custom caffeine fix and understands how bathrooms are labeled now,
"I think I'm going to have to open my own shop to keep up with my habit," Rocky continued.
"Maybe we should," I responded.
Rocky and the rest of my friend group are currently out on their own budding coffee snob journey, and you can, too, if you make it to Baltimore. Here are some of my favorite spots.
