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A Perfectly Logical Guide to a Superhuman Apocalypse: 80
🕑 Added 2024-10-28 15:04:55 +0000 UTCA Perfectly Logical Guide to a Superhuman Apocalypse: 80
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Wordcount: 2500
Commissioned by Arksoul
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Vancouver surprisingly had an actual coffee roaster and café. I’d originally planned on getting tons of fresh beans and to make fresh roasts in my bunker, but my attempts at smaller batches always ended up not tasting very good. If the apocalypse occurred a few more months later than it did, I’d probably have gotten the hang of it, and have a few bushels of unroasted coffee beans at the bunker in cold storage. Unfortunately, the kickoff happened, and I had to make do with stashes of instant coffee made by really good roasters and the more decent batches of instant.
I went through most of my stash a while ago, so I was looking forward to getting some at the café.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t pretend to just be a normal person, since their was surveillance everywhere, and the community was pretty tight lipped.
So, I walked into the café covered up in camo, wearing a mask, and armored up.
Like a freaking weirdo.
“G-good morning. How can I help you today?” The young woman acting as cashier stuttered. I mean, in front of her was a looming figure with no outward features that can be used to discern who they were. Most of the other customers present were already looking at the police in the same café, wondering if the police should do something, and it was obvious they were thinking the same. If I didn’t handle this carefully, I’ll have a diplomatic incident on my hands. “Sir?”
“The daily special roast. Drip. Hot. And, a croissant.” I gave the order I wanted while I was in line, and provided the lines I practiced in my head. “My name is Egress.”
The young woman at the teller balked for a moment, then realized I was ordering just like a regular customer despite my getup… and fell back to routine.
“One daily roast drip coffee for Mr. Egres and a croissant. Would you like for us to warm that up for you?”
“No. Thank you. I’ll take everything to go.” It wasn’t like I was going to sit around here and eat it. I’ll be zipping over to a safe house and enjoying the view of the sunset in the tropics across the world. I liked drinking coffee while watching the sunrise and sunset, depending on my mood. I could just go watch whichever I wanted. “That is all.”
“Your total is five dollars.” Five dollars for a roaster’s coffee and a croissant? What a great deal. If either are just decent, I’ll come back here. Especially since there wasn’t a tip jar, and the taxes are factored in already. I really hoped that this payout system will come to America after we’ve put it back together. “Your drip coffee will take a few minutes. Please wait at a table until we call you name.”
“Understood.” I paid for my little breakfast and stood aside to wait close to the counter where the coffee and pastry would be given out. The police and everyone else in the café… seemed to just relax after I paid. I guess that they were worried that I was going to commit a crime or something. “I’ll wait here.”
With that I withdrew, and just enjoyed the regular ambiance of the place.
It was a post-modern little café, but one that encouraged people to stick around.
Most cafes that I went to before the bombs fell took the opportunity to be sleek and modern and got shitty chairs and tables that were just hard to work at. Sure, brick and mortar look great with metal finish furniture, but they’re not great to sit on. Hell, those plastic chairs you can just stack atop each other and store are better to sit on. Not only that, but most tables were spindly and rocked around, and maybe even had edges that were nearly too sharp to rest your wrists against.
This post-apocalypse café hit the sweet spot. They kept the sleek bar with the nice clear glass cases for pastries, and all stainless steel and clean behind the counter. However, the place where the customers actually stayed at had nice wooden tables and sturdy wooden chairs with actual armrests. There was even a bookshelf sponsored by the local library. The tables had some flowers in vases, just to give the place a nice hint of color, while the air was filled with the scent of freshly brewed coffee and baking pastries. The best part was that the atmosphere kept the people quiet, too. The people here barely talking above a murmur.
I haven’t even eaten yet, and I already liked the place.
Man, if I could get away with it, I’d just take up one of the darker nooks, and stick around for an afternoon reading a book or something.
It’s like the best place to be alone.
“Uh… Egress?”
“That’s me.”
“Oh, yep. Figures.” The young woman who made the coffee and bagged my pastry gave a nod and looked at me for a while. I could feel the gears spinning. I made the decision to leave right then and there. No small talk for this guy. “Uh—
“Good day.” With that, I walked out of the building, and the moment I crossed the door went over across the world.
Half the sky was starting to fill with stars, while near-purple rays of the sun setting in the distance streaked across the other half of the sky. There was a breeze in the air, a cool tropical breeze, and the scent of the ocean drifted with it. I fetched one of my tables, got a seat, sat, and just settled in for a nice sunset with some good coffee and a croissant.
The daily roast was apparently a South American variety, raised in one of Vancouver’s skyscrapers turned into vertical farms. Inside the converted buildings, temperature, climate, and soul conditions were all replicated carefully to grow coffee beans to exacting standards. I’d planned on going over to South America to see how the plantations were going, but Vancouver looked like it was going to be my best bet.
Opening the coffee cup, I poured its contents into an actual mug, and took it in. There was a subtle viscosity to the coffee, just slightly above water, that denoted that the extraction was good and all the oils and compounds in the roasted coffee were there. A faint film was left by the liquid on the disposable cup that I was given, and I was sure that if I let it dry the scent of coffee would cling to it for days. The scent of the coffee from the mug was initially just the familiar notes of coffee, but with a bit more focus, I picked up hints of honey, chocolate, and orange. A common coffee taste range for roasters to offer as a daily special for people just getting into coffee.
A gave the mug a sip, and gave a sigh of relief.
It was a bit over-roasted and bitter. Closer to a dark roast than a medium, so that the citrus scent was barely present as a flavor and the honey was closer to a dark caramel in sweetness. The chocolate flavor was in full force. Yeah, this is was coffee that the roaster expected to have sugar and milk get added to by normal customers. I should’ve gone for one of their specials… but this was a good start for a normal person. It meant that they knew that they were doing.
I was very tempted to go back and get another cup, but after years of very little coffee, two cups will be uncomfortable.
I went on to the croissant.
It could’ve been garbage, and I wouldn’t have minded, but it was good. Breaking it apart gave me a fluffy, airy, and white interior made from properly made croissant dough. When factories churned the stuff out, they barely let the dough rest, so the insides never got airy and were just basically layers of dough cooked by butter, never joining together and making a chewy, buttery, airy inside. The outside was a nice golden color with a good crunch. They weren’t taking any shortcuts thanks to having a toaster oven on standby. A good croissant, freshly made, shouldn’t need to be reheated the day it’s made. The shell will be slightly brittle and crunchy at least for a couple hours after cooling off.
Overall, I found a great place to spend my mornings.
Three days a week, and alternating between every other day and two days in between each visit.
Just to make sure people don’t figure out a pattern to use against me.
…
For dinner, Vancouver had a lot to offer.
The city’s markets had fish and chicken, but there were a few stalls that sold beef and pork. However, their focus was shrimp.
There were facilities inside the city designed to grow shrimp in large warehouses. Shrimp apparently only took three months to raise in their farms, and they grew to the size of a palm, and weren’t picky with what they ate. Not nearly as effective as bugs when it came to producing protein, but they grew quickly, were tasty, and their shells could be ground up for both stock and fertilizer.
I never had seafood until my second decade, and by then cooked seafood was exotic to me, and sushi was outright bizarre. Thankfully, I made friends with people, and I never turned down free food, so I eventually tried it. I liked it, and from then on, I’ve been on the hunt for most foodstuffs and not just what I knew.
Never thought that I’d be having a bowl of egg-noodles in a shrimp broth, though.
“How do you make it so orange?” I was in front of a stall. Loads of people walking by were staring at me. However, the stall owner barely blinked when I came by. Harold Wu came from overseas before trade and transit across the Pacific basically shut down. Thus, he was in his fifties and nearing sixty. Still, though, he was manning a noodle stall that had multiple plastic tables and chairs surrounding it in a busy market… and they were all full of people eating. Pretty much the signal for me to pick it for my dinner. Locals sitting around and crowding on tiny plastic chairs and tables around a noodle store? Basically, as good as a certain tire company’s recommendation. “You add tomatoes?”
“No. No tomatoes. Ground up shrimp heads. All the good stuff.” Harold was enthusiastic to discuss things, after I proved that I was a bit discerning when it came to noodles. Going around SEA pretty much made me a connoisseur of the stuff. I preferred Pho the most, with plenty offal and gamier pieces of meat, along with fishballs. With all the sauces and herbs that came along with the bowl, you can pretty much tailor your meal so that every bite is different from the next with only the broth and rice noodles as the common denominator. “French technique for shrimp bisque, but I add no oil, cream, or crushed up stale bread to thicken. Only shrimp head, shrimp innards, and then vegetable stock, then strain.”
“Take a long time?”
“No, no. Shrimp broth taste no good after too long pf boil. Too delicate. Needs to be very fresh. Reheating is no good. Big pot always kept warm.” Harold shook his head and explained. It must’ve been strange to look at. A looming figure in a camo cloak just talking with a noodle stall’s owner. “When cool, taste fades too. Need to eat quickly. Less than ten minute for best flavor.”
Some people say that they eat the food that they pay for how they want.
They’re idiots, if the chef has a recommended way of eating it.
“I’ll keep that in mind. Hm. Here’s a tip. I’ve been to China recently.” I reached into my cloak, but in truth put my hand into my storehouse for the stuff from China. I grabbed a tall, clay jar full of soy sauce, tucked it under my shoulder, and got some chili oil. Both were pretty prized wherever I decided to sell them. This guy, though, would probably appreciate the last jar I got the most. Fish sauce. I placed them gingerly on the counter and his eyes practically popped out of his eyes when I opened the lids. “I work everywhere. We can work out a deal for—
“Yes. Any deal. I can make real restaurant with this!” Harold’s eyes were bright and he practically seized all three jars. In a burst of Mandarin, he addressed one of his kids helping at the stall. “Bring this home now and cook fresh rice! Tell your mother to get some pork!”
“Stir fry pork and fried rice?” I asked him in Mandarin, and he just looked at me with a grin.
“Yes. It’s been too long. Thank you very much, sir!” His Mandarin was a lot better than mine and he gave me nod of thanks. “I’ll have your meal ready in a moment!”
“I’ll be right here.”
I got my meal in a few moments, without a sign of anything extra on the top.
You’d think that would show him off as someone stingy… and you’d be right.
Who’d want a business partner that gives extra to anyone who treats him nicely? This was just the perfect sign that I picked the right dude to work with to get my stock from China over here in Vancouver.
The meal itself was fantastic, and I ate it at another hideout.
The egg noodles were fresh and boiled in just under five minutes, then covered in the deep orange soup stock made from vegetables and shrimp. The shrimp flavor was the most prominent, practically every bite bursting with the familiar briny flavor. The stock was aromatic with the faint scent and taste of onion, ginger, and carrots, but besides that there was nothing else to detract from the taste of the shrimp broth. It was so intensely flavored that I could barely taste the difference between taking a bite of actual shrimp and slurping up the soup. The only toppings on the meal were some peeled and boiled shrimps, some green onions, and fish cakes.
No crunchy garlic, slices of pork, or even bean sprouts.
Anything that would get in the way of the shrimp flavor was removed from the equation.
By the end of it, I drank the rest of the broth after finishing off the noodles, the fish cake, and shrimp toppings.
Then, I went back and ordered another bowl.
Yeah.
I think I’m about to support the first post-apocalyptic franchise.
Comments
Roughstar333
Now I want to eat shrimp ramen.
Valerian
Food motivates Egress like nothing else.
