Commiseration and Coffee: A Space for Community and Conversation

The other day, a customer came in early to pick up their order. We exchanged a few pleasantries, and then I did that thing I sometimes do — I talked about how awful the world is. They nodded, we commiserated, and thanked each other for the conversation. It might seem awkward, maybe even unprofessional, to those who’ve sipped the spiked Kool-Aid of hyper-positivity and brand polish. But to me, this is exactly what spaces like ours are meant to be: a space to be human, a place for camaraderie, and a door to community.

Before Starbucks became the land of sugary lactations and Instagrammable whipped cream, cafés were local fixtures. They served artists, academics, day laborers, and boot-wearers skeptical of the corporate boot-licking types. Similarly, before "small town real estate" became the lazy entrepreneur’s way to be uselessly rich, cafés and family restaurants dotted our neighborhoods. Fast food existed, sure — and it sucked — but the local spots still held the heartbeat. A small-town cook could dream of making a living on the corner, and that dream wasn’t absurd. They didn’t need a ghost kitchen, a venture capitalist, or five soul-sucked locations propped up across the region.

There are reasons why chains took over, and most of them point to a steady erosion of quality of life. But something deeper happened that helped facilitate this facsimile of yesteryear: we forgot how to be together.

COVID made it worse, but let’s be honest — the internet and social media had already ghosted us in our own communities. Delivery apps, screens, and algorithm-sorted bubbles replaced the banter of barstools and counters. We priced each other out, choosing convenience over connection. And somewhere along the way, we decided everyone must agree with us on every damn thing or they’re the enemy. Propaganda certainly helped that rot take root — division is always a helpful tool for those with authoritarian leanings. But most of us also welcomed it.

When I was growing up, the family restaurants and corner bars were messy and alive. People argued. They debated politics, religion, sports, and bad weather. It was never sterile. It wasn’t optimized for profit margins. And that was the point — it was warm. It was real.

Contrast that with the line in front of the sleek “pickup only” shelf at the modern fast-casual clone. That setup isn’t just impersonal — it’s intentionally so. It’s part of the isolation racket, the slow demoralization of what it means to be part of a wider, complex, and culturally rich community. Keep your head down. Don’t talk about justice. Don’t mention the kidnappings, oppression, or killings. Don’t speak unless it’s to upsell. Just shut up and give me my something.

No.

Restaurants are community. We exist outside your screen. We are your neighbors. We’re part of this collective mess, and we give a damn about it. We care about who you are, because you’re part of this too. We care about who we are — and the better we could all be, together.

So we talk. We argue. We laugh. We swap stories — with heroes and villains. Working-class folks who grind for scraps and for their children’s meals, and villains who rise with their lies and steal those scraps. Pennies in their coffers. We offer a place to be fed — not just with food, but with presence. That’s what restaurants were always meant to be. And we honor that tradition not because it’s profitable, but because it’s who we are. It’s what we believe.

Do villains enter? Seldom, but surely, they do — everywhere. I talk to them. Try to remind them of the humanity they stand against. Sometimes they talk back. And if it’s vile, I throw them out. Popper’s paradox of tolerance ringing in my head as the doorbell chimes their exit — one final time.

Sometimes the bell tolls and the angels don’t get their wings — and yet, we’re all better off for it.

But I digress, as I do.

Enjoy a handcrafted meal. Share a word. Even if we’re not always on the same page of the book — we’re still part of the same story.