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Coffee Club Remote

The Corner Bistro

    I am Jill's ambivalence. More of an afterthought tacked onto a restaurant than an actual café, the Corner Bistro is a small coffee counter with a scattering of see and be seen high legged chairs and tables. But it's the one and only café in town, and I've got a job to do. That and the fact that I haven't had a decent cup of coffee since I arrived here.

    I've been reduced to the drive through window variety. You never know how much you depend upon something til it's gone. Trite but true. I get worried when I discover that the flavour of the day is Butter Pecan. But what the hell. Jill is sad to say, a sucker for the girly coffee. There are no cakes. No. No cakes at all.

    This will be a more difficult assignment than I thought. I order a blueberry tart and carry my small order to a high chair. I am Jill's mounting trepidation. These chairs offer no comfort to my tired tourist ass. But ever willing to sacrifice myself for the greater good, I take a big mouthful of my Butter Pecan. And am immediately sorry I have done so.

    Let me just say that it smells amazing. Like some kinda dessert your Grandmother might make. But it tastes terrible. Thin, watery, and lacking any kind of kick. I've got three weeks to go, and this is the best coffee in town. I don't think I'm going to make it. I want to climb over the counter and grind the beans myself. I know they must be back there some where, I can smell them. I'll straddle the pretty blonde barista until she learns to pull the perfect espresso. Ah, yes, Jill has done her time as a coffee slut.

    The tart is a mouthful of purple flavoured wetness in a flaky crust. Not even the obscene squirt of whip cream can save it. I bring my mug to the counter to sample the house blend. Points for the little barista. She puts on a fresh pot just for me. She fills my bigass mug, then waves aside my money. ‘Free refill' she smiles.

    Well, well well. It tastes terrible too, but it's free. I down it slowly, choking on the sour taste. The cute barista sidles up to my table. ‘I'm emptying the pot, would you like the rest?' Hell yeah. I am now so very ,very spun, I'm seeing spots. Those are very bigass mugs.


    So props for the big ass mugs, the general coziness, and the sheer amount of coffee consumed for next to nothing. But minus several points for the actual taste of the coffee, and the rigid chairs that bite into my legs.

    I still want to leap over the counter and straddle the barista, pretty little barista, how I love that word, but that may have more to do with the adorable Princess Leia-esque buns at the nape of her creamy neck than needing to teach her a lesson in pulling a good cup of joe.