Even before I entered the café, I smelled the warm, soothing scent of coffee, reeling me toward the coffeehouse. The sound of the café employees bustling as they worked at various machines drew me in next. The coffeehouse had its own music, the music of brewed beverages. I was intrigued. After I entered, the delicious smell of roasted coffee hit me, demanding my attention. The sound was lively, but peaceful, despite the small amount of bodies in the room.
The shop was warm, a contrast to the cold of the snow-filled streets outside, but not too warm that I felt like I was suffocating in my jacket. It was filled with a few individuals, two college students and an elderly gentleman reading The Arizona Republic.
Besides the two café employees, a man in his late 20s with a thick black beard, and a woman the same age with a brown ponytail, and the elderly man with the newspaper, one other soul sat as far across the room in a corner near the door. He drew in a large sketchpad with a pencil, grey beanie pulled over his head to cover short, blond curls. Art textbooks dominated the top of the table. Everyone was lost in their own world, enjoying the peaceful atmosphere.
I surveyed the menu for several minutes as the employees continued to bustle about, brewing a fresh batch of coffee and cleaning the equipment behind a counter covered in bumper stickers. To my surprise, the menu contained a variety of different beverages, each option followed by a short description. I decided to choose a simple drink from the portion of the menu labeled ‘Coffee” and ordered a Fancy Joe. The menu promised that my cup of black coffee would get “a tan with steam sweetened half & half.”
The front of the café had free seats on the bar against the window, looking out into the downtown streets. I settled in a seat and looked out the window at the cluster of people walking by, laughing in their rain and snow boots, and colorful jackets and coats. The sound of the milk steamer, the familiar coffeehouse gurgle, caught my attention and I watched as the woman with the dark ponytail filled a paper cup full of black coffee with hot, steamed milk, giving it a suntan. She called out the drink name and smiled as I retrieved it from the counter, as she cleaned the steamer.
I sat back down at the bar, curious what the coffee would be like. It’s always the smell. With my nose inches away from the cup, I inhaled; the warm, dark aroma reached me, seduced me. The cup was warm to the touch, filled to the brim with the enticing liquid. My senses kicked into gear at the first whiff of fresh roasted coffee, going into full swing after I finally pulled the cup to my lips, sucking in the stream rising from the liquid. Finally, the coffee reached my lips, flowed across my tongue, mouth, and throat, and into my stomach. It was sweet, the liquid instantly warmed my body further and I had to shed my jacket. The coffee didn’t need any more sugar or half and half. It was the perfect balance between sweet and syrupy, as it painted my tongue. The Fancy Jo wasn’t overwhelming sweet like the large coffee chains I had been to; each sip didn’t require my taste buds to adjust to the sugar.
Content with the cup of Joe in my hands, I drunk the coffee slowly, and let the liquid rest on my tongue several seconds before swallowing. I spent an hour there that first time. I watched people in the streets—at one point a group of college women gave each other piggy back rides in their tall boots, and wool hats—and the café employees prepare orders for individuals that would enter the shop in singles and doubles, leaving with a hot or cold beverage in hand. After an hour, I emptied the paper cup, happy with the last drop and headed into the streets of downtown Flagstaff. I had found a new café. Late for the Train would be seeing me in the future.
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The Low-Down:
107 North San Francisco Street
http://www.lateforthetrain.com/Default.aspx
Hours: Sun-Thurs 6am-6pm, Fri-Sat 6am-9pm
*$.48 charge for paying with debit/credit
Hours: Sun-Thurs 6am-6pm, Fri-Sat 6am-9pm
*$.48 charge for paying with debit/credit
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