VOICES

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iT’S NOT THE AROMA of coffee brewing, the warm, earthy taste or the energizing bolt people claim it gives them. For me, it’s the ritual connected to my cup of morning joe that feeds my coffee fix.

I permit myself, a naturally hyper Energizer Bunny, one cup of coffee a day, and that coffee must be sipped and savored in a coffee shop. Takeout coffee to drink at home or on the run will not do. I crave a physical space where I can sit, drink, co-exist with strangers, and encounter familiar people behind the counter who know me—well, not me per se, but my standard order: a small coffee with half and half, and please, no sugar.

It’s not that I am incapable of making a cup of coffee at home. I own a coffeemaker that can whip up a cup in an emergency. What constitutes an emergency is tricky. I’ve been known to venture out even in blizzards, bundled up in layers of clothing and snow boots as I gingerly inch my way to a neighborhood coffee shop.

My ritual developed slowly and evolved over the years—a day per week, then a few days, until every day, weekends included—as I increasingly devoted myself to my writing, a lonely endeavor with no human interaction. I grew to love my coffee outings where I could mingle with the human race and start the day off with a sense of calm and order that grounded me, laying the foundation to cope with the creative chaos that inevitably followed. If, for some reason, I had to skip my morning coffee ritual, my day felt out of control and unmanageable, fueling any resistance I had to writing.

In New York City where I lived until my recent move to the City of Brotherly Love, I had two go-to coffee shops. Second Avenue Bagels was where I supplemented my coffee with an authentic New York (as opposed to New York-style) bagel. At Juliano’s, the coffee hangout across from my gym, I’d sit with the newspaper, a quick read with a crossword puzzle, or chat with my exercise buddies at a table reserved for us.

One of my biggest concerns about moving to

Growing Roots: the secret is coffee

By Fredricka Maister Philly was whether I could incorporate my morning coffee ritual into my daily routine. Would I find a nearby coffee shop å la New York, where I could quietly park myself and feel comfortable? And, since I no longer had a part-time salary to add to my bottom line, could I still afford the luxury of having my daily coffee out?

Since moving to Philadelphia, I have discovered three coffee shops that meet my criteria. Their presence in my life has made a difficult transition easier as I acclimate to my new home. Here they are (in the order I discovered them): (1) Across the street from my condo is a Dunkin’ Donuts. Aside from the convenience, it has tables where I can sit and finish the newspaper without infringing on anyone else’s space. At the counter, there is a sign, “Smiles Are Free!!!,” which always makes me smile at the

already smiley faces behind the counter, especially Angel who, as I am about to order, reminds me, “I got it!” As an indefatigable peoplewatcher, I love peering out the windows from my ringside seat indoors and witnessing the melting pot of Philadelphians as they pass by. (2) The Milkhouse in Suburban Station offers a super-sized medium coffee for just a $1 (yes, $1.00!) and an opportunity to blend coffee flavors; I opt for Rittenhouse and Organic Mexican Roast. There are always vacant tables outside the shop inviting me to hang out for an hour or so. That hour passes quickly but leisurely as I read, check my phone or watch the commuters on their way to and from the suburbs. Unlike the frenetic atmosphere of Grand Central or Penn Stations in New York, Suburban Station is less crowded, slower-paced and friendlier. Sometimes I even make eye contact with a passerby and we both smile as if we already know each other. (3) On Sundays it’s Federal Donuts, where I splurge on coffee and a cookie and cream donut, made to order, served warm. I’m not even a fan of donuts, but OMG, OMG...this donut melts in your mouth. I usually manage to secure a seat where I watch the non-stop customers, mostly millennial, leave with bags and boxes of donuts straight from the fryer.

Before these coffee havens, I found myself at loose ends, disoriented, lost, a stranger in a strange land, often feeling like a tourist. Moving to Philadelphia seemed surreal, maybe even a mistake. I no longer wanted to be in New York, but I missed the friends, coffee haunts and routines I left behind. I had become a transplant who didn’t belong anywhere anymore, that is, until Dunkin’, Milkhouse and Federal Donuts showed up in my life and made me feel settled and connected to my new hometown and its inhabitants.

Having lived as a New Yorker for decades, I know New York City will always be embedded in my DNA, but I’m gradually mutating into a Philly girl. Go Eagles! n