Out of the pot & into Starbucks

BY STEVE JANOSKI

As a longtime patron and something of a caffeine addict, I have a long, storied history with Dunkin’ Donuts.

Several important moments of my life have occurred in Dunkin’ Donuts parking lots, and the lunch breaks of countless miserable work days were spent in those orange and brown shops.

Their coffee and a Marlboro Light made up my daily breakfast, and I wasn’t the only one — go to any construction site in America where Carhartt-wearing guys are lounging around when they’re supposed to be working, and you’ll see the crumpled-up wax paper bags and cardboard cups everywhere.

But then about four or five years ago, the unthinkable happened: the quality plummeted.

Maybe it happened earlier, or maybe it was never that good to begin with, and I just couldn’t tell until I quit smoking and regained my sense of taste. But it seemed that as the price rose, so did the frequency of the burnt coffee.

Eventually, it got to the point where I began to believe the cup itself might taste better than what was inside it.

Unfortunately, finding a new shop proved difficult (especially because Dunkin’ Donuts has effectively saturated North Jersey with stores), but I was so disgusted that I turned to what I’d previously regarded as the "Evil Empire," Starbucks.

I’d always had a sort of irrational hatred for that chain, mostly due to references in the movie "Fight Club," but I’d also never really been in one, so I decided to give it a shot.

But the picture I held in my mind’s eye of what it might be like was a brutal one: long lines of yuppies taking 10 minutes to order drinks I can’t pronounce (macchiato?) with an air of pretentiousness normally reserved for comedians imitating the French.

It would be terrible. I knew it was going to be terrible.

Regardless, I went in anyway.

Oh God, it was terrible.

At the one I went to, a crowd of younger, college-looking kids was gathered outside, effeminately smoking cigarettes while wearing jeans they stole from their sisters and flannel shirts that went perfectly with their black, thickly framed glasses.

When I opened the door, "pretentious" jumped from around the corner and punched me in the teeth. Several customers had mistaken the place for the Library of Congress and spread their papers and laptops everywhere, their faces painted with the kind of misery normally reserved for English grad students writing theses on Foucault.

Admittedly though, the staff was very nice, although their language was somewhat confounding.

"I’ll have a small coffee," I told the girl behind the counter.

"Oh a tall?"

"What? No. A small."

"Yea, tall."

"Yes. Fine. Tall. Whatever."

I said it nicely though (I swear I did), but there was no hiding that I did not exactly fit in.

But the coffee, unfortunately, was good. Very good. And you get a bigger cup than you do at Dunkin’ Donuts for virtually the same price, and they even have flavored powders by the cream and sugar.

Also, the food tastes better — I’m nearly convinced that, in sharp contrast to Dunkin’ Donuts, Starbucks makes their baked goods in the same month they sell them.

Damn. It.

Now, I’m stuck. When I go, I walk in quickly, head down and collar up, order my coffee, and sprint out the door like Ray Rice seeing daylight, oftentimes just vaulting the couch-like chairs they undoubtedly bought when Borders went under.

In order to keep my proclivity towards judging other people in check, I try not to look at anyone, although I have been known to trip those who I think are going to make it to the counter before me.

And maybe one or two people with laptops.

So, in short… get your act together, Dunkin’ Donuts. Do it for me. And for what we had together.

Please.

Email: janoski@northjersey.com

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