Quote Originally Posted by The Wizard of BC View Post
Seeing as how we are reminiscing about our most well remembered cup of coffee......
I can't say I remember individual cups of coffee, but I can remember kinds of coffee. MY old man was a US Army cavalryman. From back in the days when "cavalry" meant horses. He made some memorable coffee on fishing trips, over the campfire. Always at night, for some reason, and then complained like h**l because he couldn't sleep.

My favourite coffee story revolves around a little place that still stands in Corvallis, Oregon: The Peacock Tavern. As a motorcycle rider in the years when I lived there, it was THE place to go for that "certain crowd." You could learn a lot about manners hanging out with some of those guys. Mostly how to keep your mouth shut, or how to duck fast.

Anyway, a late-fall ride in that famous Oregon rain usually left me shivering. Most of those rides would include a stop at the Peacock. Not for alcohol, booze and bikes don't mix. For coffee.

Behind the bar was a long-haired son of righteousness named Fred. Fred could rebuild a ULH or a Knuck with his eyes closed, but his real calling in life was running the bar. I'd squelch in with rain dripping off my ears and Fred would look me over while shaking his head. Then he'd say something like, "Tuesday." I'd reply, "Please."

From reading Steve's story you know what "Tuesday" means. Fred had about a 30-gallon pot on a shelf. He'd stoke it up with a whole can of coffee and fill it with a garden hose. He'd coax a cup out of it, carry it reverently down the length of the bar, and put it squarely on a white paper napkin in front of me.

Then he'd reach under the bar and come up with a can of instant hot cocoa, fish a clean spoon out of the spoon bucket, place them next to the cup and say, "That'll cut the acid a little."

After the first cup I'd order some greasy fries to hold it down, and chase that with another couple cups of coffee. Somewhere in the middle of all that my leathers would dry with a quiet hiss. By the time I got back on the sled for the run home, my cheeks were numb, my eyeballs hot, and I was vibrating in tune with that old solid-mount V-twin -- so fast that I could actually read licence plates in the rearview, instead of just seeing the usual spinning headlights. (You ride a Harley, you know what I'm talking about...)

As Agent Cooper said, "There's nothin' like a good cuppa joe."