Coffee with the Queen of Darkness

I am driving Route 70 from St. Louis to Columbia, Missouri. As far as I can tell the landscape of Central Missouri is largely characterized by darkness, punctuated by gargantuan truck stops. I stop at one of these miniature cities for a cup of decaf, and marvel at the acres of diesel pumps, banks of showers, restaurants, medical facilities (“DOT approved checkups!”), hotels, and shopping centers. One even has a country-western bar attached to it. I have read that some host full-time houses of prostitution, though I saw no evidence of this. The place is brightly lit to the point of pain, which I suppose must be a respite from the dim cocoon of a diesel cab and the hypnotic centerline. It’s a city for sure, one with a gritty working-class feel to it, but one where the clock has gone topsy-turvy and night is often busier than day. Driving on, I arrive at the hotel very late and sleep poorly. Perhaps the decaf wasn’t.

After teaching the next day, in search of barbecued ribs, I head West instead of East on highway 70. Some 15 miles from town I meet up again with the Missouri, home from its big loop southward. It is really wide here, and quite beautiful. The river makes a little loop to the north, and the inside of the loop is completely flooded. The river and floodplain are silver, the foliage a spectacular spring shade of green that’s enhanced by the rich red of the sunset.

Downtown Columbus seems prosperous, urbane yet small-townish, not entirely drained of its life by the mega malls that ring the city. Like Burlington it’s very much a college town and is remarkably peaceful after school is out for the year. As in Burlington there are accretions of evil 1960s modernization on top of beautiful historic structures though many of the structures have been well-maintained or preserved. Overall the town looks a little less trendy, less prosperous, and somehow less loved than Burlington.

Near my hotel (Holiday Inne, Lower Middle on the Aminzade scale, 46″ towel, shampoo/conditioner combo), are the usual biztravel restaurant suspects: the Outback Steak House, Olive Garden, Pizzeria Uno and so on. Since I avoid these like typhoid-infested water, I’m pleased that the town has some interesting ethnic choices — mostly Chinese but a few decent-looking Indian and Thai places. There is even a Japanese restaurant, Osaka, though I wonder who but a homesick native of Nippon would dare order Sushi so far from the ocean.

I dine at the Buckingham Smoke House. Though it violates one of my rib joint rules (the chairs all match), the fact that it’s in what appears to be a converted A&W rootbeer stand makes it a promising candidate. In fact, the ribs are outstanding. They have managed to smoke them exactly the way I wish all ribs were smoked. There is not a trace of fat on them and they have a crispy crust and a deep, smoky flavor. For the first time in my life I regret having purchased a half-rack. Only the sauce — too sweet and not spicy enough — prevents this from being the Platonic ideal of a rib-eating experience, the dinner that would resolve my long search and allow me to return to vegetarianism.

I’m very proud of my ability to intuit urban geography. I can find, without a map or directory, the kinds of stores and restaurants I like. This requires a glance at a map, a few minutes walking or driving around a city, and what Robert Heinlein called “grokking.” My instincts and a few signboards tell me that a lot of bohemian businesses are on Sixth street, so I turn down there the next morning and sure enough find an espresso joint almost immediately.

At first it looks like a real gem — the walls are decorated with beautiful Middle-Eastern water pipes and Arabic calligraphy, the pastry counter has pistachio halvah, the clientele looks seedy but well-educated, and the newspaper rack has the New York Times. But I soon learn that I’ve made a terrible mistake. The first hint is the chalkboard over the checkout counter, which I assumed would list pastries or specials or perhaps coffees or teas. I discover that it lists rules. In case you’re ever in Columbus, let me give you the rules of the Osama’s Coffee Zone:
1) We ID Tobacco Sales
2) Refills available same visit only
3) Restrooms for Customers Only
4) Only local checks will be accepted

I order coffee and a muffin, and I’m shocked by the irritable, unfriendly tone of the bitter 30ish woman who gets my muffin. She asks if I want it warmed. I say “no.” She explains that the muffin is refrigerator-cold. I say “Okay, then yes.” The woman has remarkable powers of communication. In this short interchange she somehow manages to let me know that the muffin is going to be lousy, that I’m an idiot, that she hates her job, and that it’s mostly because of fools like me who constantly irritate her with ill-informed and annoying requests.

The beautiful brass, glass, and wooden hookah pipes have their own little notice “Pipes are on exhibit only. Not for sale.” One wall has, every six feet, a small plastic “thank you for not smoking” plaque. The newspaper rack warns that the papers are for sale, not for reading. The coffee-creaming station reminds us that “all children must be supervised by their parents at all times.” The hallway to the bathroom reiterates rule #3 “Restroom for customers only.”

I down my coffee and swallow the muffin quickly, before I can be accused of violating a rule. The coffee is bitter to me, less from a poor quality bean or bad roasting than from the attention it’s received from the Queen of Darkness behind the counter and her creepy Jordanian boss, the mad notifier. As I hop in my car and drive away, though, I discover that my urban intuition hasn’t failed — several doors down there is a coffee house that looks far more friendly and roasts the beans on premises.