Johnny knew every corner of his city like the back of his hand. When a new business opened, Johnny was there. When a building was leveled, Johnny was there.
So Johnny knew about MacAnally's pub, had partaken happily of their steaks and loved their ale. When MacAnally's became Harry and Mac's, he knew and wondered, and he investigated. Mac was still there, serving the best bitter in town. He was still so laconic that Johnny didn't even bother asking.
But whoever Harry was, he might be willing to say. Johnny kept trying to get in before five, but something was always stopping him. It got so bad Hendricks even commented on his seeming inability to take a break, which Johnny could say only that he was trying to.
Saturday, though. On Saturday he could look.
There was only one barista working, but that didn't seem to impact business. People lounged around on chairs, some with mugs in hand, many clinging to numbered tickets.
Johnny took a number of his own curiously and settled in to watch. In half an hour, the barista had served only four people, taking the next order when he'd finished the last. There were at least twenty in the ticketed line, and not a single one of them left, even knowing they could literally wait for two hours for a single cup of coffee. It was inconceivable.
It made Johnny really want to try this coffee.
The twenty people ahead of him didn't actually take hours. A little less than an hour and a half after entering the shop, it was his turn. Finally he got a really good look at the barista, a man more than six and a half feet tall (once someone was taller than Johnny, he stopped splitting hairs about exactly how much taller they were) and decidedly underfed-looking.
"What d'you want?" the barista asked, smiling. The smile and tone made an otherwise abrupt question hang with charming familiarity instead.
"...what would you recommend?" Johnny asked.
"First-timer, eh?" the barista - Harry, according to his nametag - asked. "To be honest, I'm a traditionalist. Pure black all the way." He tilted his head and seemed to look through Johnny. "But you need a little sweetness, don't you? How about a mocha?"
"A mocha? Sure," Johnny shrugged, wondering if it was a bad sign that "a little sweetness" made his mind leap straight into the gutter with the handsome, charismatic barista.
The coffee took less than three minutes. It seemed Harry got faster as his shift went on, or perhaps there had been some mishaps earlier. The line was still a few dozen people deep.
Johnny thanked Harry for the mocha and went to sit, inhaling deeply. It smelled delicious - sweet undertones to bitter energy. The first sip was electrifying. He stopped worrying about the rest of his life, except to think with firm conviction that everything would get better and all his work would be easily achievable as soon as he finished his coffee.
He was even getting a few ideas, for some of the more distant plans that had been percolating in the back of his mind. He could clean out some of the waste in his organization and make the streets safer.
He scribbled madly on a notebook as he sipped his coffee. It was too good to take large gulps of: he wanted it to last as long as possible. The cafe was full of people doing almost exactly the same thing: sketching or writing or talking animatedly on cellphones as they slowly sipped coffee. This, Johnny decided, was the best coffee shop in Chicago.
+
Going to go collapse in bed for a few hours, get up early to study more, and then pray I survive the next 24 hours.
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timeasmymeasure
Johnny: Checking up on Chicago [2/?]
Date: 2011-02-23 07:26 am (UTC)So Johnny knew about MacAnally's pub, had partaken happily of their steaks and loved their ale. When MacAnally's became Harry and Mac's, he knew and wondered, and he investigated. Mac was still there, serving the best bitter in town. He was still so laconic that Johnny didn't even bother asking.
But whoever Harry was, he might be willing to say. Johnny kept trying to get in before five, but something was always stopping him. It got so bad Hendricks even commented on his seeming inability to take a break, which Johnny could say only that he was trying to.
Saturday, though. On Saturday he could look.
There was only one barista working, but that didn't seem to impact business. People lounged around on chairs, some with mugs in hand, many clinging to numbered tickets.
Johnny took a number of his own curiously and settled in to watch. In half an hour, the barista had served only four people, taking the next order when he'd finished the last. There were at least twenty in the ticketed line, and not a single one of them left, even knowing they could literally wait for two hours for a single cup of coffee. It was inconceivable.
It made Johnny really want to try this coffee.
The twenty people ahead of him didn't actually take hours. A little less than an hour and a half after entering the shop, it was his turn. Finally he got a really good look at the barista, a man more than six and a half feet tall (once someone was taller than Johnny, he stopped splitting hairs about exactly how much taller they were) and decidedly underfed-looking.
"What d'you want?" the barista asked, smiling. The smile and tone made an otherwise abrupt question hang with charming familiarity instead.
"...what would you recommend?" Johnny asked.
"First-timer, eh?" the barista - Harry, according to his nametag - asked. "To be honest, I'm a traditionalist. Pure black all the way." He tilted his head and seemed to look through Johnny. "But you need a little sweetness, don't you? How about a mocha?"
"A mocha? Sure," Johnny shrugged, wondering if it was a bad sign that "a little sweetness" made his mind leap straight into the gutter with the handsome, charismatic barista.
The coffee took less than three minutes. It seemed Harry got faster as his shift went on, or perhaps there had been some mishaps earlier. The line was still a few dozen people deep.
Johnny thanked Harry for the mocha and went to sit, inhaling deeply. It smelled delicious - sweet undertones to bitter energy. The first sip was electrifying. He stopped worrying about the rest of his life, except to think with firm conviction that everything would get better and all his work would be easily achievable as soon as he finished his coffee.
He was even getting a few ideas, for some of the more distant plans that had been percolating in the back of his mind. He could clean out some of the waste in his organization and make the streets safer.
He scribbled madly on a notebook as he sipped his coffee. It was too good to take large gulps of: he wanted it to last as long as possible. The cafe was full of people doing almost exactly the same thing: sketching or writing or talking animatedly on cellphones as they slowly sipped coffee. This, Johnny decided, was the best coffee shop in Chicago.
+
Going to go collapse in bed for a few hours, get up early to study more, and then pray I survive the next 24 hours.