Be the best at what you do, and be kind to those who are not

Java House
1645 Q St NW
Washington DC 20009
202-387-6622

There is a coffee shop a few blocks down from where I live that I frequent, and hold dear to my heart. In the past year they have tried to diversify their menu, adding an array of wraps, melts and sandwiches to the pastries that they offered before. They even do homemade seasonal soups now – a turkey three-bean chili in the cold months, and chilled gazpacho when it is nice out. I have tried, with every fiber of my being, to bring myself to like their offerings, for I like writing and working there, and am addicted to their coffee. But – and the finality of this pronouncement pains me – but nothing is really very good there.

When I first discovered the Java House and made it my local coffee place, it was the final piece in me being able to call myself a resident of this fine city (the other prerequisites being a local dive bar and a magazine subscription). It had filled a void in my life created by the move away from Providence and with it, Coffee Exchange on Wickenden. I had shopped around – there are options aplenty around where I live, but none with the personality of the Java House. The wonderful lady who ran the counter had a conspiratorial sparkle in her eyes that made me feel young and restless again, and our first conversation centered around the days when she used to live in Ethiopia and roast her own coffee beans out of a saucepan. These days, there is a coffee roaster – the first thing you see walking in – and they roast their own beans daily in the late mornings, after the morning rush. If you stop by the machine and take a deep breath as it is going, you can catch – if you concentrate hard enough – a whiff of the heavenly.

It is hard to say just quite when, and why, a coffee place, or a restaurant, or a bar, becomes more than the sum of its four walls, but it is a joy to experience when it does happen. The Java House is sparsely decorated and functionally equipped at best, and is less than overwhelming at first blush. There are no couches, only stiff-backed counter-style chairs. I have spent long periods of time in the corner where the outlets are, and I want to say that they only have five mix CDs in their repertoire. Needless to say I have heard them all multiple times. Yet in spite of all that, there is a charm about the place that transcends its physical space. The regulars are quirky and include a whole slew of families and housewives who bring their babies in, complete with strollers and bonnets. There is almost always a meaningful conversation going on in the place, as there is almost always someone tippy-tapping away at their computers. The waitress does this cute thing where she raises her speaking voice when she is on her cell phone, as if distrustful of the technological capability of the modern-day cellular telephone. It kind of makes me feel like I am in a bad movie set in 1982. The place, really, is like the ungainly kid who dresses badly and is average at everything, but who you want on your team anyway because he is just such a stand-up guy.

And then there is the coffee. God, the coffee. The house blend has a distinctive sweetness layered over the bitter coffee bean taste; not quite nearly as bitter or dark or powerful as I would like, but it comes closer than almost anything else I have tried within a six-block radius. It has a wholeness of flavour that is consistent from the second it hits your lips through to the swallow. The roasting gives it a burnt taste which lingers on your tongue for minutes. I usually have a double shot of espresso, but it drinks as smooth as a latte with whole milk would.

Apart from that though, as my original point was, nothing else is really very good there. The oatmeal cookie is baked hard and crunchy, rather than crumbly and chewy the way I like it. The sandwiches are basic and unimpressive. The chili is watery and too sweet; also, it has bits of corn in it. There is no greater faux pas. I could go on, but it pains me almost as much to write this as it did to actually eat their food.

I suppose, though, the same is true of almost all coffee places. I do not recall going to one which had both fabulous coffee and good food. Even the pastries at Coffee Exchange were less than spectacular. It must be either one or the other, all or nothing. They are, after all, coffee places that dabble in food on the side. Coffee is their core competency, and most if not all their energy, one would hope, should go into scouring the depths of Ethiopia and Rwanda and Sumatra and Brazil and Colombia for the finest beans available. For that, I am thankful.

I still go to the Java House, unwavering in my loyalty. Perhaps it is out of habit more than anything else, but the fact is that I forgive them their mediocrities.

I do want to say, though: is it really so hard to get a decent cookie around here?