Weekend Coffee

Parlor Coffee, Williamsburg

Except for a rumbling taxi or a warbling bird, it’s quiet. The sun is up and has been for a while because it’s mid-July and the days are long. Some parents and retail workers stumble bleary-eyed outside, but mostly people are out buying coffee. Even the joggers and dog walkers will join the queue for a grande with skim milk. They might buy a bagel or a doughnut or a croissant as well. But the particularities can wait for Monday morning. Now, it’s Sunday coffee.

The early-risers project an automatic confidence as they balance their coffee, pastry bags and dog leashes. This is not improv. No one woke up earlier than anticipated. They didn’t lie in bed and, staring at the poster of Vermeer’s View On Delft they bought on sale from allposters.com, exclaim, ‘what the hell! I’m going to get up, go for a run and pick up some coffee and breakfast’. Their pride appears in their distinctive exhausted swagger. They don’t look around; they look ahead. With blinds up and sunglasses on, they navigate Sunday morning inattentive to their powerful performance.

Becoming a member of the Sunday coffee troupe requires practice. No one supplies you with stage directions as you leave your apartment. But you dive through the emptiness to discover a café where regulars dialogue with their barista. This rapport could develop from two rehearsals or years of practice. The man in green spandex biking shorts might be a regular character, coming to the café since its opening day. The woman in sunglasses could be an eager new recruit. Together, they turn Sunday morning into Sunday coffee.

The coffee may be exceptional or it could be dirty water. The alarm clock could ring or the sun could act as a pseudo-alarm. Even the variables unfold according to a predictable selection. All is normal. All is Sunday coff

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