The desert - a tale of two coffee encounters

Feeling a need for a mocha, I cross Frank Sinatra Drive and cruise downtown Palm Desert. I am in the area for a medical meeting at the rather elegant Mariott Desert Resort. Palm Desert is certainly not Portland and without all that rain, coffee shops are scarce. I finally spot a potential shop, sporting a sign in French and offering true french pastries and coffee. Since I recall that the french make wonderful pastries and coffee, I wander in.

They want $3.95 for a small mocha, but this is to be expected in the land of retired money makers. Expecting to hear Ghiardelli, Michel Cluizel - Parisian chocolatier or Scharffen Berger, I ask the owner what variety of chocolate she adds to the coffee. As I sip from a rather mediocre (I'm being generous) cup of joe, she tells me Hersheys chocolate syrup. Being a chocolate connoseir and junkie (not necessarily in that order), and having spent a few years living and inhaling in Hershey, Pennsylvania, I'm not impressed. I suggest to the Barista owner that there are quite a few speciality chocolate makers in California and mention a few.

A sharp reply nips my commentary in the bud. “I’ve been in business here for six months and you'd think if there was anything wrong with my coffee, someone other than you would have told me by now, wouldn’t you?”

I tuck my tail between my legs and run. After all, what do Portlanders know about coffee? And anyone willing to pay 4 dollars for a couple of roasted beans has a few loose ones anyway.

However, California turns out to be a land of contrasts. The next morning I rise and head out from the hotel while only the greenskeekpers are up. My first meeting is at noon. On my way to Joshua Tree National Park, my stomach reminds me of its presence. Passing through several buildings claiming to be a town, the diner on the left has a few pickups out front. I easily find a spot in the gravel parking lot. The neon sign announces Breakfast. Inside four men are seated around the counter while the tables remain empty.

Sitting down at the counter, the waitress with short cropped hair in a net wears a black 1950’s waitress outfit that I’ve seen in diners across the country. A white apron completes the outfit. It fits her well and shows off a delightful pair of legs for the male patrons.

“Honey, what can I get you?”

I order the two eggs, hash browns and english muffin.

She carefully points out that if I order regular toast, instead of the muffin, I'll save 10 cents off the $2.40 price of the meal.

Just crossing the valley and the San Andreas fault has apparently taken me to a different world. One woman tells me that because I have spent 4 dollars for a cup of coffee, it must be good and another is concerned that I may not realize that I am spending possibly ten cents more than I need to.

I finally reach Joshua Tree where they had a few snow flurries on this May night. The rising sun quickly takes the chill out of the air. The cholla cactus are particularly beautiful in the early morning light where they seem to emanate a brilliant white light from their spines.

The desert is obviously a harsh place and seems to have affected those who choose to live here in different ways.