Hard Core Coffee

The other day my nine year old daughter, Hanna, and I waited in the car while her twin sister had basketball practice in Sebastopol.

"Hey, let's go get some hot chocolate," I said.

We drove a short stretch up the road to Hard Core, a legendary coffee place among west Sonoma County coffee drinkers. I had driven by it for years but I had been too intimidated to stop there. The establishment looked so squalid from the road that I always felt too un-hip for it--like the regulars would nudge each other and ask, "who's the square?" somehow sensing the Costco shopping list in my pocket and the Cher songs on my iPod. I felt better having my daughter with me; motherhood a cover for my fish-out-of-water feeling.

Hard Core looks like a devastating natural disaster--an earthquake or a typhoon--has recently struck and this is the only make-shift housing available or maybe it just looks like a modern day homeless encampment. It's little more than a lean-to stuck onto the front of the old Frank's Market, now an empty building, with tarps strung up on three sides like asymmetrical bat wings. There is no "inside" to the place, everything is outdoors under carport canopies and makeshift roofs that look like they'll give up the ghost at the first sign of inclement weather. It's a mystery how this ramshackle structure continues to stand upright at all, never mind how it ever received business and building permits. Maybe it was magic and sheer desire.

I had heard things from friends and co-workers about Hard Core. It has a large contingent of loyal customers. It's an eclectic group--people carrying on the spirit of Woodstock, though most are too young to have been there. They are pony-tailed computer programmers or self-help book writers or growers of organic lavender; all are appreciative of the bohemian lifestyle. These regulars would rather die than step inside a Starbucks. Hard Core's the only place for them. The fresh-roasted coffee is excellent and the chance to meet like-minded people (or at least people-watch) is even more of a draw.

Hanna and I pulled into Hard Core on a December day just as the numerous pot-holes in the muddy parking lot were beginning to fill up with rain. We parked under a large hand-painted sign that read, "Integrity from the tree to the cup". This, I gathered, was a reference to the fact that Hard Core's own brand of coffee had been proudly organic since 1995. As the cars zipped by on Highway 116--a small two-lane byway heading due west from Highway 101--customers hunkered down with their beverages under the makeshift roofs. A woman in a bright orange, homemade-looking knit hat sat on a brown automobile bucket seat. A man with a scruffy gray beard and mustache and Einstein hair sat next to her in a vinyl dentist's chair, complete with a ghoulish metal headrest.

Hard Core is a workout for your eyes. Everywhere you look, you'll see something seemingly incongruous. One wall sports faded cardboard cut-outs of fish and seahorses and outlines of palm trees on peeling plastic sheets. These, along with the assorted shells scattered around serving as ashtrays, suggest that at one time someone had tried for a Hawaiian theme. Right when I decided the whole look was pretty cheap, I saw something even cheesier--a $2.99 plastic Strawberry Shortcake kite nailed to the wall.

On one side stands a motley collection of toys--an old metal pedal-car from the fifties missing its seat; a plastic 'Little Tikes' house, a three foot long metal fire engine. Hanna and I observed a tow-headed boy harassing his two year old sister as they sat in tiny "My Little Pony" chairs. The boy's mother threatened him with a nap if he didn't give his sister "her space". An eight year old girl with red pig tails stood in the rain, pushing a heavy broom through the puddles. The group of adults she came with sat on a naugahyde bench that appeared to have been discarded from Denny's or maybe IHOP. They took turns sipping their coffees and applauding the girl's efforts.

The lone person on duty on the day Hanna and I were there was a young man of indeterminate age--he could have been anywhere between 22 and 42--with curly blonde hair and a purple, long sleeve waffle shirt. He had a vacant look about him, as if only his corporeal body was slinging coffee, not the rest of him. While he busied himself making our hot chocolate we studied a tiny doll purse with a ripped dollar bill that was arranged artfully near the cash register.

"What's that?" Hanna whispered.

"I don't know," I said. "Let's ask."

The man shrugged, indicating that he had no idea. Then he added, "You know, a guy said to me the other day that Fort Knox is actually empty. I think maybe he's right."

"Huh," I said, unsure what to do with this information. "What do you think that means?" He was busy fixing our drinks so I gazed at a propped-up wooden door papered with customer snapshots, ancient cellophane tape, fruit-shaped magnets, and a note that read, "Dear friends, due to too many rotten apples, we will end the tab book this year and go to pre-paid cards. Thanks, Molly."

"You're right," the man behind the counter said, apparently reading something into my earlier reply.

"If we have all agreed that this--" he indicated the whipped cream canister in his hand, "--is worth ten dollarsthen it just is."

I snuck at peek at my daughter whose brow was as furrowed as my own. "Huh," I said again. After all, he thought I was right.

The man seemed satisfied with my response and he handed over our hot chocolates. We ducked under a pair of wool pants hanging from a hanger overhead--a handwritten tag indicated they were for sale for five dollars, and walked over to a chest-high table that held milk, napkins and metal spoons. A battered copy of "India: A Survival Kit" was propped between the Half & Half and the rice milk containers. Overhead, a cheap black child's purse with Tinkerbell on it, winked down at us. There were two holders for the spoons. The one marked "clean" had a picture of naked hippies on it. The one marked "dirty" featured a rear view of a woman wearing some sort of laced bodice. You don't get that at Starbucks.

Hanna and I walked back to our car. We passed flyers advertising enrollment at the "Nonesuch School", a journaling workshop, and spirit boxing. A white bench was plastered with bumper stickers; "Yes on R", "Stop Buying Lies", and the surprising, "I Love Cops".

"What a wild place," I said to my daughter. "I liked the energy there."

"What do you mean?" she asked.

I explained that places can feel really different from each other. Some places you want to spend more time at, some make you want to leave as soon as you can. "You know, like the Department of Motor Vehicles," I added, to illustrate a negative-feeling place. We had recently been there to renew my driver's license.

"But Hard Core was really cool, don't you think?" I said. "We should come back next week."

"Yeah!" she said.

I glanced in the rearview mirror as we bounced our way out of the parking lot. The old building listed to one side, not a plumb line in sight. A metal bed frame painted bright yellow leaned against the barn-red wall looking like a Georgia O'Keefe painting. Why had I thought Hard Core looked squalid? Suddenly it looked eccentric and alive. I guess the secret was that you had to get out of your car, go in and buy something, chat with a stranger.

Maybe I wasn't so square after all.