#anthora

ANTIQUITIES

The other morning, running late, without time for my regular barista to craft my drink, I stopped at one of the coffee carts in Madison Square Park. There was mild shock when I was handed a drink that cost twice what I expected, in an eight-ounce cup that could pass for the classic blue-and-white design Anthora but was in reality troublingly different.

Instead of urns (slender two-handled amphoras) interrupting the key scroll at the top and bottom, this cup had two Doric columns stretched between them. And instead of the wonky gold zigzag letters in a white shield announcing WE ARE HAPPY TO SERVE YOU, THANK YOU! HAVE A NICE DAY was printed a more legible, less spirited font (something like ITC Mixage Bold) in a white cloud framed with Victorian-type floral curlicues. What happened?

When I arrived in New York, years ago, a dollar was good for a coffee and doughnut at one of the carts near Union Square. I was devoted to the one on the northwest corner of Fourteenth Street and Fifth Avenue, owned by a gentleman from Afghanistan, who greeted me each morning with a silent nod, and disappeared for weeks at a time to travel home. His coffee was dark and bold, the taste less complicated and more pleasure-giving than brew from the gourmet purveyors who were at that time just entering the city. Picking up coffee this way, from the carts, made me feel grown up, with hectic mornings, disordered thoughts, and very important work to do. Before leaving I'd remove the lid and take a first sip right there on the sidewalk. Drops of liquid inevitably leaked from the lid onto my hands and wrists. Then I'd move on, emboldened, carrying the cup out in front of me like a torch.

I might buy from a cart again. But the graphics on the current cup leave me rattled. Why is this alternate design permitted? Shouldn't there be laws regulating this, like the design of stop signs and yellow cabs? It's been decades since I frequented the carts. Coffee culture has moved on; I just can't.

the greek key – Google Search — Read on www.google.com/search

 In the late 80s, I lived with my mother Lygia and stepfather Duffy in Far Rockaway Queens, NY. She worked as a clerk in the New York City Sheriff’s office and Duffy worked for the Department of Corrections.

Every day before going to work downtown my parents would stop at the local bodega and order coffee with a muffin or breakfast sandwich. Duffy’s coffee is black. Lygia’s coffee black, 2 creams, 1 sugar. This was our routine. The funny part is, the coffee served was basic black coffee, black or decaf.

New Yorkers found some comfort in the little cardboard coffee cup. The cup, known as the Anthora, is the blue-and-white drinking vessel that first became an icon of New York City in 1963.

Leslie Buck, a Czech-American immigrant, designed the first-ever to-go coffee cup to appeal to Greek-owned coffee shops and diners. With its customer-friendly “We Are Happy to Serve You” inscription and Greek-style letters, the Anthora has now become an important part of the city’s identity. New Yorkers still use this iconic cup to get their coffee.

In the early 90s, when Lygia’s diabetes to take a turn for the worst, we moved to Pocono Summit, PA. After 25 years of her fight with diabetes, she died at the age of 36. I was 12.

After the passing of my mother, my stepfather and I remained in our little house in PA. Since the bodega was no longer an option for coffee, Mr. Coffee pot was the next best thing. During his retirement years, he enjoyed writing. Part of being a writer required round-the-clock coffee, black. As a young child, I learned to make coffee with three simple items: Folgers grounded beans, freshwater, and 1 white coffee filter. Every morning and evening I made my stepfather a fresh pot.

When launching Jarhead Coffee, I received a common question, what makes your coffee so great?

“He can’t be dead, he can’t be.”