The first time I walked in, I almost walked out. I felt like the tool that asks "Who?" when someone mentions Lady Gaga. I was intimidated, embarrassed. The rock I had been living under before moving to the neighbourhood didn't seem to want to budge from the top of my head.
There was no menu board, no signs suspended from the ceiling. The espresso machine prominently displayed on the counter allowed me to hazard an order, fearing retribution from the hip-looking clientele if my order was too simple, too difficult, too plain, or too out-there.
"An Americano, please. For here."
I figured the espresso and hot water combination was permissible. The androgynous barista nodded; no verbal response was going to interrupt his/her singing-along to a Sloan song I assumed no one liked besides me.
"$2."
I like rounded, even numbers. I like exact change.
I like JetFuel. A lot.
The Cabbagetown fixture has been in business since 1992. The concept is simple and judging by the long lines I wait in during each visit, it works. The non-existent menu consists only of espresso-based drinks, lemonade, tea, and a small selection of baked goods that rarely last a whole day.
The crowd is diverse. Thanks to JetFuel's long association with cycling, including sponsoring its own team, it has a devoted legion of bike messengers. Orders often get announced by customer name; there are a lot of regulars.
20-somethings wearing wayfarers and plaid line the people-watching coffee bar. Moms who look more like just-past-their-hayday supermodels push strollers back and forth, lulling babies to sleep.
I belong to the student crowd, mouth-wide open catching flies between urgent swallows of caffeine and desperate typing, furiously banging out words for an essay.
My loyalty to JetFuel was cemented by a chance meeting it fostered last week. Banging out said words while chugging said coffee led to a conversation with the man sitting in front of me.
He asked for the time, I answered. "11:36."
He asked what I was working, I answered. "A feature piece on an abandoned ballroom."
45 minutes later, I had talked Sesame Street, journalism, and the American Civil war with Mr. Barry Brown - Pulitzer-price nominated journalist, screenwriter, and contributor to the Washington Times. We exchanged contact information. The green journalism student makes connection with big-time writer.
Could this have happened in a neighbourhood Starbucks? Maybe. But I like to think the JetFuel atmosphere - loud music, bare-bones menu, mish-mash of customers - was responsible for encouraging such an introduction.
B.B and I are meeting next week to discuss upcoming writing projects. Over Americanos, served in milkshake glasses, sitting at the people-watching coffee bar, listening to baristas belting out the words to a Stones song.
