Coffee culture in Anacortes

Coffee kiosk1

On the west coast, the coffee culture is rich, full bodied and intense. They know their coffee, and they like it. Which calls into question why Starbucks remains in business in these here parts. Maybe they’re rooting for the home team that conquered the world.

On our first trip to Washington State, years ago, we toured the Olympic Peninsula, which remains one of the great experiences of my life. Gargantuan cedars and dripping rainforests and vast thundering beaches strewn with boulders and the bleached bones of dinosaurs.

At the tail end of that trip (or was it near the beginning?), in the middle of nowhere, we found ourselves driving through a Native reservation and were struck by the sight of a dilapidated roadside trailer parked on a patch of gravel. Espresso, declared a hand-painted sign. How could we resist?

In the shadowed interior, dreamcatchers hung from the plywood ceiling, posters of Native warriors were scotch taped to the corrugated tin walls. A Native girl, no more than fifteen, reluctantly rose from her stool. She was surly in the way of all fourteen-year-olds who know their time could be better spent at the mall with her pals.

Behind her stood a gleaming, brand new Italian monster at full pressure. We ordered a double espresso, a cappuccino and biscotti, all of them excellent.

Coffee kiosk2
On our first trip to Anacortes, right outside this coffee kiosk, on a Sunday morning, the middle-aged and elderly exercised their right to free speech by pacing back and forth on opposite sides of the street and holding up signs. SUPPORT OUR TROOPS was the argument on one side, MAKE LOVE, NOT WAR on the other side.
This was in 2014, when the idea of a Trump presidency would have elicited laughter on both sides of the street. In Anacortes, the exercise in free speech continues every Sunday morning.
Plywood lookout
Anacortes Veneer, which donated this slice of Douglas Fir, went under generations ago, but the roadside lookout remains. I went behind some bushes for a much-needed pee, and to get a look at the view. I was promised Fidalgo Bay in the foreground, where millions of logs were once assembled for the devouring sawmills, and Mount Baker, in its snowy cap and shawl, in the distance. But there was nothing. Just an impenetrable screen of blackberry bushes and evergreens. Revenge of the trees.

Greek coffee in Park Ex

Coffee culture is equally strong among Greeks, where it’s an essential mid-afternoon social lubricant, usually accompanied with several packs of cigarettes.

I often watched my mother read people’s fortunes in their coffee cups. Among Greeks, this is quite common. You simply turn your empty demitasse upside down on its saucer for a few minutes, to allow the coffee grounds to slide down the sides. The soothsayer (i.e. my mother) picks up the cup, turns it slowly in her hand, and closes one eye in a manner freighted with meaning.

I watched her do it plenty of times, and I could never tell if she was conning the neighbours or herself. According to her, the coffee patterns revealed everything: financial windfalls, a death in the Old Country, a meddlesome in-law, a hat trick by Jean Beliveau. Once, in the delicate language employed by adults in the presence of children, she suggested that a baby had been taken before its time. The young woman whose fortune was being told burst into tears.

My mother showed me how. It’s easy, like lying on your back, having a smoke and staring at the clouds. There goes Goofy, followed by Dolly Parton, and, bringing up the rear, a roast turkey.

Every hour or so, a freight train blasted out of a hole in the mountain and, after about a mile, enter an identical hole in the next mountain. Right in the middle, beside the railroad tracks, is Taylor’s. Mud flats as far as the eye can see and acres of oyster beds. People come from miles around for trays of oysters and buckets of beer. As they eat, their kids wander into the mud flats and sink up to their knees. Their dads, cursing with every step, come to the rescue, tugging skinny limbs from the sucking mud.
The best spots at Taylor’s, equipped with barbecues and picnic tables, are commandeered by Asians with piles of children. They toast slices of bread and grill the oysters, picking up the meat with chopsticks and slurping from the shells.
Mini lighthouse
A short drive away lies a dot on the map called Edison. If you’re in the area in February, you can enjoy the Edison Chicken Parade. “People and poultry flock to Edison to participate in this annual parade,” declares the local guidebook. Alas, the date for this year’s Chicken Parade has “yet to be determined.”
Western marine
Efthemios Demopoulos emigrated to the United States in 1907 and soon founded Anacortes Junk Company, later rechristened Marine Supply and Hardware Company, the oldest continuously operating hardware store west of the Mississippi. He did such a roaring trade with commercial boats, that in 1956 he donated ten city blocks to Anacortes. On our first visit, I saw an attenuated descendant sitting behind a desk and surveying his vast emporium of useful and useless ware. The place had definitely come down. It also pandered to tourists such as myself. On this last visit, I asked about the founding family. The descendant sold up three years ago, I was told. But inside, in the older part of the store, glows a small glass shrine to Efthemios.
At dusk and especially on Sunday evenings, Anacortes is Nowheresville, U.S.A. We like places just like this — endlessly fascinating in their particularity and eccentricity. It’s our third trip to Anacortes. We’ll be back.

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