The fine art of coffee is no laughing matter. For those of us who like to jumpstart our day with the dark black fluid, allowing the biochemical and romantic magic of caffeine to catalyze that rapid firing of neuronal synapses which assists us humans with a myriad of cognitive functions, our first cup of matinal coffee is a crucial element. Indeed, it is the determining factor that decides between a ho-hum day and a fabulous foray into a diurnal urban experience. My personal fave is a classic long espresso, in a real cup, with a real spoon and a small dollop of organic Avalon cream, followed by a clear and crystalline glass of H2O on the rocks. Called an “allonge” in French, a “luongo” in Italian, an “allargado” in Spanish, I love my cafezinho (in Brazil).

But take care, sweetheart, this drink is not to be confused with its watered down, bastardized North American cousin, the “Americano,” and calling that whole mess a “Canadiano” does not redeem it one bit. Neither is it an espresso tout simple, though I confess that if you serve it to me in one of those cute little Fiesta retro cups from Attic Treasures, followed by the self-prescribed dose of chilled water, and accompanied by one of Sweet Tooth's fabulous baked goods, or a biscotti from Panaderia Italiana, I might be pleased nonetheless. But please, don't mistake a long espresso for an espresso doble (two shots) and charge me double; nor offer me a macchiato or a “con panna” (with whipped cream) unless I expressly request it. Fussy? Maybe, darlings, but you see, great coffee is like good sex. If you get precisely what you want, it is deeply satisfying. If not . . . well, you know.

In order to discern, discreetly, as it were, like a lover that hasn't quite committed completely, I have flirted with various coffee venues on that stretch of cosmopolitan terrain known as Hastings Sunrise, the heart of Little Italy (where they invented espresso). To avoid subjecting the baristas to the tedious flattery and embarrassing fawnings that accompany serving coffee to a journalist on a mission, my identity has remained behind sealed lips. I open these only long enough to pronounce “long espresso” softly, as a caress, and to utter appreciative murmurs once its steamy dark body reaches my timorous hands.

'Cuz I'm not one to kiss and tell, amore, I will spare the names of the most disastrous tete-a-tetes. I was really brought down when, on a cold and rainy day, I stepped into a bakery to pick up some pannini, cannoli, gnocchi and eclairs. I whispered the name: espresso luongo, per favore. To my utter disappointment, I was given a lukewarm, pale brown substance. The wrong color. The wrong taste. No aroma. No cream (although the eclairs were stuffed full of the stuff).

Instead, a weak pale beige liquid. When I, weak in the knees, dared to ask for more, I was teased with a taupe soup, graced with a few drips of diluted milk. I was charged extra for this gesture. Cuanto? I paid $2.49. Wake up, people, it's 7 AM already! To be fair, the pannini, the home-made pasta, the mille-feuilles, cannoli, deli delighta and frozen goodies are delightful. You score A+ for all of these. I'll be going back, but not for coffee.

If you like the sounds of traffic and jackhammers early in the day (and all day long) and relish being scolded, like some unruly girl at nun's school, because you (God and the Virgin Mary forbid) found fault with a consistently disappointing, tiny limp cold thing masquerading as your own true love, try a little yuppie joint (not the green funny kind) where all the cops hang out (no joking). Gee, I thought we had a swell relationship, going steady as it were, spending money on you, spending time patiently explaining how I liked it, day after day, throwing coins into your jar 'cuz you told me God keeps track if I don't tip; you really let me down. Still. I'm the forgiving kind, honey, and I'll probably (although perhaps foolishly) give it one more shot. So I won't spill the beans; you still garnish a passing grade (barely) if only for community involvement, super-comfy chairs and (except for a few bad apples) a hip super-stylin' staff.

Who doesn't make the grade? I'm not even gonna name that abomination we all know about, except to say that if this were Victoria, where idling is against the law, the “drive-thru” on Hastings would be paid a little visit by our men in blue—but not for donuts, for breaking the law. Its fellow clone, the one that funnels out full-grown adults walking down the street like, well, babies drinking from their wood-product based “sippy cups” full of sugar-coated excuses for the real thing doesn't make it past pre-school. I'm glad that “Haidabucks” in Haida Gwaii won its name-linked lawsuit against this corporation which is single-handedly responsible for destroying large tracts of virginal rainforest due to coffee plantation monoculture motivated entirely by greed. Sorry, boys and girls, not even a million trillion Novenas can save your sorry asses, and attending your private barista schools continues to teach nothing of value.

But no more whining allowed, let's focus on the best. Roundel's, Schokolade and Sweet Tooth are all in the running. At Roundel's, have a fabulous brekkie (my huevos rancheros were done to perfection) accompanied by a proper espresso in correct china cup and saucer, accompanied by a little stainless steel jug of cream. Next to it, the traditional biscotti has been dispensed with, in favor of a fusion frill: a fortune cookie to brighten your day and fuel your fancy. Mine read: “your fantasy will come true.” Seated on original forties' steel grey rotating stools, swivel around and you will see three large paintings by Lori Sokolu, entitled “As Far As The Eye Can See” set against a sky-blue wall that picks up on the sky blue of the paintings, especially made for the place. That's what owner/chef Dena, a feisty brunette with a penchant for great food, told me. They are aerial landscapes, as if seen from a helicopter or a float plane. The first is a desert vista in pale browns, beige, soft greens and subtle creams. The second features light-filled clouds, floating islands in an almost hazy, partly impressionist composition. The third feeds you a strong palette in autumnal shades on rolling hills, a fiery bush, and a few charcoal references to trees. Her application is sparse, watered-down, but it reads well, and the work functions to add a spaciousness and complementary color accent, much needed in a small space. You can see more of her work (some tiny pieces, moderately priced) down the street at Tiger Tiger, while shopping for a vintage made-in-Canada wool garment to keep the cold wind out. When you're warm and toasty, venture due North to Redsokil Arts, her studio.

My sweet, Sweet Tooth Cafe has the lowest priced espresso on the block, at only $1.50 for a single shot. For only $1.64, you can treat yourself to a toasted multi-grain bagel (everything in the cafe is made from scratch) with a pat of bona-fide butter and a very generous portion of jam. The espresso is presented in beautiful little cups and the bagel sits on lovely plates that look like etched leaves. Sweet Tooth's owner and chief chef, Ganji, is a tiny Thai woman with a big heart. Her pad thai is exceptionally good, the curried chicken hot but deliciously flavored with coconut milk, and she is proud to serve coffee from Cafe Classics, a local micro-roaster that supplies fair-trade, shade-grown, organic beans. Her walls are graced with paintings and prints by local artists, and she doesn't charge one copper for art sales as commission (Sweet! ). “Chicken City,” a work by Arin Ringwald (which we featured in issue #200 as pertaining to A J Rabasse-oops! Apologies to all) is one of many by that artist, who says “Arin Ringwald believes that we should all be able to enjoy affordable, original and interesting art.” You can reach him at augustoutside@g-mail.com. A small print is $6.00; a large one just ten bucks. One of my faves is “Myths,” where Pinnochio, wearing a dunce cap, whispers into the brain (devoid of the cranium—we see it) of a man, framed by that skewed perspective specific to graffiti artist, clutching eight cups of coffee in . . . sippy cups. Oy vey!

And now for the best. And it's (drum roll) . . . yes, yes, I can hear your heavy breathing, your ecstatic anticipation, wait . . . wait . . .and it's . . . Felicia's! “Felicia” means happiness, and both Lucia (light) and her daughter Felicia exude it. Under a cheery cherry red awning sits a small restaurant run by two remarkable Italian women who are great cooks. I walked in one wind-swept day asking for directions to the Italian Cultural Center and my request for an espresso luongo exceeded my expectations. Lucia knew at once what was required (one shot, run long) how to serve it (in a cappuccino demi-tasse), and made me feel right at home, sitting me down in style at a square topped table covered in red and white checkered linen. Heck, she didn't even make me feel blue to only order coffee during her lunch-time traffic. A few minutes later, a large group of regulars came in and I attest to the delicious dishes that went by my eager eyes. A few days later, I came in to chat and was presented with tastes of this and that: fresh, wild halibut beautifully set on silver platters, rigatoni with an exquisitely flavored tomato sauce, home-made tiramisu. Some of her items are pricey, as the mussels and clams, or the halibut, but worth every cent for that special occasion. But these women are no fools, they know that everybody's gotta eat. So, and for just under eight dollars, you too can come in out of the rain and witness Lucia, decked out in a white chef's hat and impeccable apron, cooking up a storm. Your ravenous longings will be assuaged by tenderly braised foot-long sausages, cradled in sweet onions, accompanied by scalloped potatoes. Yum. These ladies know what they are doing. They are experts. After all, they have been dishing it out for thirty years, as the discreetly posted wall of famous patron (yep, Johnny Depp, Biff Naked and the gang) attests. A great print by an Italian futurist woman artist, Lampicki, is up on the wall, and there are real flowers in faux depression glass opaque white glasses to gaze on. Molto bene, molto bene!

But, you know, trouble is brewing on this block. If the blockheads at City Hall have their way, the BC Liquor Store (that funds our Hospitals and Schools from its profit margin, and employs unionized labor) will be replaced by a privatized outfit and will be open 365 days a year. The city bulldozers will carve out the heart of Little Italy and the tiny storefronts, many of which have been around for over half a century, will become another item on the Altar to Lost Neighborhoods ay next year's Parade of Lost Souls. Whatsit Drugs, that ugly eyesore fuelled by pharmaceuticals expects to expand itself like a malignant tumor on Hastings Sunrise, a proposal for an IGA will devour the rest, and, psychiatric patients (remember, all those people on diazapam, ritalin, methadone, prozac and other drugs hard to pronounce and even harder to stomach) let loose from Hospitals due to cut-backs (although the pigs at the trough see fit to allow themselves 58% pay increases, you know who I'm talking about) to get their “meds” dispensed from a storefront—not a public hospital. And the PNE? Just a giant casino full of slot machines, despite the brave efforts of Pastor Dave Bornman and other Church leaders who are fighting legal lawsuits against this stuff. Our Lady of Sorrows, tucked a block away, weeps tonight.

Wake up and smell the coffee. Make your vote count. Let's try to cope. Have a Vision. United we stand, divided . . . well, you know. But, per favore, don't take my word for it. C'mon over for coffee. Chat with the merchants. Make sure you touch base with Chris from Jox Sports, who would like to stay in place to outfit the kiddies with their sports gear, but was expelled (no kidding) from City Hall for stating his views. And if any of you politicians out there have hired your henchmen to read this, kindly remember the meaning of the word “democracy.”It means “sovereign rule by the people.” Rule BY the people; not rule the people. Listen closely: The people here do not want to see the sun set on Hastings Sunrise. Capice? Molto bene.