Sunday, August 25, 2002


the pbtc

the flying saucer, recently voted best brooklyn hangout by new york city's republican alternative weekly, simply proves that some people never know what they're talking about, be it social security or espresso.

this funky cafe, with a neon-illuminated art-school-project klimt "kiss," and a menu of quiches and mozzarella sandwiches on ciabatta, is a terrible hangout and serves terrible coffee. yes, dear readers, i trekked all the way to atlantic avenue and nevins to see if the espresso lived up to its hype.

the interior is your average college-coffee-shop shabby chic, which could be promising. the automatic espresso machine seemed ok. the coffee was the excellent batdorf and bronson's atlantic blend (a propos, i thought). they had nice grinders. it appeared as if a good shot was in the offing.

but alas! the best coffee and equipment is for naught in the hands of a mere "person behind the counter" (pbtc). only a caring and trained barista can produce the elixir of life! this the flying saucer does not have. in fact, the surly brooklyn chicks with big hair couldn't give a flying fig about the coffee they were serving.

i politely and calmly asked for a doppio macchiato. the pbtc's glazed expression shifted a bit, and she ambled over to the machine, clearing away various shot glasses and pitchers. that's when my heart truly sank. the machine was filthy. coffee everywhere. stale coffee oils hanging about and burning in a hot commercial machine is certainly a great way to guarantee swill, and this was the situation i faced.

while the pbtc did steam milk and grind fresh, she still drew a 10-second gush of horror. i had to sigh. the perfect shot of espresso is sitting in that cafe, waiting to be realized. the owner spent $12,000 on a 3-group espresso machine, perhaps another $1,200 on 2 commercial grinders, and the atlantic blend is a premium coffee. to take all that money and just let your average pbtc throw it away seems so. . .plain dumb. i accepted the macchiato and glanced at the froth, which looked like the bubbles in a storm-tossed sea, not the shining shaving cream that signals true foam.

with much sugar, drinkable -- but only if you are forced to take refuge there because a screaming horde of psycho parrots is chasing you down the avenue with ninja razors attached to their claws. thumbs down.

posted by fortune | 8:54 PM | top | link to this | email this: | | | 0 comments