I am not immune to the charms of a well-made mocha.
In fact, I think I'm particularly vulnerable to the bittersweet chocolate, warm and floating over the richness of coffee shots, and usually accented with a milky misty heart in the foam on top.
When a straight boy makes my mocha, I'm quite prone to fall in love with him. I do it all the time. There were two boys at Saxy's in Boulder- one tall lanky blond road biker with a clean cut look, and one compact, dread-headed, mountain-climbing, weed-worshiping white rasta. When either of them sent up the call "Mocha!" my heart would skip a beat. I'd almost always find some new, cool pattern in my coffee cup. Rasta even threw out the cup once and made it over when his artwork didn't come out right for me. (He also played Whitney Houston on Wednesdays. What a guy.)
Cafe Verde in Lawrence was a more rare visit during my year in Mass., but I remember the short, stocky, smiling black barista who would bring the mocha to me with a grin and a wink.
And now Philadelphia's hipsterville has provided my next mocha-maker, right in the middle of Center City, on the threshold of Rittenhouse, the most uncommon stomping grounds for skinny-pantsed, bandana-wearing, pop-of-color, we-are-anti-culture-but-we-define-culture minions, who all find safe haven here. Tall and svelte, dark curly locks and quite hipster, "Mocha!" he calls.
Is it the man that makes the mocha, or the mocha that makes the man?