Marianne Moore

I, too, dislike it: there are things that are important beyond
     all this fiddle.
  Drinking it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one
     discovers in
  it after all, a place for the genuine.
     Beans that can grind, ice
     that can melt, syrups that can taste like hazelnut
        if they must, these things are important not because an

Italian-sounding nomenclature can be put upon them but because
     they are
  useful. When they become so over-used as to become
     flavorless,
  the same thing may be said for all of us, that we
     do not slurp the smoothie
     we cannot understand: the barista
        holding on to the counter or in quest of something to

eat, customers pushing, a wild author taking a stroll, a tireless
     CEO under
  a Seattle rooftop, the immovable counter twitching its formica like a horse
     that wants some tea, the pastry
  fan, the failed magician–
     nor is it valid
        to discriminate against “corporate documents and

mix CDs”; all these phenomena are important. One must make
     a distinction
  however: when dragged into prominence by half-baristas, the
     result is not coffee,
  nor till the coffee snobs among us can be
    “gourmets of
     the milk and cinnamon station”–above
        insolence and triviality and can present

for inspection, “imaginary cocoas with real milk in them,“
     shall we have
  it. In the meantime, if you demand on the one hand,
  the raw material of coffee in
     all its rawness and
     that which is on the other hand
        genuine, you are interested in coffee.

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