May 02, 2023 | Read Online

It smells like butter

An argument for good enough.

Cole Schafer
May 02, 2023

As of last count, there were 3,890 coffee shops scattered around New York City. I love New York City and I love coffee shops in New York City and it overwhelms me with a genuine sadness to know there isn't a snow cones chance in hell that I will ever be able to write in all of them before I keel over and die.

New York coffee shops are a metaphor for what the psychologist Barry Schwartz calls the paradox of choice, a theory that suggests a plethora of options requires more effort to choose from––and can leave the chooser feeling dissatisfied with their choice––than say, two or three options.

I think the reason a lot of options tend to overwhelm us is because subconsciously they remind us of our own mortality. I'm reminded of how little time I have on this Earth when I type in the words "coffee shop" on the glowing face of my phone, I see a sea of red dots wash over Manhattan and I'm then forced to choose just one.

Every time I find myself in New York, I fall in love with a new coffee shop. It usually takes me a day to settle into the right spot but when I do, I return there again and again like a dog does its favorite sun-washed spot on the hardwood.

When I'm on the upper east side, I write from a beautiful little basement coffee shop belonging to a family of coffee shops called 787. It's not much bigger than a walk-in closet and I have to step down into it from the street up above. It's like a New York Hobbit Hole: warm, dimly lit and the perfect amount of dingy. I like writing there because I can look out its squatty little windows and watch the shoes and panted legs of passerby blur by in their rush to God knows where (I wasn't aware until just now that the plural form of passerby is passerby).

When I'm in Greenwich Village, I write from a Stumptown that sits on a busy corner, three or four doors down from Jimi Hendrix's old flat, which has since been transformed into a legendary recording studio. Electric Lady is where Lou Reed recorded Sally Can't Dance, AC/DC recorded Back in Black, David Bowie Young Americans, Stevie Wonder Talking Book, Patti Smith Horses and Jimi Hendrix Electric Ladyland. I take a seat on the bench there that runs the length of the building's exposed brick wall and I sip a squatty bottle of Stumptown Cold Brew and I imagine myself as a conduit, catching the bolts of lightning thrown from the rooftop of Hendrix's old three floor apartment just a short jaunt away.

When I'm in Soho, I write from a bakery called Krispy Heaven. Unfortunately, they recently hung up a sign banning the use of laptops; a decision I both loved and hated them for. I wrote a piece a couple days back contemplating whether it's better to be liked or respected. Where I eventually landed was that it's better to be respected because the desire to be liked can cultivate in us qualities that will inevitably lead to shame. I don't like Krispy Heaven as much as I used to but I respect the hell out of them, which is why I make it a point to enjoy a generous slice of their Olive Oil Cake anytime I'm in the neighborhood.

During my most recent trip to Soho, I wrote from a shop called Now or Never. Save for the flat, rectangular seating that leaves my ass feeling like it suffered corporal punishment or climbed atop a teeter-totter with Jabba the Hutt on the other end, I quite like writing from there. They pull a sturdy espresso and the place always smells of buttered croissants which I overhead––whilst writing the piece you're reading now––that they make in-house.

I do a lot of eavesdropping in coffeeshops. I used to be ashamed of this God-awful trait but after reading that Steinbeck once did the same, I'm less so.

In Travels With Charley, John Steinbeck wrote...

"

I am not shy about admitting that I am an incorrigible Peeping Tom. I have never passed an unshaded window without looking in, have never closed my ears to a conversation that was none of my business. I can justify or even dignify this by protesting that in my trade I must know about people, but I suspect I am simply curious.

”

Yesterday morning while doing a bit of writing (and eavesdropping), I overhead a conversation between a man with a Swedish accent and a woman working the barista counter discussing the origin of the establishment's croissants.

Customer: "Ahhh! It smells like butter."

Barista: "Croissants."

Customer: "Are they made in-house?"

Barista: "Yes."

Barista: "Ahhh! That's why it smells like butter!"

It was awkwardly silent in the coffeeshop after the customer said the word "butter" a third time in a 20 second window upon ordering, yes you guessed it, a buttered croissant.

I couldn't help but feel like I was on witnessing the making of a particularly corny porno titled something along the lines of Bread lover butters baker's croissant.

What I appreciated about the Swede, despite all his inappropriate talk of butter, was that he knew exactly what he wanted the moment he walked into Now or Never.

He didn't ask about the blueberry muffins or the apple turnovers or the vegan tacos or the overnight oats. He smelled the butter wafting off of the croissants and he knew exactly what he wanted.

In a world where nobody knows what the fuck they want, an individual who does demands a certain amount of attention and respect. I wanted to sit across from this croissant lover and ask him if he was so sure about every aspect of his life and how I, too, could become sure.

The beauty and the tragedy in life that this croissant lover intimately understands is that it's over before we know it. For many of us, it's over the moment we start enjoying it; the moment we feel we've figured it all out.

And in a world where the options for coffeeshops, records, adult films and baked goods are endless, it's less about choosing the best option and more about choosing an option that is good enough.

It's about figuring out a way to be fully present and thankful in every decision that we make, to stumble upon a magnificent gem like our cheery Swedish friend and say...

Ahhh! It smells like butter.

And then, order the fucking croissant.

By Cole Schafer.

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