Bill DeMarco Rates the Top 50 Starbucks in LA: This Week: #17
#17: the Starbucks at 7th and Figueroa
I been away a while folks. I know, I know. Don’t worry about it. Just as long as you’re taking care of yourself. Well I haven’t. And I’ve got the feathered hair to prove it. What drove me to this state? Choosing the seventeenth best Starbucks in LA that’s what. In many cultures seventeen is an unlucky number. Cursed. It is said in regions of outer Mongolia if a woman gives birth to a 17th child he will be forced to wear acid-wash jean shorts. Needless to say I better be careful. I needed help. I needed guidance.
Enter James Two Hawks. Jim’s saved my ass more times than I can remember. And I needed him again. One more time. Finding him was another matter. Jim moved liked the wind. Through the spaces and shadows most of us are too busy downloading ringtones to see. Getting your hands on him was like trying to catch moonbeams in a jack-o’-lantern.
But fate can be crazy. I’m standing in line at a Koo-Koo-Roo in Brentwood when I feel someone poke my shoulder. “Hey Bill, it’s me Jim Two Hawks. What’s up man?”
I take off my sunglasses and start to cry.
Half an hour later I calm down enough to talk.
“My spirit is out of balance, Jim. I dont know if I’m sinking or swimming.”
I start to cry again.
“Thank you Jim.”
He eats a fork full of black beans.
“I need help. I need guid–”
“7th and Figueroa”
He munches two more times and walks out.
Damn. It was staring me right in the face.
The Starbucks at 7th and Fig is a little hideaway like a coyote den. There’s another Starbucks half a block up but that one is an absolute fucking dump. I wouldn’t sell knock-off Chinese dildoes in that place. But this store, the one across the street, this place is really good. They’ve got a great array of breads and cheese-plates and the double-shots are lined up real nice. They permanently locked the bathroom because of the bums but otherwise a top notch store.
And don’t let me forget the patio. It’s got some kind of crazy aerodynamic design, maybe some of my readers over at JPL can clue me in, but there’s this whirlwind always blowin’. And if you get there at just the right time, when smoggy sunlight fades behind the freeway and buses slog through rush hour like dying mastodons, a mild counter-clockwise wind can blow a lot of things your way. Hot dog wrappers. Lids. Piss. And maybe an old friend.
So basically like 5:30, sixish.