One day while on break from my time in Egypt, after cleaning my teeth with a piece of straw and putting on my finest prairie dress, I boarded a plane from Oklahoma City’s barely international airport and flew west to the strange land of San Francisco, California.
Stepping into the San Francisco International Airport, my poor pioneer mind was already blown. Smooth white corridors, fancy art sculptures, local, organic food, and everything as sleek and well designed as a MacBook. It was more than I could have imagined. To what heights has civilization risen?
The next few days I tramped all over the city, my prairie home seeming nothing more than a dream. What a wondrous place! What streets! What sidewalks! What skinny jeans!
But, I asked myself, is there coffee in this mystical land? In Oklahoma, we have a fine selection of Starbucks and Starbucks. Could San Francisco compete? I asked some locals if San Francisco was home to the strange brew, and they said, “Yes.” And I said, “Where do I get it?” And they said, “Anywhere. But more specifically,” they said, “You should go to Philz.” So to Philz I went.
By the time I arrived at Philz, I was but a weary traveler. After climbing to the top of the Twin Peaks and back, I just wanted coffee. Even a pathetically weak drip concoction from Hardees would have sufficed, but I was in for something else: a treat. Walking to the counter in my wildly patterned jacket bought in a misguided attempt to fit in, I confidently ordered a latte, my favorite drink. “First time here?” The dude asked. Ashamed, I admitted my ignorance.
The dude went on to say that at Philz, they have handmade coffee. An image sprung to mind of a person filling up a coffee cup with his bare hands, pouring in handful after handful. It wasn’t a pleasant image, but luckily he didn’t stop there. Each cup was made individually, he said, and each blend of beans was the result of years of testing. The Tesora blend was the product of seven years work. I thought to myself, “I’ve never worked that hard on anything. My life is nothing compared to this blend of coffee.”
So, I ordered a Tesora, and watched as the water dripped down through the individual filter straight into my cup, the anticipation building. As the dude added cream, I went to pay for my coffee. “No,” he said. “At Philz, you taste before you buy.” Once the brew hit my lips, I knew I was sampling excellence.
The coffee restored my strength and my soul. It is—according to both San Francisco Weekly and me—the city’s best coffee, with locations in, among other places, the Mission and Castro.