Thursday, June 14, 2007

Logbook 8: A perfect latte for Miss Felicity Hunter

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On the 7th of June of the second year, I awoke from a terrible dream. As my senses rose to the surface of the great pond I have called sleep, I felt deep within my brain a dull pain, as if squeezed from within. I lay in the bed and shifted lugubriously for coolness until my skin, completely exposed and vulnerable, found reprieve in the unwarmed portion of the linen sheets. I lay there, first listening, and the sense I call hearing reported (as a dutiful soldier) that automobiles and trucks and motorcycles, potentially driven my men and women and not other machines, moved at substantial speed on the freeway. I moved the finger and thumb of my left hand and my brain recorded instantly that my beard traced the edges of my face. I quit my shallow breathing and with focused deliberation, drew air deeply into my lungs, then exhaled slowly and completely until my lungs reported exhaustion and my brain noted that evacuation was complete. I then focused my entire being on the simple but much misunderstood process of smell. I sensed a pungent moistness that may have emitted from the mulch beneath the trees and bushes outside my open window. It was familiar. I then tasted the sour particles on my lips and on the roof of my mouth. Encouraged, I opened my eyes slowly; gray, indistinct light entered and was captured and reported to my brain. The inventory of my five senses was complete, and I deemed with faint resolution myself to be alive.

I cannot say whether my brain moved me ahead, or if the converse were the case. Certain was the distinction of one from the other; that is to say, brain and physical being moved separately from the Great Pond that I have called sleep. Memory emerged. There had been a great black box into which I had been stuffed, and its edges, though distinct, were blurred and might be described as fuzzy, not yet gray, but as if becoming gray. Eyesight distinguished the confines of the black box, and I knew it was not infinite. I used the Idea of a measuring tape to determine the length, breadth and heighth of the black box, but the numbers on the measuring tape were of a denotation I could neither recognize nor decipher. From this experience, I deduced that the dimensions were real but recordable only in concepts I did not understand. I could not smell, taste, touch or hear it. I could only see it, and it was black with indistinct, fuzzy edges. In the black box was a stage, and the stage was not illuminated. On the stage were characters that moved in unison to inaudible music. It was not clear to me whether I was experiencing something or nothing at all. Idea, and it dandled me as if a baby succoring at mother's breast.

I collected my energies and with great effort threw aside the bed clothes. Air from my open window and open door, like the brush of boar bristle, prickled my bare skin. The din of the passing vehicles grew louder, and the aroma of the rose and jasmine were pleasurable and worldly. I brought my hand to my face and stroked my beard, like a meditating imam. I walked to the bathroom and felt the stiff carpet on my feet. I urinated and smelled the wafting odor of it. I turned the faucet and washed my hands with soap (which a friend had given me) from the Eden Hills Hotel, and then I drew a glass of purified water from the Eden River, gargled and swished, and then brushed my teeth with Colgate fortified with fluoride for cavity prevention and spearmint for flavor. In the mirror, I saw the face of Denis Dedrow (which is captured to your right by the deft brush and colors of the famous artist, Dani Weiner) and in the mirror behind saw the cleavage and noted the black hair of my shoulders and ribs. I dressed quietly.

At the front counter of Lost Goat Coffee House where I work for lodging and camaraderie, JR greeted me with enthusiasm. He said the actress Felicity Hunter had called and asked that a 16-ounce latte be delivered to her dressing room at the Center for the Performing Arts at Lake Eden Landing. It must be piping hot and finished artistically with the image of a sword fern from the shores of beautiful Lake Eden. Only JR was adept at latte art of this calibre. Our challenge would be to get the drink from the Lost Goat Coffee House to the dressing room of Felicity Hunter without losing its form, its substance or its heat.

We deduced a great plan that would require the collective effort of all of the patrons of Lost Goat Coffee House. Our Idea, which would be dreamlike, was to convey the drink by means of commonly shared experiences. Normally we would have taken the drink by bicycle in a thermal insulated hot pack, carefully shored up and locked into place so as not to spill. We were aware of the shortcoming of this method under the present circumstances. Miss Felicity Hunter, an actress of supreme reputation, must have a drink worthy of her great art. Would it be possible to place ourselves irrevocably on the very same stage with Miss Felicity Hunter and therefore to be able to share with her the adoraton of her vast audience? If the drink could be gotten to her sufficiently, piping hot (that is to say, steam visibly rising from its surface), in a 16-ounce ceramic latte cup placed accordingly on a matching saucer, and adorned lovingly by the clever hand of JR with an artful fern leaf (in perfect replication of a real sword fern from the banks of Lake Eden), would this not be an unprecedented performance of significant theatrical importance? We set to work.

JR announced to the morning patrons the scope of our work and solicited the involvement of everyone. To our surprise, no one refused. Christopher DeFarge signalled his commitment by grunting; Ernie and Crazy Mike said their schedules would permit. DeFarge was most essential to the operation, because he, being both blind and deaf, had the ability to focus his three remaining senses. Ernie had known great risk and peril already in his life, having survived the almost unique experience of sailing the Huangpu River as an infant. Crazy Mike could summon both demons and heroes at will; with him all things were possible. JR had complete confidence in his abilities with the GB5 espresso machine, and I, as the official recorder of the Lost Goat Coffee House logbook, could document the entire process.

First we conceived of the sword fern. Our collective memories of the leaf were vague, so we dispatched Crazy Mike to the shoreside to collect for us one sword fern. He returned in minutes and laid the specimen on the counter. Cristopher DeFarge, whom we now suspected might be a seer or a prophet, carefully felt the fern with his index finger, then ran his hands around the latte cup. To our knowledge he had never felt, smelled or tasted Felicity Hunter, but we could be sure he had neither seen nor heard her. He then sat at his table on the dais and removed his cross-stitching. Ernie, always nervous, paced the floor and talked aloud in his distinctive Mandar-English, bits and pieces of which suggested a mechanical solution to the challenge. JR, like a high diver, practiced the motions he would need to replicate in steamed milk the tapering leaves of the sword fern. I noted it all.

Thankfully, Ernie seemed to be making progress with the biggest challenge of all: Getting the finished drink to Miss Felicity Hunter without damage to the artwork and in sufficient time so as not to lose its heat. For purposes of documentaton, I carefully measured the temperature of a latte finished under normal circumstances and found it to be exactly 173.3 degrees F. This is considerably hotter than most establishments serve their lattes, but at Lost Goat Coffee House we take extreme pride (as bonafide participants in the specialty coffee business) in serving our drinks at optimal conditions. We knew (Liebeck v. McDonalds) that to serve coffee much hotter was to invite litigation, but we dared to push this envelope. Any cooler and the drinker is deprived the enjoyment of the range of aromatic and volatile compounds in properly roasted coffee served hot and then allowed to cool naturally. These compounds release their various ethers at different temperatures, so to enjoy them all, a drinker must begin at optimal temperature.

Basis for Ernie's contraption was a '27 Reo Flying Cloud. He had one available, its wheels removed and its chassis prepared for a process of conveyence he called shapeshifting, which he had learned from Chinese ancestors who devoted their lives to the study of thaumoctopus mimicus, an Indonesian fish species. As he began to explain the concept to us in his heavy accent, we became very excited for the possibilities. According to Ernie's experience, thaumoctopus mimicus has the ability to become like another fish species. The deception can come in handy when hungry; act like a tuna and -- boom! -- dinner arrives! Shapeshifting isn't normally used in transmogrifying lattes, but Ernie felt that the medium of the '27 Reo Flying Cloud could surmount the molecular recurrence issue. He cited an instance recorded during the Song Dynasty in which an aged hermit named Chang Kuo Lao utilized for similar purpose a donkey that could travel at incredible speed. If Ernie could get the '27 Reo prepared to use Chang's primordal vapor for fuel (and he said he intended to make use of Crazy Mike's demons), he could harness the same principle to transport JR's latte to Miss Felicity Hunter as expeditiously as turning a page of coffee house history.

Meanwhile, DeFarge was cross-stitching madly at his seat on the dais, his needles clacking loudly like his namesake in a Dickens novel. Occasionally he would grunt his deaf/blind syllables at us and we knew the Seer was making progress. When he eventually approached the counter and pointed to his pattern, we knew our deliverance was at hand: There in his cross-stitch pattern was a very large stage on which sat the likeness of Miss Felicity Hunter with a steaming cup and saucer in her hand!

JR pulled the shot and started the milk to steam, his hands moving before the GB5 like a charmer to a hissing cobra. He heated the 16-ounce ceramic latte cup to temperature, added the shot (incidentally, dear reader, all shots at Lost Goat Coffee House are doubles; we don't do singles), and added the steamed milk. Back and forth, as subtle as an afternoon breeze and Giverny, his graceful hand adjusted the stainless steel pitcher and before our eyes, huddled like acolytes around Dr. Jekyll, the image of a perfect sword fern took shape. Its likeness to the real fern that Crazy Mike had collected at the banks of Lake Eden was uncanny. For documentation, I measured the temperature of the completed drink -- 173.3 degrees Fahrenheit. Exactly.

JR carefully carried the ceramic saucer and cup -- no distractive cardbox box -- outside to Ernie's '27 Reo Flying Cloud, and placed it gently on a platform Ernie had rigged for this special occasion. We all stepped back, and with DeFarge's cross-stitch held in our fingers like players of the game called Ouija, we listened as Ernie recited the ancient phrases of the Chinese sorcerer Chang Kuo Lao. Then we watched in utter amazment as the perfect latte changed form, became one with the platform on the '27 Reo Flying Cloud, and the entire contraption moved backwards down the street toward the Lake Eden Center for the Performing Arts. With mouths still agape, we heard the phone ring in the shop seconds later and we suddenly snapped to our senses. JR ran for the phone and then covered the mouthpiece as he mouthed these words to us all:

"It's her! Perfect latte! Fern lovely! Piping hot!"

JR collected himself.

"You bet, Miss Hunter. Thank you. Break a leg, ma'am" he said calmly into the phone. "Break a leg, Miss Hunter." And hung up.

He poured a Misty Valley Yirgacheffe all around, and we stood in awe, savoring its blueberry aroma and replaying in our dazed minds the incredible event we had just witnessed -- caused! Crazy Mike's eyes darted all around and then he lifted his cup and barked, "Break a leg, Miss Hunter!"

"Break a leg!" we yelled in toast to ourselves.

"Break a leg!"

"Break a leh-egggg!"