C-VILLE Weekly

In early March, the Jefferson Area Drug Enforcement Task Force arrested 18 people, ages 17 to 30, following almost a year of undercover operations in Belmont. Eight men and one woman face charges of distributing marijuana. One man faces charges of distributing both marijuana and imitation cocaine. Eight suspects face cocaine charges.

In JADE press releases and the accompanying daily newspaper articles, pot and cocaine were cast as equal threats to Belmont’s “quality of life.” But in real life, JADE honchos admit that marijuana dealing really isn’t a problem in Charlottesville.

“We could make marijuana arrests all day long, but that’s not our mission,” says Task Force commander Lt. Don Campbell, an 18-year City police veteran. “Our main goal in Charlottesville is reducing the violence and disorder associated with open-air drug markets. We don’t see the violence from pot that we see from cocaine.”

On one hand, Campbell’s line reflects the popular view that marijuana poses relatively little danger to public safety. Yet when agents nab a pot dealer, they are pleased that they have eradicated a social menace, perhaps because Federal drug laws still classify marijuana with other drugs—like cocaine and methamphetamine—that threaten the social order. And even as the area’s police officers acknowledge they face enough challenges just keeping up with citizen calls for service, other law enforcers, like the JADE Task Force and the Commonwealth’s Attorney, will happily wring stoners through the legal system if the opportunity arises.

Midway through his studies at UVA, “David” started feeling depressed. He took time off school, experimented with prescription drugs, and finally discovered that smoking pot helped him function. David started getting high every day.

“I went back and got my degree,” he says. “My last semester was one of the best I had at UVA, despite being a so-called pothead.”

David, who is being identified by a pseudonym for this article, graduated in 1995. He stayed in Charlottesville, working about 40 hours a week at a handful of service jobs and setting aside about $200 for recreational marijuana use per month.

“I had about five different friends who hooked me up. If one of us needed a hookup, we helped each other out,” says David. “It’s a social thing, not business.”

David, his friends and probably most of Charlottesville’s recreational marijuana smokers buy and sell the drug for fun, not profit—the point being to maintain a safe, steady supply chain instead of generating easy money. The marijuana trade is generally not conducted with the mercenary salesmanship and violence that police say describes the City’s cocaine market.

“Cocaine and crack drive the violence in this community,” says Campbell. “We know we can’t stop drug dealing. People will always want drugs, and other people will always make money off that. But we can disrupt it and drive it off the streets.”

City courtrooms reflect JADE’s emphasis on cocaine, says defense attorney Denise Lunsford. “Are they out there pounding the pavement looking for pot dealers? That’s not my perception,” she says. “They’re not going after it the same way as crack, cocaine, meth.”

But marijuana users do end up in court—last year Albemarle and Charlottesville Police collectively sent about 303 pot cases to courts, most for misdemeanor posession. Lunsford says these are usually wrong place-wrong time situations. A lead-footed driver might be pulled over with a joint in the ashtray, for instance. First-time offenders typically face misdemeanor possession charges.

“It’s fairly routine,” says City Commonwealth’s Attorney Dave Chapman. First-time offenders can have the charge dismissed and expunged from their record if they agree to pre-conviction probation. A second offense likely will earn a suspended jail sentence.

“I can’t remember the last time someone went to jail for simple possession,” Chapman says.

For Charlottesville police officers, busting marijuana smokers is like office work—unfulfilling, with lots of papers to shuffle. When police catch someone dumb enough to speed with weed, police will issue him a summons and let him go. The officer must return the evidence––all of it––to the station, tag it, bag it and place it in a locker, filling out forms along the way. The officer hopes the suspect will plead guilty, because if he fights it, the evidence must actually be driven to a Richmond lab to determine whether it’s cannabis sativa (for the sake of traffic and taxpayer concerns, we suggest all further such tests be conducted at C-VILLE offices). In the end, the marijuana is unceremoniously incinerated.

“A lot of officers feel like it’s a lot of paperwork for nothing. I hear a lot of comments like that,” says Officer Dwayne Jones, who patrols the Corner. “I treat it like a traffic citation. Sometimes I have to calm people down and let them know it’s not the end of the world.

“We don’t make the laws,” he continues, “but I have to say I believe the worst drug out there is alcohol. The overwhelming majority of calls we get, for traffic accidents and disorders, involve alcohol. I’ve never seen anyone behave violently when they’re high on marijuana.”

The JADE Task Force is not your average beat cop, however.

If the President’s drug policy had more to do with public safety, alcohol would be the first substance banned. The White House Office of Drug Control Policy and the Drug Enforcement Administration are multi-billion dollar bureaucracies arguably interested only in doing what they did yesterday. So the Drug War marches on.

In Charlottesville, Washington’s hostile posture toward pot allows JADE and the Commonwealth’s Attorney to treat smokers like enemy combatants, if they choose. It is often in their interest to do so.

The JADE unit––six police officers from Charlottesville, three from Albemarle County, two from UVA and one from the State, plus help from a DEA agent and three agents from the federal department of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives––works out of an office below City Hall. Access is obtained by entering the correct digital code and then passing through a heavy wooden door. Inside the offices, there is a coffee machine and two posters. One shows Osama bin Laden in crosshairs and reads “Wanted, Dead or Alive,” with “Alive” crossed out. The other poster is a collage of marijuana plants and piles of buds with the words “It’s not medicine, it’s an illegal drug.”

After September 11, JADE added terrorist investigations to its list of mandates, and images of war and terror adorn the office walls. A cartoon eagle sharpening its claws is posted near Polaroids of weapons and drugs seized by JADE officers. A photo of the World Trade Center hangs in the room where undercover agents don wigs and bulletproof vests for undercover ops.

Campbell says JADE “is looking at some people” in their terrorism investigations, but won’t say more. Like the battle against pot, the war on terror is not his primary focus.

It used to be, Campbell says, that agents would find 50 people milling on a street corner dealing cocaine. Most arrests were “jump outs,” says Campbell, as in “jump out” and grab the slowest crackheads before they run away.

As City Hall tries to court middle class homebuyers, Charlottesville Police Chief Tim Longo says eradicating open-air drug markets is his department’s foremost mission. Campbell says it’s working.

“We don’t see people blatantly dealing in the streets anymore,” he says. “We had to adjust the way we do things. The dealers are moving indoors, and that’s more dangerous for us. Now we do more monitoring with devices. Civilian informants are our bread and butter.”

As a pot smoker, David’s interaction with the black market happened discreetly. He was not involved in either violence or big money, so in the era of “jump outs” he never would have registered on JADE’s radar screen. Because the Feds continue to classify marijuana as an illegal Schedule I narcotic, however, people like David have no choice but to associate with criminals in pursuit of their pleasure. This makes them fair game for JADE.

A mutual friend introduced David to “Brian,” a fellow pot enthusiast (also identified here by a pseudonym), in 1995, and David obliged when Brian asked for a hook-up. Four years later, Brian was arrested after twice selling cocaine to an undercover JADE officer.

According to documents in Albemarle General District Court, Brian agreed to a “cooperative agreement” to “do certain things in exchange for favorable consideration by the Commonwealth at his trial.”

Defense attorney Lunsford says some of her drug clients choose to inform in exchange for leniency. She says officers ask for names and whether the informant could immediately go buy drugs from that person.

“If they hear about someone dealing, especially in large quantities, they’re more than willing to use it,” Lunsford says. “Body wires, phone taps are no problem.”

In February 2000, Brian asked David if he was still “helping people out.” David said yes, and over the next five weeks he sold Brian marijuana three times in one-ounce and two-ounce quantities.

Nine months later, an unfamiliar number appeared on David’s pager. When David called, a member of the JADE Task Force answered the phone.

“I asked if someone was in trouble,” says David. “He said, ‘Yeah, maybe you.’”

According to David, the officer arranged to meet him at night in a parking lot near Downtown. When David arrived, he found three officers sitting in a parked car. Flashing badges, they asked David to take a ride with them. They told David they didn’t think he was a threat, and that he could help himself by helping them. He was facing three potential felony charges for distributing marijuana, with a maximum of 30 years in jail.

“They were sweating me. They wanted me to inform on anyone I could for any drugs—anyone selling marijuana, ecstasy, mushrooms,” says David. “They wanted me to give names and tell them if anyone had a gun. They gave me a beeper number and told me to think about it.

“It was a tough decision,” he says. “They asked me to betray the trust of people I’d known for a long time, to basically be a judge and jury on my friends.”

David never beeped the agent, and two months later he was arrested. “I have to say they were cool about it,” he says.

After consulting a lawyer, David pled not guilty “to buy time.” After his trial date was set he negotiated an agreement to plead guilty to two felonies if the prosecution would not request jail time. During sentencing, David’s character witnesses and pre-trial probation officer argued on his behalf. According to David, Commonwealth’s Attorney Chapman argued he was a “drug dealer” to the judge and “said something about how I might possibly involve kids.”

In January 2002, David received a five-year jail sentence, of which all but 30 days was suspended. He served 15 weekends sleeping on a mattress on the Regional Jail’s gym floor.

“It sucked. No heat, no blankets, and they left the light on all night,” he says. (Brian, by contrast, received no jail time for his cocaine conviction. Presumably his willingness to narc out his acquaintances helped his case.)

David paid his $1,800 fine and refrained from alcohol and drugs for his 18-month probation, during which time officers were allowed to search him or his property at any time, for any reason. He enrolled in substance-abuse counseling through Region Ten.

“If somebody says your name, then the agents know you,” says David. “Even if you don’t do anything that gives an officer probable cause, you can become a suspect just through the people who know your name.

“All this wasn’t exactly a nightmare,” David says. “But in my opinion, someday marijuana will be legal, and I’ll still be a felon. There’s a lot of resources being thrown down a black hole.

“Marijuana is part of the social setting in Charlottesville—business owners, students, professionals, lawyers, people in the media. Are we really saying that these segments of our society are bad people?”

Our sex life first took a hit seven months ago when we brought home an 8-week-old attention-hogger named Gauss. By the time we mustered up the courage to throw his doggy ass out of the bedroom, my husband landed his dream project at work. Ever since, Shaili has taken to stumbling through the door at odd hours, and is fast asleep before I can wail, “I’m horny!” Six years into my marriage, I’ve become a statistic.

Married couples are the designated losers in our hormone-obsessed culture. Our sex life seems to be in perpetual jeopardy, in danger of dwindling into either mechanical routine or total extinction. Various experts periodically issue dire warnings about the dismal state of affairs, often proposing a number of daring and spectacular measures to avert the looming crisis. Alas, the prognosis is grimmer than ever.

A recent USA Today article reports that a whopping 40 million married couples have little or no sexual contact with their spouses. The latest Kinsey report suggests that married women like me are getting a lot less nooky than Donna Reed. Faced with the frantic pace of modern life, which entails juggling dirty diapers, demanding bosses and gym workouts, our libidos have beaten a hasty retreat.

Happily, however, help is at hand. Thanks to the sexual revolution, entire industries are now devoted to the sole purpose of reviving our flagging appetites. Most sexperts agree: Just buy the dildo, rent some porn, shimmy into a pair of crotchless panties and perform the sexual equivalent of the Cirque de Soleil. Lo and behold, hubby and I will be riding into our very own orgasmic sunset long before the Visa bill arrives. Marital coupling in the 21st century is expensive, backbreaking labor. No wonder that up to 20 percent of all couples have sex fewer than 10 times a year.

These lazy spouses are courting danger, warns Michelle Weiner Davis, pundit du jour on this new, new trend of marital celibacy. She paints an ominous picture in her book, The Sex-Starved Marriage: “Late nights at the office with a seductive coworker, an attentive ear and effusive ego-building compliments may be just the kindling your spouse needs to start a fiery sexual relationship with someone other than you.” There is a special hell reserved for sexual slackers. It’s called Divorce Court.

 

So toil we must, irrespective of our physical or mental state. Weiner Davis’ self-described “Nike Solution” couldn’t be bothered with outdated notions like getting in the mood. To hell with feeling tired, stressed, or unhappy with your relationship. She tells her low-desire clients (almost always women) “Just do it!”—the hormones will eventually catch up. If not, there is always the handy strawberry-flavored lube. It sounds a little tedious, but as the women in Weiner Davis’ seminars can confirm, the results are enviable: “He put up wallpaper, grouted between the tiles in our dining room floor, and made plans for us to go out for dinner…I couldn’t believe it!”

Neither can I. Look, Toto, we’re back in the ’50s again.

A recent issue of the Atlantic Monthly includes a very retro piece of drivel titled “The Wifely Duty,” in which author Caitlin Flanagan praises the virtues of countless 1950s housewives who fulfilled their marital duties with alacrity and enthusiasm. She writes, “The rare woman—the good wife, and the happy one—is the woman who maintains her husband’s sexual interest and who returns it in full measure.”

We modern gals are instead sullen, recalcitrant feminists unwilling to employ even one of the hundred ways to drive our man wild in bed. No wonder the poor husband can’t get it up either: “He must somehow seduce a woman who is economically independent of him, bone tired, philosophically disinclined to have sex unless she is jolly well in the mood, numbingly familiar with his every sexual maneuver.… He can hardly be blamed for opting instead to check his e-mail, catch a few minutes of ‘SportsCenter,’ and call it a night.” There’s not a word in this nearly 5,000-word tirade on the “husbandly duty.” The friend who e-mailed me the article wrote in the accompanying note, “It makes me never want to a) have kids b) have a partner c) have sex ever again.”

In themselves, many of the sex tips touted by relationship gurus are worthwhile. A little generosity in the bedroom goes a long way. And vibrators and edible underwear are indeed a lot of fun, but when used for pleasure not out of paranoia. I can’t imagine anything more depressing than fucking furiously to keep the twin demons of Divorce and Infidelity at bay. These books would have us believe that sexual high jinks will mend a missing sense of connection. Worse, they promote the disastrous myth that great sex is the basic requirement of a lifelong commitment.

As sex therapist Marty Klein puts it, “Sometimes sex is great; sometimes sex is kind of so-so; sometimes you’d rather have ice cream and watch television.’’

Our libidos are by nature periodic, subject to lulls as we navigate modern life and its attendant hazards. Given this reality, a truly healthy sex life must necessarily include the option of simply saying no.

Sure, I could do with a little more sex in my life these days. But when Shaili puts his arm around me and mumbles sleepily, “Sunday, I promise…,” I know we’re going to be alright.

Lakshmi Chaudhry is a senior editor at AlterNet.org

After water, coffee is the world’s most popular beverage. For most, it’s also a way of life. “Long before the great coffee craze, I was born and raised in an era when it was totally natural for my family to serve us kids espresso after dinner,” says Tony LaBua, owner of the Java Hut and Chap’s Ice Cream on the Downtown Mall. “Along with our thick black coffee, we’d get a shot of Sambuca and three coffee beans—one for luck, love and happiness.

“I only drink straight espresso to this day,” he adds.

With a history rooted in the tradition of everyday life, these days coffee is not only convention, it’s a flat-out staple. In 1668, it replaced beer as New York City’s favorite breakfast drink. Heck, Pope Clement VIII even baptized the stuff.

“Growing up in Vietnam,” says Toan Nguyen, co-owner of C’ville Coffee in the McIntire Business Park, “we had Vietnamese coffee—thick and dark like espresso mixed with condensed milk—with every meal.”

But what is it about the taste of the dark, energy-inducing stuff? While one palate craves the winy acidity of a hearty cup of Kenyan, another prefers a classic Colombian—sweet and spicy. Determined to unravel the Charlottesville coffee mystery, I took the search for the perfect cup of java into my own hands. My journey through palatable and non-palatable coffee-ville consisted of thorough investigations into body, acidity and aroma—at one point I was so over-caffeineated a barrista gave me a stick to gnaw on. (Think Voltaire. Even with his 50 cups a day, he’s got nothing on me.)

With that, I began my odyssey for Charlottesville’s perfect cup of coffee.

 

Cafe stories

I set out early one morning, pumped and ready for the greatest coffee expedition of all time. Unlike Lewis and Clark, I would travel by more traditional Virginia means—a red Chevy pick-up truck with a cracked windshield. First on the agenda was fuel. I pulled into the Preston Avenue Shell Station.

Turned out besides gas, they had coffee too.

Green Mountain Coffee was the name, and as I pumped my first cup from the carafe, I imagined sheep quietly laying about chomping on the grassy knoll in the distance.

A scene befitting this “organic” Joe—but one slurp and I was snapped back to the newspaper and Coca-Cola aisle. The sour aftertaste made my fillings ache. The overall weak flavor was comparable to burnt rubber mixed with the gamy essence, of, say, liquid venison.

Code for second-rate beans, I knew “organic” Joes masqueraded behind buzzwords like shade-grown, sustainable and bird-beak friendly. But with this cup I concluded no amount of emphasis on the humanized relationship between farmer, exporter, importer, roaster, consumer and the Smithsonian Migratory Bird Center could make me drink this coffee again.

I used the remainder of my cup to top-off the gas tank (curiously, the truck ran exceptionally well for the day—peppy, even), and continued on my journey down Preston to Barracks Road.

On my way, I took a quick detour into Bodo’s for another cup and a little sustenance. The menu read, “BoJoe is a premium gourmet offering custom-roasted and -blended coffee ground just before serving.” I also learned while ordering my bagel that the blend’s specially mixed from Lexington Coffee Roasting Company.

The bagel blend was easy enough going down, but the medicinal aftertaste reminded me of liquid Dimetapp.

While I wasn’t screaming in agony, the salty sting on the anterior sides of my tongue made me think this Joe was better for stripping furniture than washing down a lox bagel.

The truck purred past Kroger and into Greenberry’s in the Barracks Road Shopping Center, where I proceeded to wait in a line backed up to the door.

A manager there explained to me that, “Greenberry’s coffee beans are carefully selected by Greenberry’s Coffee & Tea Company, then shipped to Charlottesville for roasting.”

“Great, I’ll take the light roast,” I said.

While I also learned the lighter roasts at Greenberry’s vary between Costa Rican, Columbian and Guatemalan, frankly, I didn’t care about the coffee’s country of origin. It was just plain good.

With a slightly bitter after taste and a fast finish, the coffee, the coffee was full of body, like whole milk as opposed to water. While I generally prefer a darker roast, this cup was sharp and snappy and changed my mind about the world of lighter brews.

Although I longed to stay, read the paper and maybe push the library ladder around a bit, I found myself back in the truck on the way to Starbucks on the Corner.

The Seven-11 en route pulled me in like a tractor beam, a tiny voice calling out, “Slurpee…you need a Slurpee….” Alas, the brain-freezing, gooey goodness would not satisfy my quest, and I passed the rotating hot dogs and dragged myself over to the coffee bar.

But one sip left me immediately sorry that I didn’t give in to the freezie-queasy. The coffee was thin and soft, with not a trace of acidity to be found. It could have been there since the prior shift (or the prior shift the day before, even). Or someone might have brewed a few teaspoons of dirt by accident. But the consensus was clear: There’s a reason it’s quick and cheap.

“Maybe a little food might ease the pain,” the voice in my head said. Anything to wipe out the musty aftertaste in my mouth. Behold, the power of Chee-tos and funky coffee.

Before food, though, I couldn’t miss out on a cup from Mermaid Express in its sunny, airy new space in Foods of All Nations. It’s by far the best coffeehouse for meeting fellow Junior Leaguers for a dose of caffeine.

The Mermaid’s cup certainly delivered. A delicate, subtle flavor that immediately satisfied the tip of my tongue, this Joe had an easy start, and an easier finish. I knew this coffee had real promise, but I also knew I had to press on.

I parked myself at the one-time automotive garage/now restaurant, Station. Although my Joe here was paired with a nice chunk of tiramisu, I couldn’t get past the over-roasted bean smell of the coffee. It did have a rich, full body, but the aftertaste was a bit too metallic. Again, no good for the fillings.

Finally arriving at Starbucks, I was happy to see that no one had thrown another brick through the mud mogul’s window the night before. I ordered the coffee of the day—Breakfast Blend.

OK, so the coffee giant has a bad rap for mistreating Fair Trade cocoa or coffee farmers in distant lands. My taste buds, having no morals of their own, didn’t seem to care. This really was one balanced cup of coffee, from beginning to end.

The aroma held a twinge of raw vegetables and nutmeg, but the round taste was sweetly spicy, like cardamom and pepper. Sharp but not salty, it had a pleasingly even tone of acidity, giving it that aged wine aftertaste.

While on the Corner, I tried my hand at the Espresso Royale Caffe on University Avenue. I felt a bit guilty (and old) leisurely lounging by the fireplace with my rather pleasing cup. Several students surrounded me with their heads in notebooks, pencils scrawling madly, and blue veins in foreheads pulsating wildly. I knew how they felt. Now on my eighth cup, I was growing more jittery than a college student slipping a late paper under the professor’s door as he turns the corner.

Nonetheless, this cup deserved good marks—the carbony aftertaste mixed well with the distinct flavor of freshly mowed alfalfa.

Fed but feeling a bit too fidgety for my own good, I was still prepared to continue my journey to the Downtown Mall.

After parking, I cut through York Place and hit Higher Grounds. Dodging the group of red-and-green-haired mall rats hanging by the public restrooms, I walked over to the coffee station and decided to go with the “90 Full Bodied” blend. The cold, steel, overly pierced atmosphere of the place did nothing for me aesthetically, but my “90” blend went down well. It was the heavy, pungent aftertaste that threw the back of my tongue for a loop. So good at the start, yet with such an unexpected ending. No phone calls, no flowers, nothing.

At the Java Hut, in front of Chap’s on the Mall, I purchased a small cup of Shenandoah Joe’s Jitterbug Blend. It seemed appropriate considering my physical state. A bit too floral in the beginning, the taste pushed my entire palette and featured a vaguely caramel flavor. I had my suspicions some nuts might even have been tossed into this roasting. Strangely, I rather liked it.

City Centro was close by, so with my hand noticeably shaking, I handed over my dollar for a small cup. It was in this common coffee destination I noted that with each sip, I would turn to the person next to me and describe the flavors. “My God, how long have I been doing this?” I wondered. Fearing they might call the police, or even worse cut me off, I took my cup and ran.

Yes, I was beginning to lose it. I was actually percolating brown sweat. But I do thank this particular dark roast for pulling me through. Rich but not overly complex, it completely avoided the dreaded “dirty/rubbery” flavor. It had a woody and earthy finish, with a hint perhaps of clove.

After my incident at City Centro, I knew I had to get out of town. I decided to take a drive on 250E.

 

Near Ivy, I pulled off at the Toddsbury of Ivy store. In 1475, Turkish law made it legal for a woman to divorce her husband if he failed to provide her with her daily coffee quota or if the daily quota consisted of something likely akin to Toddsbury’s S & D Coffee. Although quite cheap at 59 cents per eight-ounce cup, this stuff would be better used as shellac for wood paneling. (Decorators take note: They do sell it by the pound there.)

Farther down the road, the old gas-guzzler needed a refill, and I was beginning to lose my buzz, so I veered off at the Brownsville Market.

Although the woman behind the counter wasn’t certain what kind of coffee I had just poured, she did sell me on a delicious corn dog. That is, I think it was delicious—after one sip, the java removed the top layer of my tongue. I can only say the coffee was plain, thin, under-brewed and fairly dead. Like the skin in my mouth.

On my way to downtown Crozet, I began to get a little worried about my jumpy self. First of all, as I sneezed, my eyes never closed. Secondly, when I did so I poured the rest of the scalding coffee all over myself and didn’t feel a thing. Then, the real trouble began.

Right there on the side of the road was Juan Valdez, the patron saint of java drinkers everywhere, and his donkey. As I slowed down, mouth agape, he began yelling to me, “One-quart warm water, a half-teaspoon liquid dish detergent and a tablespoon of white vinegar!” He waved and pointed to my shirt, revealing the secret to getting rid of hard-to-remove stains. I think his donkey may have actually been smiling at me.

I swerved into the parking lot of Ombra’s Café. To help recover from my hallucination I would have sold my soul for a bucket of steamed mussels in saffron broth to even out my caffeine-ridden system, but I had more suppliers to hit before the setting sun. While the coffee itself was reminiscent of unripe fruit, the overall flavor was surprisingly mellow, with enough salt in the aftertaste to cancel out the somewhat sugary beginning.

Hitting Pantops on my way back to Charlottesville, I ventured into the Mudhouse out there for what I consider a dependable cup of coffee. Using beans by Lexington Coffee Roasting Company, what BoJoe’s same beans lacked, this cup made up for: A mild, winy cup of Joe, everything a subtle blend should be. And yet, not quite what I was looking for.

While in the area, I hauled myself up the hill to Giant. I was hopeful when my Joe smelled flowery and nutty all at once. But the taste induced instant heartburn. I grabbed some Tums, and headed toward the Allied Business Park on Harris Street.

After 16 cups of coffee, I needed a break from the stuff—I hadn’t blinked my eyes in over three hours. So before venturing into C’ville Coffee, I stopped into local roaster Shenandoah Joe’s Harris Street location to watch the roasting beans go ‘round and ‘round, and both curse and bless them for inspiring my day’s travails.

“You’ve got to be careful of bitter flavors when buying freshly roasted dark coffees,” said Dave Fafara, co-owner of the 3-year-old local roaster. “People often make the common mistake of roasting too hot and too fast.” He’s learned by trial and error—he roasts nearly 750 pounds of the stuff per week.

By the way, when Fafara and I discussed sugar versus cream, he recommended drinking your Joe like he does, “as a purist.”

We both agreed on the following things, though: If you must dilute your cup, please, use cream (milk is so 1985). Some brews, such as Indonesian blends, complement both cream and milk quite well. In reality though, any dark roasted heavy blend will hold up to your white stuff. As for sweeteners, we concluded they’re all bad but if you must have something, honey is better than sugar. (Author’s note: If you use flavored syrups or Coffeemate, this article will explode in 10 seconds.)

Following my brief respite I returned to the coffee trail, heading to C’ville Coffee. Rows of books and magazines, cherry wood and the smell of freshly brewed beans hit me instantly. I took my cup over to the coffee station and poured my worn-out, over-stimulated self what I considered to be the best cup of Joe I’d had all day.

Mellow with a sweetly floral and herb start, this Joe with balanced acidity was tender on my over-worked liver. The round, malty body and the dry, chocolaty tones—oh, I was certain it had to be too good to be true. And to prove it, I knew I had to have just one more cup.

In a fluster, I hauled over to Spudnuts on Avon Street. All right, certainly one or two fresh potato donuts couldn’t hurt, either.

The potato delicacies didn’t necessarily help, though—you’d think the water used to boil the potatoes was the same water used to brew the coffee. But who was I kidding, really? I just couldn’t get the thought of the C’ville Coffee, with its robust flavor, out of my mind. I had to go back, just for one last taste.

As co-owner Toan Nguyen let me in on the secret—Gavina brand coffee—I savored my favorite brew. I had learned a lot this day—from cleaning advice to roasting advice, I had finally found the perfect cup of coffee, served in the perfect coffee atmosphere. (Which was good because Nguyen told me I could spend the night between a couple of bookshelves if I wasn’t able to drive home.) His wife and business co-owner, Betsy Patrick, then proceeded to fix me a sandwich as I rested my weary, yet jittery, bones in the kids’ section.

I didn’t even mind that I had forgotten to take the wax paper off the sandwich first. And I realized that the perfect beverage to complement my meal was…well, you know.