One of the things I miss most about Kansas City is all the delectable coffee shops I had within 10 minutes of my house in midtown. I'm talking about the kind where the good folks behind the counter were career baristas and barely thought me worthy of a second glance unless I dropped a fiver in their tip jar, and I never had that much cash. I knew my place in those shops. I'd smile and order something easy, knowing that even the spare drips from their high end espresso machines could stop me in my tracks as I scampered out of their way with my Americano to find a table just so I could keep breathing in the rich coffee air and let it infuse my clothes for a pick-me-up later in the day.
I would say it's my one guilty pleasure, but I have lots of guilty pleasures, so I won't.
There is nothing of the sort here in Wheaton, and that's usually fine. But sometime I get a hankering for expensive espresso and Caribou and Starbucks just can't deliver. Woe is me. My life is so hard.
Tim and I have an unspoken rule that whenever we do a photo-shoot in downtown Chicago, we get a date in the city afterwards. Last week we stumbled up Caffe Streets, and melted a little inside.
It was this good: