I found a spot that serves the most incredible coffee presented in delightful clay vessels. The mastery starts with a slurry of maple syrup, then the barista does his magic with the right amount of water pressure filtering through finely-ground beans, next comes the frothy milk and the dusting of cinnamon on the heart emblem that seals the ritual with love. It’s not my antidote sprinkling I wrote about a couple of squares ago, but the local sludgy maple syrup makes it out of this world—it’s the only place outside of my nest I indulge in a cup of Joe. Here’s the result of a reading of my coffee grains, if anyone does such readings, I’m all ears especially if you say my future has room for just enough sweetness and not blah at all. Seriously, isn’t this vessel a megastar even without the goodness inside all a washed?
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