Guest article by Molly Morrow
As a woman from Seattle (okay, as a woman from a farming-valley-turned-shopping-mall that’s close enough to Seattle for me to lie without feeling bad), I can assure you that I know my way around a coffee shop. I have been in coffee shops resembling EuroDisney, coffee shops with dog balconies, coffee shops with and without a unifying central theme such as “bad art” or “bird music,” and coffee shops that looked like the vacation houses of stone-cold lunatics.
I have been in coffee shops so dimly lit and crowded with velveteen daybeds that I felt myself growing more Victorian, just staring at myself in the glass of the bakery case. I have been in thousands of coffee shops over the years, and I have judged them all without mercy.