Rick Nelson and Claude Peck dispense unasked-for advice about clothing, etiquette, culture, relationships, grooming and more.
RN: Don't get me started on the prissy subculture that is the high-end coffeehouse. I admire excellence as much as the next person, but could we please keep the pretense to a minimum?
CP: Why do you want to talk about coffeehouses? all you ever get at one is an iced tea.
RN: so last week I'm at a Manhattan coffee bar that shall remain nameless.
CP: Why didn't you say you wanted to vent your spleen about Stumptown, the hipster-ific Oregon-based coffee vendor that now has a single outlet in New York City?
RN: it was in the lobby of my hotel. they sell delicious pastries, the room is great-looking and the guy working the espresso machine was chatty and funny. from there, it was all downhill.
CP: I recently walked several blocks out of my way on some aching gams to score a late-afternoon coffee at Stumptown.
RN: Yeah, yeah, yeah, it's nirvana in a cup. Anyway, the city was so hot and muggy that it was like walking through a steaming bowl of split-pea soup. inside the equally sweltering La Ville Stump, I ordered an iced tea.
CP: like I said.
RN: The woman behind the counter shot me a look normally associated with poseurs as they bark "Don't you know who I am?" at defenseless maitre d's. "We don't serve iced tea," she said, but what I heard was, "You clueless loser tourist."
CP: Lemme guess: you were not wearing the requisite skinny tie and a porkpie hat.
RN: or soul patch. It's like walking into a Details magazine fashion spread, circa 2006. I wasn't aware that asking a Stumptown barista for an iced tea was akin to requesting Emanuel Ax to play "Chopsticks." I did politely ask if she could point me in the direction of the nearest Starbucks.
CP: Uh-oh.
RN: her response? "I'm sure there is one around here; I mean, they're everywhere, but I wouldn't know." Gee, thanks. and that, in a nutshell, is why I don't drink coffee.