Coffeehouse is not the same old grind
Writers and coffee go together like deadlines and trying to avoid starting your article with a cliché.
There used to be only one place to concentrate/caffeinate/procrastinate in Somerville's Union Square: the Sherman Cafe. When a second coffeehouse opened in October, a tremor ran through the freelance community.
"The Sherman" is a perpetual work in progress, with a scratched-up wood floor, a bathroom papered with articles from the owner's old humor paper, great scones, and the occasional fruit fly.
The new Bloc 11 inhabited a former bank. The place was gorgeous. Immediately, the upstart seemed like a rival.
It was ridiculous, I knew. Bloc 11 is a community-spirited enterprise by the women who own the Diesel Cafe in Davis Square. Said fellow freelancer and Sherman regular Elisabeth Donnelly, "It's weird that they are in a position where they can kind of be villainous."
Yet Bloc 11 triggered my gentrification antennae. Would the cafe draw more people to discover still-somewhat-shabby Union Square? Would my rent go up? (Never mind that more traffic would benefit all businesses - and that a New York transplant can't exactly consider herself "old school," even if she did convert to the Red Sox before they won the 2004 Series.)
Writer friend Chris Braiotta called it "Stalag 17."
Elisabeth tried pouring cream on troubled espresso. "Can two coffee shops exist?" she asked.
That was my question. I feared the sparkling new cafe would put the Sherman out of business.
Though a lunch buddy complains he can never find a seat on Saturdays, I usually found myself one of just a handful of laptop campers on weekday afternoons.
The Sherman extended its hours, then shortened them again - I assumed for lack of business. I trembled; I also tsked. Can't go to a coffee shop that closes at 5 on days you don't change out of your pajamas until 3. (I know: Life is rough.) Bloc 11 stayed open much later.
On the other hand, the Sherman had free Wi-Fi and Bloc 11 didn't. But then again, Internet access can be distracting.
All this stress, and I hadn't even checked out Bloc 11 yet. Frankly, I was scared I'd love it.
Finally, one winter day, I ventured forth. The counters shone. A gas fire burned in the back room. Sandwiches came with an artful tousle of greens. A handsome man smiled at me. Since I couldn't get online, I actually got work done. Eek. Was I headed for the dark side?
Elisabeth was. She thought the new place had better chairs, lattes, and service. (She also lived next door.)
Chris, who disliked the Diesel, tried Bloc 11 once and never went back. He thought the old place had better chairs and cappuccinos, and "they put them in the proper cup." Serving drinks in the wrong china is "just supremely irritating," he said, adding, "of course, I'm a total crank."
He also performs with Sherman co-owner Ben Dryer in the Union Square Round Table comedy group. Asked about bias, Chris said that he had "this absurd jeremiad way before I joined the Round Table, but it certainly affirmed my affections. Ben is exactly the sort of awkward weirdo I want to be getting coffee from."
As the winter deepened I found myself working at Bloc 11 from time to time, drawn by the sight of Elisabeth in the front corner, using her own apartment's wireless. The world didn't screech to a halt.
Then Elisabeth moved to New York. And there wasn't any reason for me to stop into Bloc 11 anymore. Though I found the cafe's scone display off-putting (they put them right on the counter), I had no real objections. I just liked the cozy Sherman better.
Where, hackneyed or not, I feel a sense of community. It's not a place where everybody knows your name; I never remember the name of that guy with the ponytail. I still go only twice a week, maybe. But I see servers at PA's Lounge around the corner. Members of Dryer's company wave or tell me, again, about their punk-rock prom. Chris and I occasionally grouse in tandem.
It struck me that my reaction to Bloc 11 was like my reaction to "Beverly Hills, 90210" in eighth grade. First I rejected it based on overblown and absurd principles. Then I guiltily enjoyed it for the same reason. Then I simply let go of the question.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have e-mail to check. . . . I mean a story to file. This calls for a refill. 