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Conventional wisdom holds that New York City moves quickly, its millions of people going about their business at a frenetic pace at all hours of the day and night, restlessly passing from one task to another.  It is not far wrong; simply walking down a sidewalk in The City often demands weaving and dodging among hordes of people united only in the hurry with which they make their separate ways from place to place with little concern for their surroundings beyond their ability to be exploited and their potential to cause harm--if even for so much as that.  A nervousness develops thereby that itself demands a more hectic series of actions to work it off, feeding into a cycle that conspires against the people who live and work in The City.

That frenetic, nervous haste demands much energy, more than can be effectively had from cream-cheese-smeared bagels and slices of greasy cheese pizza (both of which can be easily and cheaply found at almost any time in almost any place in The City).  Most frequently, caffeine is what is used to supplement the need, and it is delivered most commonly through something mangled in the mouths of locals as "coafee" although written as "coffee."

With coffee, I am long and abundantly familiar, as those who know me know.  But I find that I am something of an oddity in my intimacy with it, even in The City where much that is elsewhere exceedingly strange is a daily occurrence.  For although The City is a place of coffee drinkers, it is a place where the basic form of a thing is rarely acceptable.  It is part of the character of this place that people cannot leave well enough alone.  Clothes must be accessorized, apartments personalized, and idiosyncrasies indulged.  Coffee must be adjusted through sugar and milk and other flavorings that make the black and bitter brew something else--except, it seems, for me.

I take my coffee black.

I must admit that The City is not the only place where my propensity to drink coffee that is untainted and unadulterated by milk or cream, by sugar or one of the substitutes therefore, or by flavorings naturally and artificially evocative of ice creams and candies has struck people oddly.  When I was in my graduate coursework, before I came to the Big Apple, I had access to coffee pots operated by the department of which I was part, and I made good use of that access, downing another cup every hour or so as long as I was in the building and the department offices were open.  Never did I introduce cream or sugar into my cup as did nearly all others who availed themselves of the most welcome service.  And it was remarked upon that I did not do so, usually alongside comments such as "I can never drink it black; it's too strong for me."

It might be remarked that my drinking my coffee as I drink it is an indication that my palate is blunt and undiscriminating, that I have so abused my gustatory senses that only a sharp shock registers with them anymore--much as someone who listens to loud sounds loses the ability to hear soft ones.  But it might also be remarked--and more accurately, I think--that my refusal to cover up the taste of brewed, burnt beans has left me better able to actually perceive that taste and to understand more finely the subtle distinctions among blends and roasts.  And lest it be thought that I have made myself some sort of hyper-pretentious gourmand who scoffs at the plain thereby, let it be remarked that I do not buy for my deep daily drinking civet coffee or high-dollar exotic blends, but instead a common red-bagged coffee found easily in Louisiana and some few other places.

I drink other coffees, certainly, and I enjoy them.  But I do not do so daily.  I do not orient my life around being able to make it by coffee shops local and international.  Instead, I brew a pot (or two, for a long day) at home as I have done for a decade and more, showing in it the working-class background that is mine.  In it, I remain grounded in my origins, and I am glad of it.