An Ode to the Coffee of Old

As an unapologetic coffee purist, I loathe what’s happened to the beverage. Frankly, I hold Seattle entirely responsible for this desecration. Stepping into Starbucks, I feel like an alien, bewildered by the barrage of corporate, faux-Italian names chalked up on the enormous menu behind the counter. My regular cup of Joe is simple: black coffee, hold the sugar. When I attempted to order this at my neighborhood café, the barista stared at me like a Victorian scientist examining a platypus. My girlfriend assured me that what I wanted was a flat white. Excuse me, but no. A Baked Alaska blended into a milkshake and served up as 16 ounces of diabetes-inducing liquescent does not qualify as coffee.