“Regular coffee,” I ordered. “Regular? What does that mean?” she seemed to say and quickly moved on to another customer. She was beautiful. Everyone here was slim, with clean hair. I felt like an oily otter. When people don’t want to deal with you, they give you a little more time and hope you’ll vanish. “I’m sorry. What do you want?” Was coffee still regular? In every bodega in New York City, “regular” meant the same thing. Three sugars, milk, and some watery brown liquid swirled together to taste like home. In Portland, there was no “regular” anything. That seemed to be the whole point of places like the Ace. … Continue reading Marc Spitz