Social Climes : Coffee Snobbery’s a Real Grind for Those Who Like It Instant

I’ve read that life is only as complicated as you make it, but excuse me-- fresh ground, freeze dried-- is it just me-- cafe au lait, espresso, cappuccino-- don’t even the simplest things in life-- mocha, java, French roast, Viennese-- seem to be getting more complicated?

Like . . . uh . . . coffee?

Remember when going out for a cup of coffee meant stopping in a coffee shop or diner and getting a thick clunky cup and saucer and the coffee tasted like mud, as if it had been sitting in the pot for several days? And you sat there and drank this coffee and talked or read the paper?

I loved that.

These days, Los Angeles is filled with places called coffee houses where not only do you get some exotic blend of java and steamed milk, but you get to hear amateur poetry readings as well.

No thanks.

So when my sister comes to visit--a trendy and chic women who, since I live in L.A., expects me to be on the cutting edge of hip--and I make her a cup of coffee, she doesn’t drink it. She doesn’t drink my coffee because she’s a coffee snob.

In fact, she’d rather pour boiling water on her own skin than pour it into--pardon my language here-- instant coffee. This is what I do--pour boiling water into a cup of instant. Fast, easy and gets the job done.

But, instant’s not in , and what is in and what is out are issues most people who live in L. A. pay a lot of attention to.

For instance, the woman who just cut my hair informed me that layers are out. She said this: “Layers are out. “ She said it like the voice of God.

And a friend just told me that tucking blouses into skirts is out ; people who are in let their blouses hang out.

On my sister’s most recent visit, she opened my refrigerator and saw, tucked in the back, a can of Maxwell House.

“Oh, god, Lindsey,” she said. As if she had just heard that I dealt drugs or supported David Duke. She hadn’t even noticed my non-layered haircut and shirt hanging out.

My brother is the same way. He lives in Berkeley--which may in itself explain several things--and spends his Saturdays standing in line at a place called Pete’s for gourmet coffee.

He wastes his entire Saturday morning and blows half his paycheck on coffee beans.

Coffee snobs are everywhere.

Once when I was on a long driving trip with friends and we were risking an accident since no one could stay awake, I pulled into a 24-hour Burger King for coffee. You’ve never seen such a commotion. “Coffee here? We’d rather die.”

I can’t live like that. For one thing, these coffee kingpins have kitchens that look like laboratories, what with all the apparatus, coffee grinders, coffee makers and pasta machines. Yes, pasta machines. People who are heavily into gourmet coffee also seem to make their own pasta.

In the interest of family relations, I’ve tried to come half-way.

When my brother and sister, Juan and Juanita Valdez, visited together, I got up early and made coffee. I used grocery store canned coffee, whatever was on sale that week, but put into the grounds a few extras--a little cinnamon, a little orange rind, a little chocolate.

They went bananas. Finally accepted me as their equal.

Nevertheless, my husband and I are thinking about leaving L.A., moving to a place where we don’t feel peer pressure to drink expensive bottled waters and do the coffee and pasta thing.

A real estate agent said to us as we were exploring a town in Northern California, “Did you know that there are more places to buy gourmet coffee in our town than just about anywhere on the face of the planet?”