Having conquered coffee, Starbucks is now moving into tea. The coffee giant’s newest venture, Teavana, launched with a tea bar on the Upper East Side of Manhattan.
Once upon a time in a land before Starbucks there existed this stuff we call coffee. Not half fat mocha late skinny with frappo organic raw sugar and a twist of Madagascar kumquat syrup or a Free range micro tannic free Sumatran upside down turbo tea.
There is nothing like an espresso in the afternoon: the swirl of caramel-colored coffee foam; the dark, robust burst of flavor; the infusion of energy. The latte and the cappuccino are delicious, too, fortifying in the morning, sweet later in the day. I’ve been ordering these drinks for years, but until I met Moti Menachem at his cool espresso bar in the Westfield Topanga mall, I had no idea why only a few of those cups were ever truly great.
I am a New Orleans Jew. The values of those identities fuel me like the smooth-yet-caffeinated drink that is the trademark of my hometown. I embrace the changing communal calendars and the rituals for their observances of joy and tragedy. These have taught me what it means to be human and how to extract eternity from the changing seasons.
Based upon Edward Hopper's famous painting of a late-night coffee shop on a desolate city street corner, Douglas Steinberg's new play, "Nighthawks," which is having its world premiere at the Kirk Douglas Theater, features a painter who says only one word in the entire first act.
OK, mom, so what part of eating that cheesecake is making you feel guilty? If you fear that little bubbela is annoying the other customers in the bakery, your worries are over.
Many a great cook has been sent over the edge trying to produce some beautiful Passover baking.
Calendar of events including upcoming events.
Businessman Allen Gochnour is a regular at the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf on La Cienega Boulevard, and like many of the people who wait in the line that often stretches out the door, he's not just there to grab a cup of java and run.
My great-grandmother, Gouda, escaped Germany by boat at night when she was in her 60s. My grandfather, Opa, fled with her and his wife and two small children when he was 42. Both lived long, energetic, brave lives in their adopted country: she, chasing her great grandchildren around in a playful hide-and-seek when she was 95 years old; he, establishing a synagogue in the Bronx after abandoning one in Grebenaou, Germany. Both also had elaborate Passover breakfast rituals involving broken pieces of matzah.
"Gouda lined her half-full coffee cup, with thin strips of matzah," my mother told me. Then, in the order they went in, she lifted each piece out, sprinkled it with sugar and ate it.