Foodies Anonymous

Intelligentsia Coffee in Silverlake has been my frequent spot as of late. The outdoor seating is nice and sunny in the day and opens onto the sidewalk, which makes for a constantly changing crowd that pops in and out as the hours pass and keeps things constantly interesting. Perfect place to have a chat with a friend or read a book over a cup. I prefer it on Fridays and Saturdays when it’s open ’til 11 p.m. A huge drawback is that it closes at 8 p.m. on Sunday through Thursday, for those who want to squeeze in a few hours at the end of the workday. Also, the lighting in the seating area is a bit dim in the evenings, if you get out from the seating area under the awning. Makes the reading, writing aspect of things a bit difficult when you’re off in the periphery.

Their coffee and tea is genuinely amazing. I’m a bit of a chai elitist. I prefer old school, the way my grandmother makes it with all the spices coarsely ground in a mortar and pestle, simmered with milk, tea and sugar on the stove. That said, after being severely disappointed in cinnamon tea posing as chai in coffee shops all over, this has been thus far the best chai I’ve had in Los Angeles. Their Moroccan Mint Iced Tea is also one of my favorites. Crisp and doesn’t taste like watered down Starbucks brew. Instant happiness. I’ve also had a sip of their Mocha and Iced Mocha from friends’ drinks, which were also delicious and strong.

That said, their service is a little wanting. They can claim a barista champion, and all, you know. I remember I had a friend with me (recently moved here from abroad), who made the mistake of asking for a bit of cream on her mocha. She got a bit of a scowl and was ultimately ignored. I think a “We don’t do that here,” or a simple “No,” would have been a better response. Other times, they have not been impolite, but certainly not welcoming. Sometimes, they say nothing and just stand there. Just completely awkward silence, until you’re forced to say something equally awkward like, “So um, er, uh can I have a [insert name of drink here].” And even then, they don’t quite respond. They step off to make your drink, and you walk to the left, hand them your form of payment, usually met with similar silence after one of the baristas calls the name of a drink (unless there is some kind of confusion, in which case, more scowls and perhaps a slightly condescending form of seeking clarification like, “Ok, look, what I’m saying is, do you want it separate or together?”). Oh yes, forgot to mention, they don’t take your name during any part of the process. So if ten people order Moroccan Mint Iced Teas, you just walk up like one of them is yours. Either it’s some incredible honor system based on a serious and profound hipster code of trust, or they just don’t care who you are. You pick. For kinder service and a warmer atmosphere, Casbah up the street far surpasses.