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The Left Handed Coffee DrinkerCopyright © 1995 by Stuart Daw Drinking 20 cups of coffee daily for 45 years works out to 7,305 per year (including the extra leap year days) times 45 = 328,725 cups. But of course that is only the coffee that has been swallowed. Much more has been slurped in cup testing, winding up in a brass spittoon. One wag with a bad sense of math has suggested that the grand total would be enough to fill a small lake, or to keep Niagara Falls running for seven seconds. But nearly all the coffee that was swallowed has been from cups held in my left hand. Now why would anyone who is right handed in everything else be left handed when drinking coffee? I have been chided by my family for the awkward habit. But there was a good reason for doing it. Perhaps the best way of illustrating that reason is through a concrete example. Let’s go back to the early days on the road selling coffee. It’s 7:30 a.m. at the Bay Bees Coffee shop on Queen St. West in Toronto (an actual 1950s store). The proprietor’s name is Lenny. Lenny is always busy running up and down behind the counter, taking cash, flipping eggs, pouring coffee, and swapping stories with the customers. The coffee shop is one long counter, at least 15 seats. The customers are an eclectic mix…a cab driver, a policeman, a foreman from a clothing factory down the street, and assorted other early starters. Lenny is my customer and I’m paying a courtesy call. He has a fine sense of humor, and we like to banter back and forth. He sees me coming in the door, and lets out a cheery "Hi, coffee man," following with "Hey, go back to the kitchen and get me some cups." He actually means the mugs so often used in those days requiring no saucers. Now, back in the kitchen is a skinny little dishwasher, bent over the two compartment sink used in those days. He has no teeth and is drooling chewing tobacco; and as he chews his chin touches his nose. The rinse water is only lukewarm, and looks as if a couple of dead mice are floating in it. The dishwasher man is dipping the mugs in this stuff, then placing them on a tray. I take the tray out of the kitchen to the end of the counter. Lenny good-humoredly grabs a mug and says, "Here, coffee man, have one on me." I don't want to seem squeamish, but I glance down the row of stools at the patrons, most of whom are bent over their mugs, slurping the rich, hot stuff. One man, obviously left over from the night before, is pouring sugar into his cracked mug until coffee overflows onto the counter. He hasn’t shaved in weeks, and he sucks in his coffee while leaning over without using his hands. I notice that most of the cups along the counter are cracked, and all the drinkers are right handed. My mug is cracked too. So I gingerly turn it around and take the handle in my left hand, drinking from the cleaner side of the mug. I know the odds against my getting hepatitis have been drastically improved. One must do something without exception to make it a habit, doing it all the time, even in an era of meticulously machine cleaned drinking vessels. And so I have done, even when it comes to clean, disposable cups with no handles at all. Who cares if I look awkward at the tea party? © 1995 by Stuart Daw
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