Bill DeMarco Rates the Top 50 Starbucks in LA: This Week: #16

#16: the Starbucks at the Torrance Crossroads

Before I launch feet-first into a review that should dazzle and bewilder all my readers and fans, I need to address some issues from a few people who—while they may be readers—are definitely not fans. Unless you mean ceiling fans, because they seek to blow their hot convective current of opinion on my articles from above. (Nice one DeMarco. Thanks DeMarco.) These self-appointed geographammarians have pointed out that the picture accompanying the column“isn’t a picture of LA. If you’re going to write a column called Bill DeMarco’s LA then why are you using a [expletive] picture of New York?”

Whooooooooa! Hope nobody had a seizure. Christ. I’m a passionate guy and sometimes my lust for perfectly roasted beans gets in the way of what are called facts. That said—and if my guy in the arts department was able to put down his Red Bull and bourbon for two seconds—you logic-hounds will find that the new picture is indeed Los Angeles. Can we get on with our lives? (As long as I’m venting you know what phrase I can’t stand? “At the behest of”)

Where was I? Right. Torrance. That’s spelled with a “T” and that rhymes with “B” and that stands for “Beans.” Right here in Torrance city. But the difference is there’s going to be trouble if I DON’T get any coffee right? That’s why it’s different from pool. I’m the coffee man. Not the music man. Fortunately this Starbucks nestled deep in the mesa-style Torrance Crossroads makes some of the finest coffee south-west of Sepulveda Boulevard. The espresso hits you like a scorching poker chip and their seasonal pumpkin latte shows no signs of novelty affectation. (I might recommend that they give the drink a more memorable name like ‘Pumpin’ Pumpkin’)

And I begin to wonder about the crossroads, where they used to hang thieves, queens, and in-betweens. Where a crazy old kraut found the devil himself and asked him for the hand of a lady. Me? I’ve had as many ladies as lattes so if I gamble with Old Scratch, it’ll be penny bets. I’d look him in that red ol’ eye of his and say, I’ve had this notion in the back of my head and I wonder if you’d oblige. I take out my fiddle, tighten my bow, put it to my chin and ask him:

“Pimpin’ Pumpkin. Do you think it’s viable?”