java jive
It might seem to some of our northerly neighbors who only very occasionally wander down to this low end of the island that they’ve ventured back into more primitive times. No doubt this is given credence by the simple fact that they rarely explore off the main road, a bit like judging L.A. by driving through on the interstate. Of course we seem to lack modern amenities and urbane sophistication. It’s like judging Smokey Point by the rest area on I-5.
A friend who visited recently lamented the predicament that she couldn’t get a decent cup of coffee down past the Mountain View/Dixon Line, as though civilization itself teetered on that cardboard cup of latte. Caffeine addiction no doubt spawns all manner of snobbish sophistry, and caffeine withdrawal can reduce even the most cultured city dweller to a snarling savage. Before things degenerated into a border war, I took her over to Java Jive, our answer to Starbuck’s attempt at world coffee hegemony, where Brenda Bodice, once the infamous bare barista in Stanwoodopolis’ ill-fated bikini expresso before the town’s fathers found their teenage sons inexplicably hooked on flavored coffee drinks, serving up hot steaming grandes of freshly roasted beans brought in daily from our own O-Zi-Ya Roasters.
Brenda, now less subject to bouts of pneumonia, is always conversationally entertaining. My friend bought us both two bars of freshly baked blackberry tarts, no puns exempted, from the South End Diner’s pastry shop. Later I would surprise her with another fine culinary experience at the Tillicum Bistro, another off-road adventure, but I didn’t want to overwhelm her with a tsunami of our clandestine culture all at once. It would only make her own world seem somehow bland and tasteless … and we sure don’t need more immigrants hungry for authenticity.
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