"This is probably the hippest thing I've ever done in my life," I told Red, as we disembarked from the N-Judah train on 45th Avenue after a half-hour ride from Market Street.
It was Sunday about noon. We were within sight of the ocean, only a few blocks away at the end of the line. We'd hopped off the train as soon as I recognized the exterior of our destination, Trouble Coffee at 4033 Judah.
We'd wondered if the place would even be open. There was no question that it was. At least a dozen people were standing outside on the sidewalk, drinking coffee and eating the specialty of the house---large slices of cinnamon and sugar toast slathered with generous helpings of butter.
Artisanal toast---that's what the gone-viral-on-social-media article on the web had called it, the latest too-trendy-to-be-believed fad among the youth of this city. Trouble Coffee's quirky founder and proprietress had started the trend, but it had supposedly already spread throughout San Francisco.
We had decided we wanted to see the original, of course. It seemed like the perfect Sunday morning adventure in the city, taking the train over (and through) the hills to the Sunset District.
The tiny establishment with packed with folks waiting in line. Behind the counter, three hipster-looking young men were busy serving them as fast as possible, one taking orders, a second making coffee drinks, and the third making the toast. The last of the three men performed his task using only a small household toaster and a counter area no bigger than two square feet. All three looked as if they had been working many hours and were in a Zen of concentration to keep up with the arduous demand.
By some miracle, we walked up to the door right at the line seemed to dissipate. We were able to place our orders within only two minutes. I seemed to have at least fifteen years of age on everyone else within view.
The founder, and subject of the article, was nowhere in sight. Perhaps Sunday was her day off.
I had figured the toast would take some time to arrive, but the bottleneck turned out to be the cappuccino that Red ordered. By the time it arrived, we had already scarfed down our big slices.
What was the verdict? "It tastes just like my mom used to make it," said Red, with a touch of girlish delight.
And we didn't even mind that it took so long for Red's coffee drink to arrive. It gave us an excuse to order a second round of slices and indulge in the decadent pastime of Sunday San Francisco people watching.
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