Stella Espresso Company

Facebook.

2009-07-06T13:28:00.000-07:00

Yes, we have a Facebook page, and it's alive with all kind of malarkey. Do fan us.

Fietsfabriek comes to Stella

2008-09-22T20:22:00.000-07:00

Remember how I talked about Fietsfabriek? Yes, it was only in the last post, it is still there, right underneath this one.

Well, Fietsfabriek is coming to Stella. This Saturday, September 27th, from 10am to 2pm, Fietfabriek will be at Stella in all its Euro splendor. There will be an obstacle course, stuff will be raffled off, and you will get a free cup of coffee if you test-ride one of the fabulous bikey creations.

Stop by and bring kids if you got'em. They'll love the bakfiets!

Holland America

2008-08-12T18:21:00.000-07:00

No, this is not about the once proud vessels that aeons ago ferried businessmen in hats between Rotterdam and Hoboken but now drag gluttonous suburbanites from port to port, occasionally poisoning them.

This is about the new and awesome Dutch import - the bakfiets.

A bakfiets, or box-bike, is a bicycle used by Dutch families to do the job of the station wagon, the minivan, or the SUV. Apparently, the bakfiets was once king of the road in Dutch cities, until everyone got a car. It has been coming back in a major way, fueled by small builders like Fietsfabriek, who offer amazing quality and a spiffed-up look.

Fietsfabriek is now in Chicago, and there is even a local website - www.defietsfabriek-usa.com or the ever so topical www.defeatsthecar.com

Jon of Fietsfabriek USA, the brilliant businessman and trusting soul that he is, lent a bakfiets to my family for a weekend.

That weekend, we were here, we were there, we were everywhere with our shiny new fire-engine red bakfiets, We were in the park, on the bikepath, and on the streets. It became fun to go to faraway playground, because we no longer had to be stuck in traffic, or look for parking.

Most importantly, the girls loved it. There were even minor tantrums when we tried to take them out of it. There must be something about being out in front that makes the ride so much more fun. It's like the passenger is in control without having to do the work.

The Netherlands is a small waterlogged country where doing more with less is part of the culture. Nowadays, when we are running out of space for driving and parking in our cities, it only makes sense to turn to a Dutch invention. Chicago, with its flat terrain, is a perfect place to start.

Keep your eyes peeled for a promo event for Fietsfabriek at Stella some time in September.

No More Scones

2008-08-09T05:58:00.000-07:00

Yes, read this and weep.

The other day, Brian, the owner of SconeWild and the man behind our delicious scones, stopped by to announce that he was moving to the West Coast and suspending production of scones until further notice. We will be receiving our final delivery of scones on August 20th.

We have changed suppliers, vendors, and products before, but this is different. We have had these scones from the very beginning, and they have always been our strongest seller.

SconeWild is exactly the kind of company we imagined we would deal with when we were opening the shop. The Scones are simple, good, with real berries and chocolate. Brian did not introduce any twists to scones as they normally are - he just made them better. I always got a kick out of seeing customers' mouths twitch, signaling disapproval, the first time I offered them a scone, only to see the same face again later whenever we ran out of those scones.

Well, you have another week in a half, and then we are cutting you off. There are rumors swirling around of a mail order operation in the future, but nothing is certain. So horde up now, before it is too late.

French Press and Nostalgia

2008-07-27T22:22:00.000-07:00

Every time I come back to Chicago, especially after traveling to sunny, pretty, pleasant-smelling locales, I feel a tremendous rush of relief. Oh, it's good to be home. On that first morning back, even the dour faces of Chicagoans on the El, their eyes skimming the ubiquitous insipid RedEye, move me nearly to tears.

Do I really love the city this much, or am I just glad to be getting back to my old habits, well-honed as they are over the years? Who knows, but I do miss them when I am gone. A few weeks ago, as I steered our rented Prius onto Stony Island Boulevard towards our stunning Skyway, I was anticipating a week of fun in the sun in North Carolina, to be sure, but also to a week of mornings filled with freeze-dried Taster's Choice.

On our way South, in a last-ditch effort to keep Taster's Choice at bay, we stopped at Murky Coffee outside Washington DC. Murky inhabits an entire two-story house in Arlington. It is ramshackle and sprawling, with open staff-only rooms filled with coffee equipment and bicycles in various states of assembly. It is one of those reverse stereotype situations - it could be a typical coffee house, except virtually no coffee house is anything like it.

The place was surprisingly laid back for button-down DC, and we had some lovely lattes, recharged our electronics, chased the rugrates around the place for a while. It was perhaps our desire to take a little bit of this last urban outpost into the backcountry with us that forced us to splurge. We bought a Barratza Maestro grinder and a Bodum Columbia press pot. I never believed in the French Press. Our attempts at home were not tasty. But this was quite different. In the morning, I unpacked the new machinery, set the grinder to 28, as per instructions given to me by the Murky people, threw a fistful of Kuta, and OMFG, or rather, voila - pure awesomeness, just like that.

Long story short, we are still on it, back home in Chicago. I love the simplicity of it. The one fancy machine you need is the grinder. You need a conical burr grinder, for an even grind. The pot is pretty much only there to get the grounds out of the way, which is somewhat optional. Our current recipe is as follows: 18 grams of coffee, 12 ounces of water, 4 minutes. One wrinkle is that after one minute, I open the pot and give it a quick swirl to have the grounds sink.

We are still experimenting with the formula, because at the end, we would like to serve it at Stella. It is different from good old drip, mostly because the pungent, earthy grounds are right there in the pot, and, to some degree, in the cup. Some of our customers will surely appreciate it.

So, it is one more thing to add to the post-modern gentleman's travel kit. With an iPhone, a Brompton and a press pot, you can circle the globe nostalgia-free. No need for a sword even, no matter what the Supreme Court says.

No More Large?

2008-07-11T10:41:00.001-07:00

That is right, you saw the article in the Trib - Intelligentsia is doing away with 20 ounce drinks at the end of the month. Still, it was not the news that took me by surprise but the fact that the Trib devoted any space to it. It does impact the world inhabited by purveyors and consumers of fine and specialty coffees - i.e., my world and yours, but outside of that, it is just not news. Traditional newspapers usually report on 3 kinds of events - newsworthy, scandalous, and cute, and this was none of the above. Still, if you squint your eyes some, a reason does emerge.

The article about this announcement generated a whopping 201 comments. No need to read them - I can sum it up for you. Vitriol, buckets of it. Not towards the new policy, mind you, but towards Intelligentsia itself. Apparently, quite a few people are pissed off that it even exists. The same happens whenever the Trib runs a story about Starbucks. I get the impression that these days, the most hated group in America, after the atheists, are the producers and consumers of specialty coffee. Typically, the feral dogs descend within minutes of an article's appearance, and they do not stop until another outlet releases a fresh pile of fodder.

The Tribune Company is happy to print anything that keeps the clicks coming. Especially in the age of the newspaper's demise, they will take anything they can get. Incidentally, the newspapers' decline must also figure as the reason for all that hatred - I mean, who takes newspapers seriously any more? Whoever does, must feel left out of the new media landscape and will find anything newfangled unpalatable. The New York Times appears to be the sole exception, but the Gray Lady has built a fabulous website, where she has the comments feature conveniently turned off most of the time.

Moving right along, let us discuss this development as it pertains to us, Stella Espresso Company. For one, we will have to pay Intelligentsia more for their wares. You see, for them, this is a perfect move, like when Wayne Gretzky tosses the puck toward the crowded goal area and it goes in. The genius behind the move will only be apparent in an extremely slow replay. In this case, Intelligentsia is eliminating those pesky three-shot drinks, where a shot is wasted. The line speeds up, waste is reduced, and there you have it - more customers at a higher profit margin. This will allow them to ride out the oil bubble without looking like they raised prices. They will raise them, to be sure, but it will all be lost in the shuffle of switching menus.

We at Stella will feel tremendous pressure to follow Intelligentsia's lead. For one, it is tougher for us to ride out any bubble, seeing as we lack Intelligentsia's cachet and renown. Also, we will be buying beans at a higher rate. Of course, our situation differs from theirs, and we will have to deal with it our own way. A change in price structure is not out of the question, but we do know that large lattes and mochas are quite popular among our clientèle, so I do not see us cutting those out. Stay tuned.

We've Made It A Year!

2008-07-07T22:07:00.000-07:00

Naysayers be damned, we have survived a year. We could never have made it this far without our regulars and our occasionals, so thank you to everyone.

We don't live in the neighborhood, so when we started out, we knew no one here. Now, whenever I am approaching Stella, I start seeing familiar faces on the street several blocks away. I love it. This is exactly what we set out to do - to build a neighborhood joint with local kids working for us and people from the surrounding buildings coming in for coffee roasted right here in Chicago. So far so good.

In our second year, we'll be doing more of the same. We are beefing up our coffee competence and working on improving the space with new art, some new furniture, and, some time this summer, air conditioning. You'll see. It'll be lovely.

Not Just For Cheeseheads Any More

2008-06-26T21:37:00.000-07:00

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Wisconsin's very own Sprecher's was proclaimed best root beer, like, ever, by a New York Times review.

Now, why is that so edifying to us here at Stella? Well, it's because you can get it here, along with other fine Sprecher's offerings, like Cream Soda, Ginger Ale, and Puma Kola.

Did you hear that? Best root beer, right here at Stella.

Three-Buck Chuck

2008-05-23T20:26:00.000-07:00

I know it's heresy, but I really dislike Trader Joe's. One of Stella customers dispelled the rumor that one is coming to the new building on Granville and Broadway, and I'm not the least bit disappointed.

If I did like that place, or at least emulated its ways, Stella would have a different business model. Our lattes would cost a buck fifty, but there would be no need to spring for the fancy beans, the fancy machine, or all that costly barista training. We would offer bona fide, albeit low-quality versions of stuff that appeals to today's young sophisticates.

Of course, this business model works remarkably well for Trader Joe's. The little plaza it shares with CB2 is forever abuzz with Volkswagens and Subarus. CB2 must be ecstatic about the spillover business.

The business model works best of all, it seems, for three-buck Chuck, also known as Charles Shaw Shiraz, which retails there for $2.99. Apropos, did you know they call it two-buck Chuck in California? Some crazy shit, that.

As you walk into the store, you see boxes of the Chuck stacked high against a wall. You will also see those Jetta/Outback drivers loading up on the Chuck. The Outback people even have the foresight to get entire boxes. The Chuck is used for dinner, entertaining, bringing the requisite bottle of wine to a party, the works. Where once guests shot inquisitive looks at the pretty labels, wondering how much the bottle cost, today certainty rules. How lovely and strange, no? Well, it's not that lovely, and it's surely not strange. Moreover, the same will happen to coffee soon.

The other day I read a feature on CNN Money about Fred Franzia, or Mr. Three-Buck Chuck. He is not to be confused with Mr. Wine-in-a-Box. That's a cousin of his. Anyway, Mr. Three-Buck-Chuck is an extremely successful businessman who espouses a philosophy, and he'll explain it to anyone who'll listen, especially if it will end up in print. His claim is that only an idiot would pay more than $10 for a bottle of wine, and he wants to convert the world to that point of view. Of course, it's all a bunch of bullshit and he knows it. A sixty-dollar bottle can blow you away. Even a twenty-five dollar one can, if you are know how to pick'em.

The whole thing is just an act he puts on, a persona that he uses to market his product. Still, in the process he is, in fact, fighting pretentiousness. He sells a bona fide, although low quality, cab that is priced as low as it can go. Its popularity makes it impossible for anyone to charge ten bucks for a bottle of crappy wine.

Today you can find a variety of wines between $4 and $20 in your neighborhood liquor store. They all taste about the same - sour and, well, cheap. But, if you were to opt for Whole Foods instead, the stuff there is quite good. This is mostly because Whole Foods is Trader Joe's closest competitor, especially in the crunchy demographic. Surely, you can't very well sell swill for $10 if the other guy charges $2.99.

The neighborhood guys are catching up. The Korean dude underneath the Sheridan El is the biggest one in my hood, and he's improved his selection a lot in the last year or two. Once the wine market truly matures here in the United States, we will have carton wine on supermarket shelves. Check out exhibit A, from the Wine90 blog.

Note the price. Cheap, yes? No one brings that stuff to parties, because they can pick up something nice for 8 euros. We can't, because most of us still can't tell the difference. We are getting there, though.

Now, the coffee market is a different story. Here in the Chicago area, there are only a few shops that control the quality of their espresso. There are hundreds that don't, including Starbucks, but they all charge the same for a latte, and get away with it. Dunkin Donuts is the one trying to undersell everyone, but apparently their war is not a holy one - they only knock off about 10%.

One day, someone will force most of these places to lower prices or raise quality. Of course, we here at Stella Espresso are not afraid, because we - brace for a shameless plug right here - we chose to start with quality. Actually, the Three-Buck-Chuck of latte would do us a favor - eliminate most of the competition in one fell swoop. Bring it on.

Dispatch from Paris

2008-05-05T12:11:00.000-07:00

Welcome back to Coffee Talk. After a bit of a hiatus, we're back to talk about coffee, New York, daughters, dogs. No big whoop. Stop me if you're too young to get this.

Well, Maya and I crossed the pond for the first time in 9 years. I am ecstatic to report that Paris has not changed a bit. I had my doubts, at first. The view from our hotel in Bagnolet, a few hundred feet outside the city limits, was a dead ringer for New Jersey, complete with the turnpike.

But, cross the turnpike, and suddenly, you are in Paris. It's the outskirts, so the men at the bistro bar will be Africans in tracksuits and the Vietnamese owner will speak some of the funniest French you'll ever hear. Still, all the accouterments of bistro culture are as present as they are on the Champs-Elysees.

Just like in the posh 8th arrondissement, the uniformed waiter will approach you right away, take your order, and if coffee is what you want, he will be back within a minute with two tiny cups on a tiny tray. Just like anywhere in Paris, he will deftly slide them off the tray one-handed, with a flourish, and add a few paper-wrapped sugar-cubes. And just like anywhere in Paris, the coffee will taste like shit. Sandy, bitter and vile, it'll deliver a good jolt of caffeine and a long-lasting aftertaste that will linger until you capitulate and smoke a cigarette, even though you quit years ago.

No one knows why coffee in Paris is as bad as it is. Most blame the 'zinc Mafia' - a clan of migrants from Auvergne that reportedly have a stranglehold on bean distribution. If you dare serve single-origin coffee, the Auvergnois will kneecap your mom. I don't buy it. I mean, is it so hard to imagine a city, or even a whole country that consumes huge amounts of really disgusting coffee?

When you pick up a 32-ouncer of hot swill at a gas station outside Wichita, you don't have the same expectations as when you are served a demitasse on the Rue Rivoli. In reality, though, the two situations are identical. They are both about ritual and caffeine, and neither is about coffee.

At the end, the whole thing just serves to underline the differences between the two cultures. Americans like things big. The French like them pretty. Both borrow, rather unsuccessfully, from the Italians, to make the experience of feeding their addictions more palatable.

Look at that Ghetto Rosetta!

2007-12-01T08:29:00.000-08:00

I know - the milk is a bit too bubbly, the rosetta looks more like a Christmas tree, but I did it all by myself, so there!

Open Until Noon On Turkey Day

2007-11-22T07:11:00.000-08:00

Yes, I am talking to you.

If you are sitting at home, thinking about how to properly caffeinate yourself before you make that trek to your parents' house in Park Forest (or is Forest Park?), you have three more hours before we starting pouring the magic potion into the sink.

How I Pissed Off The LDS

2007-11-15T17:24:00.000-08:00

So I walk into Stella one day...

Wait, not so fast. First, let me tell you something. Whenever I walk into Stella - my shop, my flesh and blood - everything around me sort of jumps into focus. I can make out muffled conversations in the corners. I can see the fly buzzing against the back wall. Suddenly, I am Tobey Maguire after he slips on his Spiderman outfit. Everything around me slows down and grows more quiet. I think I am supposed be using an oxymoron here, like "deafening silence", or else "silent cacophony". But I've made my point. Back to the story.

...and everything leaps into sharp focus. I can discern muffled conversations in corners. I see a fly buzzing against the back wall. At a table up front, two guys grab my attention. They are young guys, sporting bargain-basement muted-color clothing and homemade haircuts. They are taking turns talking to a girl, their eyes fixated on her. Pinned to their chests are what I first take for name tags, except they are not. They are little plaques, with the words 'The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints'. The letters that spell 'Jesus' are large, they dwarf all the other letters. I recognize that agitprop trick. I remember the many tiny "all hail's" clinging to a giant "Communist Party", back in my own muted-color childhood. The girl is listening to the two guys talk. She is nodding. It must be going well.

When I slip behind the counter, I see Maya gently arching her eyebrows in the direction of the table.

"I know," I say, "indoctrination in progress."

"No," she whispers, "they didn't buy anything." She whispered it quietly, in Russian, which we hardly use any more, as if deeply embarrassed by the whole thing. She was right - I was not so eagle-eyed, after all. Their table was conspicuously bare.

Now, I have to be honest here. I vacillated. I tried to send Maya into battle. I sat at the counter, within earshot of the interlopers' conversation, listening to them drone on about the Bible and 'the Christian life'. At the end, I could stomach the irony no longer. I was going in.

"Hello", I said, sidling up to their table. I did not want them to see me coming. "Can I get you guys anything?"

I focused on one of the guys. I stared deep into his steely Hitler Jugend eyes, searching for a spark, but there was none.

"I'm fine," he said, and looked over to his companion, as did I. I sized him up, thinking about what was going to happen if I had to ask them to leave. His military posture did not bode well for me.

"I'm OK," said the other missionary. He shrugged his shoulders and folded his arms. I figured the other guy must be the leader.

"Well," I said, looking over at the girl, "if you guys would like to stay.."

"I'd like a chai!" The girl blurted that out, as if she was making an instinctive save, not even knowing what the words meant. When I inquired about the size, she seemed puzzled.

They were out of there a few minutes later, but I did not even not know it, because right after the rapprochement, all hell broke loose behind the counter. Our espresso machine began spewing something that was not espresso, an Intelligentsia technician appeared, the machine was taken apart. We went deep into damage control mode, and I became completely absorbed in this new crisis.

As I stood there, discussing yet another inconsistency with the tech, all of a sudden, things slowed down for me. The room came into sharp focus, and I could see the tech, Maya, myself, hear our conversation and all the other conversations in the place. Right there, in the deafening silence of my brain, it hit me. I was being punished.

You see, there is a reason John Smith picked Utah, of all places. The sky is very close in the high desert. Standing on those vermilion cliffs, you really sense the presence of the Big Man Upstairs. So, it was really a piece of cake for those boys to text someone back home and have them beam up a message for the Lord to mete out some quickie punishment.

It makes perfect sense, you know. When they were walking out, they did not look back. It must be because they did not want to turn into pillars of salt. Even the girl did not look back. Oh, they knew. They totally knew. And seriously, who wants to become a pillar of salt?

Well, now the bullshit is so thick my Wellies are getting stuck. One thing is true, though. I do not believe the Bible, but these boys do, so what gives? Did they think saving a wayward soul was worth the minor sin of free-loading? Were they simply broke and too chicken to admit it in front of the girl?

I suspect the LDS believes it to be sound fiscal policy to pass the cost of saving souls onto heathens, which is why their missionaries are forced to exist on a minuscule allowance. Well, if that's their policy, so be it, but it ain't gonna be this heathen paying for it.

The George Costanza mumble

2007-10-18T21:12:00.000-07:00

So Maya and I walked into Cafe Grumpy in Brooklyn a couple of weeks ago.

I didn't want a plain old latte, so I asked the barista if Grumpy made anything with more milk than a macchiato but not as much as a latte:

(barista) - Oh yeah, I can make you a (unintelligible)

(moi) - You can make me a what?

(barista) - a (unintelligible)

(moi) - What is that?

(barista) - Oh, it's like a barista drink - two shots of espresso and a little bit of steamed milk. Some baristas from San Francisco invented it and named it after the Ikea cup they served it in. You know, (unintelligible).

(moi) - Interesting. Can you say it again so I remember it?

The girl leans toward me, looks me straight in the eye, and slowly utters:

(barista) - (unintelligible).

(moi) - Ok, I'll have me one of those, please

The drink was almost as perfect as her George Costanza mumble. I think I make a better (unintelligible). Actually, here at Stella, we love (unintelligible) and take great pride in it. It is sort of our thing. We serve two kinds of (unintelligible) - a traditional latte and a cortado. The former has more milk then the latter, but they both really test the barista's chops and showcase their skills. An (unintelligible) is what I make for myself when I report to Stella.

I scoured the web and Ikea, but my search bore no fruit. No paydirt. I'm sure the cups have been discontinued. Perhaps the girl made the whole thing up, and thence the George Costanza mumble. If there are any Bay Area baristas reading this, please advise.

We Got Yirgacheffe

2007-10-13T07:17:00.000-07:00

After several weeks of pushing strictly blends, we have decided to start featuring single-origin coffee again.

So, this weekend, our dark roast is Ethiopian Yirgacheffe. It comes to us straight from the town Yirga Cheffe (coincidence?) way down in southern Ethiopia. That is what the term 'single origin' refers to. With single origin, the brew you are drinking comes from one place, much like a wine. The opposite of that would be a blend, such as the Black Cat Espresso, or anything offered by Juan Valdez.

According to Intelligentsia, the Yirgacheffe is spicy and deep. According to me, it has some fruit notes, but my crude palate cannot quite distinguish what they are. Basically, it's pretty damn good.

Mainstream cool

2007-10-04T18:43:00.000-07:00

Starting last month, properly prepared espresso and single-origin coffee has officially entered mainstream cool. Both the The New York Times and GQ featured a collection of shops and roasters engaged in a single-minded pursuit of fabulous espresso.

There is an arc that a trend tends to follow. At first, for a while, it is the domain of the lunatic fringe. Eventually, some of their ostensibly normal friends take notice. Then, one day, alll of a sudden everyone is doing it. After another year or so, the New York Times comes out with a piece on the trend, which finally makes it mainstream cool.

When I was in High School, grunge and gangsta rap became mainstream cool. Squeaky clean Wonderbread white teenagers said "fuck the police" a lot, all the while wearing flannel shirts. Lately, urban hipster accoutrements are becoming mainstream cool. Young investment bankers are riding fixed-gear bicycles and, increasingly, asking for Direct Trade single-origin coffee and traditional lattes by name. Fair Trade is out, Direct Trade is in.

Mainstream cool is where you want to be, because that is when you have cachet, yet you are popular with everyone. The downside is that you are inches away from maintsteram uncool, i.e., death. Some phenomena have enough substance to stick around. Others become like Uggs - you may be convinced it has vanished, but then, ~~like a persistent buttrash~~ you spy an entire new boutique opening in the Viagra Triangle. Still, most quickly go the way of the poncho.

Both the New York Times and GQ pieces mentioned the same coterie of shops and roasters - Intelligentsia, Metropolis, Counter Culture, Ninth Street Espresso and Cafe Grumpy in New York. They are all lovely, by the way. Counter Culture is a particularly awesome roaster out of North Carolina that offers 3 different espresso blends, but, according to their sales rep, they do not ship 'this far North'. They do ship to New York, though. The whole exchange reminded me once again about the strange place that Chicago occupies in the national conscience. They think it's cold here. And that's it. That's our image nationwide.

Either way, we still have Intelligentsia, and their Black Cat now has national acclaim. So, although every one of you no doubt thinks of themselves as cool, you are all just a bunch of lemmings, and that is why this weekend, you shall ask for it by name, Sopranos-style, with thumb and index finger together - espress'.

Equipment Failure Week

2007-09-27T20:57:00.000-07:00

So, as part of Equipment Failure Week at Stella, we had our first espresso machine scare. One of our baristas noticed extraneous water inside of our La Marzocco. Frantic phone calls were made and an Intelligentsia technician arrived. After spending a few brief hours putzing around in there, he announced that all was well again.

If it were only so simple. A scare, the way it is usually defined, is something terrifying that comes and goes quickly. One minute the meteor is hurtling towards the Earth, and the next we see fresh-faced children running through lawn sprinklers again. Sure, Bruce Willis is now dead, but that hardly seems a sacrifice.

Now, in the real world, it don't go down that way. You see, after the machine was fixed, Maya and I had realized that we had both stopped drinking the traditional lattes we used to love so much. We both switched to good old drip, thinking that espresso had gotten old for us.

Sily, naive cafe owners we were. When I finally made it to Stella that day, I pulled myself a shot. As soon as the espresso began streaming into the shotglass, I could sense the aroma. It was like ripe fruit, something you have to bite into right away. No choice in the matter, you just have to do it. You can never go off the stuff. So long as it is available, you must have it.

The big scare was not the machine breaking. Rather, it was the damage done by those few days of bad espresso. Maya is mortified, and I am petrified. Is it vice versa? Either way, it's not so good. Of course, the eternal cockeyed optimist that I am, I still sleep at night, but the thought of our faithful drinking overheated, flat espresso does make me cringe. On top of that, we garnered a well-deserved, if somewhat shrill, negative review on Yelp. Actually, I think it was that review that gave my equanimity back to me. Bad publicity beats the shit out of no publicity at all, which means we are still in the TMZ, and on top of that, our product is once again awesome.

That same week, my computer, the one that pretty much runs Stella and houses all of my children's pictures and movies, went completely catatonic mid-surf and never came back. The protracted rescue operation that followed stands in stark contrast to Intelligentsia's speedy handling of La Marzocco. It's like my mother always said - it's good to be a member of the Intelligentsia. And don't you forget it.

My Kinda Town

2007-07-30T17:40:00.000-07:00

That's right, it is my kind of town, because after months of traipsing all over town like the proverbial headless chicken, I once again have a routine. I am once again an ordinary Chicagoan.

I have two jobs, two kids, but only one wives. I spend a chunk of my day staring at a computer monitor inside the Federal Reserve building. I take my coffee at the Monadnock. I cross Federal Plaza hurriedly, trying not to look up the Dirksen. Iffy spot there, you know, gotta keep your head down. Family Secrets? What Family Secrets? I don't know nothing.

I get off the Red Line at Addison along with throngs of drunken sportsfans, except I am there to pick up my daughter from pre-school. You know, when I was a kid, I used to wonder what it would be like to live next to the Bernabeu or the Maracana. Now I realize that it's not as glamorous as I thought. Of course, those that live in the vicinity of those other venues occasionally have something to celebrate. Perhaps their sportsfans know how to properly interfere with play.

I ride the Red Line with my daughter all the way up to Stella, where she promptly, and rather deftly, pours herself a cup of water from the water cooler, and then goes for the cookies in the display case. I knew there was a reason we started this project.

After I close up at night, I take a bus home. Our family logistics preclude me from having a car at that point. Oh well, good riddance. Who needs a car when you can one-fifty-one it home at all hours? Like I said, my kind of town.

Do The Right Thing

2007-07-08T06:48:00.000-07:00

I have today's forecast.

HOT!!!

I ain't no Mister Señor Love Daddy. Instead, I have this ~~pizzeria~~ coffee shop. I think I should hire a delivery girl to walk iced lattes over to sleepy neighbors. Wait a second, I already have one. And I used to be a fine delivery boy myself, in my younger and more vulnerable days.

And so, today, on this hot as a mother Sunday, we deliver to the neighborhood.

773-301-9584.

Call us!

We Are Open!

2007-07-06T10:11:00.000-07:00

That's right, we are open for business, we even have customers and everything. There is a dude in the back of the shop using the WiFi on one of the couches.

So, if you are not in Union Pier splashing around in the lake, come on by!

The Devon Renaissance

2007-06-25T08:52:00.000-07:00

The brick building on the Southeast corner of Devon and Magnolia has just been repainted. I like the new color - it's this creamy sandy straw-y yellow. It makes me think of The Sheltering Sky, Timbuktu, my pack of Camels when I used to carry one, and Dr. Livingstone frantically searching for the source of the Nile.

That color is rather fitting, since, according to Tom, the owner of the Blue Elephant, the corner space in the building will be occupied by an Egyptian place. Yes, that storefront with the door facing the corner that has for years been hiding behind vinyl letters that spelled 'Coming Soon'. I'm not exactly sure what 'Egyptian' means, but I know we are in for some falafel, and some hummus, in the very least.

I also know that this new Egyptian joint is part of the Devon Renaissance, as is Stella, and Urbanimal next door, and the newly opened Viet Bistro. There is also Dhuwan, the hookah lounge. On top of that, there are all kinds of rumours swirling around regarding the now vacant Speakeasy building.

That's a lot of new bidnis for a stretch of Devon that until recently had nothing but two funeral homes and the Babushka House - the gigantic ramshackle Section 8 building on the corner of Devon and Sheridan where everyone's Russian grandmother lives.

Now, does that mean Devon is becoming the new Montmartre/Montparnasse/West Village, or at least the new Andersonville? Hardly. We are about a hundred busy storefronts away from that. We need places that peddle everything from books to furniture. We need haberdashers and milliners, greengrocers and cobblers. We need... Wait, are those professions dead? Indeed they are, or else they are moribund. Apparently, all the old-time professions are dead, except for the undertaker, and Devon has those in spades.

One that is still kicking, though, is the florist. Even in the suburbia the supermarket has been unable to attain complete floral domination. All of us enjoy the knowledge that we can walk into a Jewel, grab a bouquet, pay expeditiously on the Osco side, and be on our way. Still, we do prefer the florist, with his wry smile and his eyes quietly passing judgement as you yet again reach for those roses.

So there you have it - a dashing young, albeit rough around the edges neibhorhood in search of a florist, to help smooth over those edges. Corner storefronts abound. Any takers?

Crazy Coffee Shop Guy

2007-06-24T15:04:00.001-07:00

Have you ever noticed how so many blogs out there have the word 'crazy' in the title? There is the Crazy Guy on a Bike, then come many a John's, Jane's, Steve's or Rajeev's Crazy Blog, not to mention the demented rantings of various crazy professionals - the insane college student, the certifiable flight instructor, the mad insurance salesman.

Apparently, crazy sells, so here I am, the Crazy Coffee Shop Guy, polluting the air with my insane inanities. I am not going anywhere, and even though there is a lot less to talk about buildout-wise, there is still plenty to discuss. In the next few days, I plan to elaborate on the topics of the Devon Renaissance, Millwaukee, and the traditional latte, to name a few.

Stay tuned or you'll miss all the crazyness.

July 6th

2007-06-18T07:49:00.000-07:00

That's right - Friday, July 6th is when we are going to have our Grand Opening. Actually, we have no plans for it to be particularly grand. It will be no more grand than every subsequent day in the life of Stella Espresso Company, but also no less.

We will be opening at 6:30 am, so you can get your morning latte on with us before your grueling two hour Red Line ride downtown. Make sure you tell everyone on the train where you got it.

We will stay open until 10:30 pm, so you can come in for a late evening double espresso fix before you hit whatever it is you hit at night - bars, clubs, the library, the all night dungeons & dragons session, what have you. I am sure you know what your scene is, so you can let Stella be your launching pad.

Don't forget - Friday, July 6th, 6:30am to 10:30pm, corner of Devon and Lakewood.

Mystic Coffee

2007-06-13T08:33:00.000-07:00

As I was trudging down the alley off Devon after midnight last night, loaded down with about a ton of trash, I spotted a book lying on the pavement. A hardcover, no less. I bent down, trying to read its title without spilling the junk I was carrying. It was a long title, and I couldn't focus on it at first in the dim back alley lighting. But when I finally did, I read 'The Man from St. Petersburg'.

That was quite eerie, because, you know, that would be, since this is where I grew up. Now, what might that mean? Should I treat it as a good sign or a sinister omen? Is there a hidden message in this cheap (albeit hardbound) edition of one of many of Ken Follett's historical thrillers? Oh no, not the Kabbalah again! Right.

At the end, I decided to take it as a welcome mat of sorts. The thing is, I broke a mirror inside Stella the other day, so I think this was the spirits of the building sending me a message: "Don't you worry, dude from St. Petersburg, that was just a crappy old mirror, and we are still 'thrilled' that you are here."

On a more practical note, if this is your book and you want it back, you can pick it up at Stella.

Dare To Be Urban

2007-06-10T22:33:00.001-07:00

Here is something that has become an occasional weekend morning routine for us: after everyone rolls out of bed, Maya and I take our two girls and walk a mile and a half to Intelligentsia.

Once there, we outmaneuver everyone for a spot outside, where we drink our coffee and feed the kids breakfast. I listen to Maya fret and quip about how we make too big a deal about going to Intelligentsia. The place is not even that great, she says. The Wi-Fi isn't free, the wait is interminable, and worst of all, inexplicably, they do not stock bagels.

I heard it all before, but yesterday it was different - with our daughter jumping up and down clamoring for more food, I had to think on my feet. So, in a moment of clarity, I got up, walked the 50 feet to The Bagel, and brought back a wonderful, life-affirming sesame bagel, slathered thick with cream cheese. Smiles all around ensued.

That was some urban ingenuity, wouldn't you say? Not really, considering we've been privately bitching about the bagel situation for years. Nonetheless, dense as we are, we are pretty good at making the city serve as our surrogate back yard.

For the privilege, we give up an actual backyard, and also some square footage. Our apartment is becoming increasingly Japanese, where soon in order to buy something we will need to throw something else out, and we often rue the lack of a rabu hoteru industry in this country. Still, when we are sitting in our back yard and realize that we are out of bagels, we don't need to drive to the supermarket to get them. Wherever you are, everything is just a dart across the street away.

And so, time and again, we find a table under a tree, and as we watch the world go by, we can see wayward Cubs fans as they are making their way back to their car. Their faces always betray discomfort, as if they'd been caught on their front lawn wearing nothing but a towel. It has something to do with their not knowing how to find a public bathroom in the city, but also with feeling naked without their cars. Either way, we don't envy them. We feel smug and superior, because we dare to be urban.