I drove up to Hendersonville last night on a lark, slept at the Ramada, enjoyed a tasty Spanish omelette for breakfast at a locally-owned place that was within walking distance of the motel, then googled “coffee house, Hendersonville, NC.”
7 a.m. and 27 degrees. Sun not yet up. Downtown not yet awake. I realized as I arrived that the coffee house is right beside the barber who cuts my hair once every several months, my only reason for ever visiting Hendersonville until today.
There’s Victorian furniture just inside the Living Room’s horrible leaded glass front door. A scattering of contemporary furniture, too. A fake fireplace. 70’s kitsch jumbled up with pieces (very few) that I’d consider adding to my own collection. A water feature somewhere that I can hear but have yet to seek out. Wi-fi, of course. Subdued lighting. Quiet without being tomb-like. And a tranquil barrista who seems genuinely interested in whether I’m enjoying my mocha latte.
How, how, I ask you, could it get any better than this? This kind of thing, at any rate. A proper coffee house in the mountains of North Carolina and less than an hour from home.
10:30 a.m. update: Now settled back into the heart of my natural universe at The Coffee Underground. The name of the place is a simple statement of fact. It’s located below street level. But there’s a subversiveness about it – the name, I mean – that I enjoy. Resistance coffee. Danger coffee. Listen my children, and you shall hear, of the morning joe of Paul Revere.