Zen & the Art of Gas Station Coffee
There are few pleasures in life that match the ecstasy of gas station coffee -- something I discovered during one summer spent as a landscaper. My parents said the job would build character but I’m pretty sure it was punishment for my third speeding ticket in as many months. Look, gas station coffee isn’t sexy like a pour over light roast Ethiopian Yirgacheffe made by the goth 18-year-old barista at my local coffee shop, but it’s good enough. She made her English professor cry last week and I have a suspicion that she has been spitting in my cup ever since I ordered a “grande” instead of a medium, but she knew how to make a great Americano.
Back in Manhattan, I would lie to my friends and tell them I could tell the difference between the macchiato at Maman and the $1.00 coffee at McDonalds but here in Two Harbors no one gives a shit. Hell, they don’t even know what a Maman is. More important than the fact that gas station coffee is good is that it’s efficient, and my father always told me if I can be one thing, I should be efficient. Holiday Stationstores offers a $5.99 monthly beverage subscription, which means that I can get a large cup of coffee for 20 cents a day. They must be up-charging the shit out of their gas to stay in business at that price, but I get my gas from the Kwik Trip anyway so it doesn’t matter much to me. I suppose that’s not exactly efficient, but then again, I never was all that great at listening to my father.
My buddy Jimmy swears by Folgers but I’m not sure I’m ready to stoop that low. In all fairness, he is also much happier than I am so maybe he’s onto something. He also Venmo requests his girlfriend for 35 cents when she comes over to his house and eats a bowl of his cereal, that cheap bastard, so who knows. I love him to death, but Jimmy isn’t exactly playing with a full deck of cards and I’m pretty sure he still thinks George W is president so there’s a chance his happiness has more to do with pure ignorance than the kind of coffee he drinks. I’ve gotten slightly off track here.
Gas station coffee falls in this sweet spot, and I’d imagine greasy spoon diner coffee does as well, although the only diner in Two Harbors closed about 3 years ago on account of the owner was laundering money through it. If you’re anything like me, your Instagram feed is likely full of picture-perfect matcha-lavender-cardamom lattes that taste like shit, infographics on why terrorism is bad (as if that’s something that needed explaining), and the entire world seems to be pining for the adoration and respect of 18-24 year olds with half-finished degrees from the New School. How exhausting. I’ll stick to my gas station drip. If it’s a rare hot summer day in northern Minnesota, I might even spoil myself and make it iced. Janice will greet me by name with a smile when I walk in and tell me to have a blessed day on my way out, and I’ll be happy.
It is my personal philosophy that the best things in life are the ones that the snobbiest person you know thinks tastes like shit and that the Jimmy in your life could never fathom coughing up the cash for. I’ve never met someone who dislikes more beers than a guy who claims to enjoy quadruple IPAs, and people who chose to drink Natural Light outside of a frat basement I imagine to be masochists, but a fella who enjoys Coors Light will never complain as long as the mountains are blue.
