This is a positive review. Langdon Street Cafe is to thos. more of Philadelphia what the hashish dens of Amsterdam are to Jules of ‘Pulp Fiction’; one thought of drifting across a parker truss over the North Branch for a locally-roasted cup and a handful of vegan ginger-raspberry towers, and he proclaims, ‘That did it, man – I’m fuckin’ goin’, that’s all there is to it.‘ The camera cuts to a dreamy-eyed thos. standing in a vestibule and staring wistfully at ads for houses on 300-acre farms renting for $250 a month.

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As is becoming a little habit of mine I consulted the internet before leaving on a daytrip to Macon (mă’ kŏn) to find a place to take a coffee at the end of our familial obligations. Lord, I knew we would need it, and as has become my customary thought when entering into unfavourable situations, I wanted something to take out of hell with me, some proof to show the temple elders that I had shattered their image about its terminal darkness. Joshua Cup was the only thing that came up. After our experience with Sweet Java Brown, I decided to prank call them before we left just to make sure they were still in business. They were!

I had sort of a strange feeling before going to Joshua Cup, perhaps from the sound of the name or some of the language used on the webpage, such as the ecclesiastically connoted ‘fellowship’ and reference to a charity called ‘Power House,’ that this would be a Christian coffee shop. I did not know what that meant exactly but when I got there I did not see a bible stand or a statue of the christ. In fact, and I usually do not waste my time with such characterizations, the service was downright friendly and warm, despite the presence of at least two (2) pentagrams emblazoned on my clothing. As other folks rambled in they were greeted with a familiarity and energy that would not have been out of place in a miniature cafe out in the hinterlands of Clichy with shouts of “les enfants!” I did submit a query about the movie screen that hung partially coiled up in the ceiling on the northeast corner of the space and was told it was used for projecting readings for the bible groups that met there. Although my suspicions were confirmed I am used to such a presence here in the south and as they were welcoming and inclusive I was satisfied to relish the environment.

TSOracle pointed to a stack of board games, then regretting her suggestion, proceeded to take me on in a matched game of chess (for those of you examining the photo for potential gambits, the rook whose top can be seen in the white queen’s home position is in fact the white queen). The late afternoon sun streamed in low through the huge bank of western windows. There was a feeling about the place, that I had not been able to conjure until struck by the sun and wishing that there were some deep plantation style blinds and some ceiling fans, in which I was transported to an old southern corner soda fountain. Although I return to look at the photos and see that the walls were painted yellow, I now remember them as a dark wood with inset panels and lots of trim and dentils. The floor, a herringbone brick pattern, obscured an old hexagonal white tile beneath, a nostalgic duality of light floors and dark volume, swealtering heat and local men fanning their triple chins in the low light, children cooling their heels with a malt or a draught soft drink. As I peer, through the jalousie, a giant millipede scrambles up the wall and is crushed by… no, no, I open my eyes both now and back onto that space. The sun streams in through the incredibly tall glass windows. The soy latte is delightful and TSOracle’s knight chases my king around the table.

When this place was called Mean Bean, it had a powerful set of advantages, not least of which was its position as a foil to the shortcomings of the other cafes in southern Center City; every time we tried to visit the Stellar on Spruce only to find it closed, or when we couldn’t bide the noise and attitude at Last Drop, or when we were re-convinced that the Pour House was for brunch eaters, we would invariably gravitate toward Mean Bean.

The paper cups of coffee in which soymilk consistently clotted were certainly not the draw, nor was the erratic service. The current week’s twink could barely point the spout at the cup, let alone handle a wand or understand that iced coffee is not brewed by running cubes through the filter. Rather, their expertise was in keeping the beefcake turned up to eleven; in the four or five days that they spent employed, they could not be expected to master the ordeals of the barista as they whiled away the hours tousling their coifs and raising their midriffs.

Once you coached them through the task of filling your cup, you would find that no indoor seating was available; all the tables were on the sidewalk or patio. Covered with a trellis and screened with vines, the patio was adjacent to a community garden, so as you looked up from your Sunday crossword or your Braudel you could find yourself musing on pastoral dreams sparked by eggplant on the vine rather than distracted by the abortion clinic or the ‘Everything But Ice Cream’ shop down the street.

One afternoon we entered to find the room reeking of benzene; the register had been moved, and the counter had been cleared of cups and peanut butter cookies. In place of the usual slab of man candy, there was a diminutive, manicured woman filling out a cocktail dress. In response to our hesitancy and our whispered comments on the changes, she made a joke, perhaps, in the form of a sarcastic, ‘Yes, we are changing things’

Apparently the soy policy is one of those things.

“Do you have soymilk?” The question comes after coffee tab is paid.
“Yes…” Slowly she hands it over the counter. “Ordinarily we charge 50 cents for soymilk.” She waits expectantly.
“OK” Soymilk is poured, generously, and 50 cents is not offered.
“For next time.”

Before there was a next time, the name was changed to The Village Coffee House to reflect new management and more overt gayness; each time we are on the street, we have talked ourselves out of visiting, lamenting the lack of easy cafes in southern Center City.

On my return trip to Sweet Java Brown the place was called Gathering Grounds. They appeared to have the same operating hours, but, as I have been privately insulted for making an issue out of coffee shops that close absurdly early, I will not rail too much on the fact that Gathering Grounds closes at 8PM on weekdays. I managed to roll in on a Sunday at about 11AM on my way to work. The hours of the beleaguered black collar slob begin to run together, it takes a force to pry oneself free from the trajectory to the office, even on a Sunday, yet I did. What takes even more effort is to scoop out of one’s day the mental space to enjoy such a deviation.

I wrote that first portion about three weeks ago on an airplane flying to Texas. I had to stop because I grew afraid that we were about to fall out of the sky.

Revisiting now my feelings about the place I find more tenderness in my views. I let the hours slip from my radar and see a well put together little shop with pockets of space called into being by furniture arrangements and taller elements (which might be shelves, yes, in my mind’s eye they are shelves) that remind me of what Mani’s Santa Monica would have been if the furniture store and the coffee shop that occupied a 5000sf space were drawn down to a more cozy 900sf. There was one strange detail that I did not care for. Instead of a wainscot or chair rail, there was a fairly heavy steel angle bolted to the wall at precisely the height that my ear would fall sitting in a seat close to the edge of the space. Although I am not so rude as to presume that it would be acceptable to lean my greasy head against the wall, it stirred discomfort in me just by making me picture how frustrating it would be to want to lean against the wall and find a cold unfinished piece of steel against that bony protuberance behind and slightly behind my ear.

There was one reason why I could not stay long that was not related to my desire to get to work. The clientele that was in the space with me was a bit too ‘regular’ for my taste. I like regulars. I have even been one for short periods of time. But there is a character within the pool of regulars who I find intolerable: the regular who wants everyone to know how regular they are. They force the barista to recognize it, to tout it for them. “You know Marcus needs space in his cappuccino for honey, right?” “Oh yes, I always forget that.” Or, “Do you remember that dog that was hanging around in the lot across the street?” “Yes.” “Janine finally caught it. She is taking care of it until she can find someone to adopt it.” “Here is Janine’s hazelnut steamer.” There is also the aspiring regular, who sits near the bar and attempts to insinuate theirself into conversations with other regulars, or to distract and garner the attention of the barista by starting catchy conversations. What is most painful, and what drove me to the door, is the failure of such aspirations, most notably, a baited prompt that began, “I saw Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young last night, they played for 3 hours.” “How was that?” “It was intense.”