For Me, It Will be Goode to the Last Drop

Soon after my arrival, but well before I began taking cases—of which I must soon detail for you—I resumed my custom of taking early walks all over this great metropolis, Los Angeles.

In order to familiarize myself with the details, environs, and affectations unique to the city’s many locales, I trekked to parts of the county both many and disparate.

My first focus was the beaches of this place, of which there are many, as each would have sand of differing surface areas and mineral compositions. That this knowledge should prove useful, I had no doubt, in identifying areas visited by persons of my investigative interest. I visited from as far to the Northwest as Leo Carrillo and its teeming tide-pools to the Long Beach Marina, home of the extraordinary British leisure vessel, The Queen Mary.

While in nearly every location I’ve found many of the same establishments inside which one can dine and drink, there is one in particular that appears to me to infest this city; a coffee pub called “Starbucks.”

I feel about this place, good Watson, much as you’ll recall I felt about the renowned mathematician and leader of the greatest criminal organisation which has ever existed, Professor Moriarty. That is to say, it was the greatest in degree of evil perpetrated as well as in covertness despite operating in plain sight...

Until now.

Yes, the number, design and palpable attitude of the Starbucks establishments are the product of some greedy power above and beyond the enterprising businessman and businesswoman franchisee. There is a force for evil protecting its bilking agent locations and cunningly camouflaging their diabolical purpose with the delicious poisons of fashion and addiction. And, truly, there it is. For, as you know, I am a man of some vice, being able to live with neither boredom nor a quiet and calm mind. No, I am frequently in need of some assistive stimulant. And with the apparent millions of Starbucks outfits operating, I am far from alone.

As you and I would occasionally take our morning coffee together as made and served by our landlady Mrs. Hudson, so do I at Starbucks each morning.

And mid-morning.

And late afternoon.

And it was upon one of these late day visits, dear doctor, that I was stricken by a malady that I fear not even you could cure. No, not even in this day and age I find myself in has for it any relief or counteragent been found.

I speak, of course, of love.

Love, Watson!

Yes, that feeling for which only Irene Adler had ever brought fire to my kindling, has struck again and not even I am able to stop or apprehend it. But as I recall you to be far more intimately acquainted with the intricate feelings of affection than I shall be in this lifetime; I shall spare you the details. Onward, then, to the scene which birthed this fire in my heart!

I entered the large coffee house and took in its frenetic but warm decor. Like many a solitary patron, I eyed the menu board of brown with its cream letters and decorative swirls hanging above the heads of the coffee waiters—barista is the correct term, I learned—as though its contents would impact my decision. As I considered the surroundings in the customarily nonchalant manner of the place, my eyes made their way to the four baristas operating the cafe.

The first gentleman was squat and unshaven and who I’d have wagered had only recently begun his employment there. He was what I’ve heard referred to as a “hipster,” which, judging by the commonly worn, and tattered state of their clothing, is a term describing the loitering and condescending class of homeless, jobless rogues which overrun this city and no small number of Starbucks.

The second was a very small, slender woman who I perceived from her short, stark, jet black hair, thick-rimmed spectacles and dozen ear piercings, to be a young woman of the Cult of Lesbos.

I shall stop at the third, for she so quickly captured my eye and heart that I could look no further. Here stood a woman of common height and build, but for whom the word “average” had absolutely no meaning. Here stood a woman with extraordinarily beautiful and, to me, exotic features. I travelled to the head of the queue with eyes only for this woman without realizing it, for by staring in awe at this beauty to the exclusion of all other objects I had become temporarily unaware of my own steps forward. Once at the front, I broke my stare with a grin at my own (some would say) rarely seen humanity, and realised to my delight and horror that she, the beautiful third barista, was gesturing to me that I should step forward.

“Well, hello. You look, like, so cool and stuff. Ha, ha. What can I get you?” She said, making sounds revealing her masticating the gum of a rubber plant. Clearly, her father must be a man of some influence in the lower Americas.

“Hello to you, gentle woman,” I said and tipped my hat to the lady.

“Cool. Would you like some tea, maybe?”

“How clever of you it is to deduce this truth.” Was this, perhaps, a match made in heaven? This young woman took in my origins in an instant knew my craving at this time of day would be for tea. Admiration welled inside me. “Yes, please, I wish your largest cup of black tea with soy milk in two cups,” I ordered. You should know that it is the custom in this chain of coffee brewery to order that which one wishes with at least two customisations for which you have no desire whatsoever.

“Alright! Ha. Would you like to eat something with that?” asked she while gently laying a strand of temporarily misplaced honey hair behind a delicate ear.

“You’ve found my weakness, lady mine,” I said, craftily laying claim to this young angel. “I should like whatever you recommend.”

“Oh, right. Well?” She paused long as she carefully considered each pastry option and matched it to what she knew of me. “I’m, um. I’m thinking the crumble cake, right, because it’s all soft, hard and sugary all at once.”

I admit that my cheeks became uncharacteristically flushed at the barely hid, carnal meaning of her words. She seemed to me both proper lady and geisha at once.

I paid for my sustenance and in parting, said “I should like to call on you again, Ms.?”

“What?” said she, acting unconvincingly as though unaware of our mutual and comingling desire. "Oh! Hillary. Hillary Goode. See ya!” and shone upon me a radiant and coquettish smile which I still carry upon my person.