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Ode To The Red Cup Coffeehouse Perfection is not easily arrived at in places or in things. Before I became enchanted with Washington Island I'd occasion to sip my coffee in some pretty terrific places, even had the opportunity to live in a few. In retrospect, all had there pluses and minuses.Growing up on the coast of Maine was as lovely as you might image, but more of a hard scrabble life than might be apparent to the seasonal Bar Harbor visitor. Florida had that Big Mouse but seemed awash in serial murderers. Nashville had glorious Autumns and troubadours aplenty, but I couldn't hardly walk in those pointy boots. New Orleans introduced me to a host of pleasures but as Eric Burden so aptly crooned "been the ruin of many a po' boy and God I know I'm one". Colorado had those grand, inspiring vistas but a persons standing seemed entirely dependent on the amount of gore-tex and velcro displayed on their person.
Most of my adult life has been lived in the idyllic Midwestern hamlet of Madison,Wisconsin. Here it's possible for someone of my leanings to pass months without the necessity of speaking to a Republican. The down side to such enclaves, if there be one, is that they give rise to a certain constricted vision that only dawns on a person when they step outside. Most everyone who populates my Madison life is a mirror image of me. We're boomer's with the same aesthetic preferences, the same world view. We talk incessantly about weighty matters although the problems attendant to urine flow seem to have predominated in recent years. Most of us have a practiced command of detached irony as a way of relating, or not relating to the hopeless world around us. Most of us are convinced that no matter how cynical we become we're just not keeping up. It's a good life.
Of the places I've lived or visited, my favorite is tiny Washington Island. It floats in Lake Michigan, a thirty minute ferry ride from the northern tip of Door County. I first visited the Island twenty five years ago. My heart took up permanent residence years later.One thing led to another, and I was building a little cottage, acting in the community theater, and writing clever little ditties for the Island newspaper. Smarty pants friends speculated that there was a sound psychological explanation for my infatuation. I had constructed, they counseled, a hopelessly unrealistic and idealized view of all things Island certain to disappoint. They may turn out to be right, but so far my choice to affix rose colored glasses has left me much the better for the distorted view.
My very favorite perch on Washington Island is the porch at the Red Cup Coffeehouse. Life cannot possibly get any sweeter than lazin away a fine island afternoon on the Cup porch, sippin a steamin cup o joe and chatting it up with whomever happens by. It weren't always so. In the early years my one disappointment, the one modest wrinkle in near Island perfection was my inability to find a real cup of coffee. I've always viewed strong coffee as topping the hierarchy of human needs. Oh, there was no shortage of tepid, low octane impostors, and I gratefully drank em. But the arrival of the Red Cup Coffeehouse gilded my lily. Mike and Annie Remke, bless their entrepreneurial hearts, did it just right. They cut no corners in brewing up as good a cup of Java as ever I've had the pleasure. What's more, they created a truly hospitable, aesthetically striking environment in which we may sip our nectar. If life does afford an experience superior to the aforementioned summer afternoon on the Cup porch it would have to be a winters morning on the Cup couch, java in hand, warming myself by the coffeehouse hearth. Being a great coffeehouse is not determined by a good reverse osmosis system and the application of the correct foot lb. pressure to the espresso (although Mike does this with unwavering consistency). There is an ineffable ambiance to a great coffeehouse that makes a person wish to linger, and then linger some more. I generally linger until embarrassment compels me to leave, then when a sufficient time has elapsed to suggest I have other interests, I return and linger some more. It works out well.
I suspect that being the proprietor of such a place has it's down side. People like me come to rely on you. I'm always a bit crestfallen when I round the turn onto Detroit Harbor Road and find the Cup closed. As Spiderman understood, "with great power comes great responsibility", and Mike takes his responsibility seriously. On most days when the Cup is "officially" closed, Mike will come in at seven, make coffee and remain "unofficially" open for a couple of hours. He's concerned that the indolent among us have a proper start to our day.
It seems pretty clear to me from an "outsiders" vantage point ( though I'm told that my 20 plus years of island involvement elevates me in the island hierarchy from "outsider" to the level of "outsider with privileges" ) that the Red Cup has quickly become the central crossroads in Island life. Sit there long enough and you'll see most everyone you're interested in seeing. Stay a while longer and you'll see the rest of us. For those of us without deep roots in island soil, it affords an entree into the sometimes inpeneterable life of "real" islanders. Before the Red Cup we were limited to eavesdropping on the morning gatherings of "real" islanders in different cafes. The clatter of other patrons often made it difficult to hear the juicier island developments and follow up questions seemed ill advised. The opportunity for socializing at the Red Cup is particularly appreciated by those of us who drank up our lifetime allotment of intoxicants early on in life and consequently choose not to frequent the Island's convivial watering holes.
For the uninitiated, let me proffer some advice and a bit of caution. When lovely Annie pours you that first cup, you want to grip it with both hands, allow that robust steam to waft into your nostrils, and take a good look around. You're then faced with a decision. Do you wish to announce yourself available for conversation by sitting down on the "visiting couch", or maybe mosey on out to the porch. You can sit on the porch and take stock of who's heading this way or that. A Red Cup refill will sit you up ramrod straight in your chair and incline you towards the overuse of multi syllable words. A second refill and you're likely to start flat out lying. A while after the Cup opened I sat on the porch and listened to a long time Islander muse about the impact of the place on island life. According to this fella, wasn't that long ago that people on the Island always ran a little bit late. More often than not an Islander rushing to make the ferry would arrive just in time to exchange a shrug with the ferry man moving away across an ever widening stretch of open water. Come April 15th the Post Office parking lot would fill with anxious Islanders right after the postman had closed up and gone home. He lamented that in those days it wasn't unusual for the Island baseball team not to show up at the park until the third inning. He recalled that back then the Cherry Train was the fastest moving vehicle on the Island. My friend conjectured that this was a malaise born of weak coffee. "Go down to the ferry dock now", he told me," you'll see departing islanders pressed against the rail, teeth grittin, tracking that next ferry from the time it leaves Northport". According to this fella, there was only one conclusion a reasonable person could draw; "this Red Cup java gets you there on time!"
Now I suppose it's possible this fella was just figurin to have some fun with a Madison guy toting a shoulder bag, but, I don't know, he sounded pretty earnest to me. Besides, I'm not one to question the transformative potential of a world class cup o Joe.
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