There’s Something About The Little Dog Coffee Shop
The following are observations from a recent visit to a coffee shop in which I have now spent a few mornings in. The Little Dog Coffee Shop is located in Brunswick, Maine on a bustling little street; there’s plenty of parking outside and room inside to socialize, read, or pass through when you’re on the go.
The comforting hum of conversations coming from couches and small tables are interrupted at intervals by the hiss of an espresso machine and the grinding of a blender, which hold their places under colorful chalkboard menus and behind a counter full of bagels, brownies, biscotti and other versions of baked goods. Burgundy walls surround all patrons, and feature whimsical art by artists with scrawling signatures. Past a large picture window sits Maine Street (not a typo), to the south, more shops and a college campus; to the north, a large bridge stretching into another town and beyond.
On the semi-wobbly table sits a foamy cappuchino served in a travel mug, as yours truly likes to drink slowly and whose departure is uncertain; could be soon, could be later. A to-go cup is true preparation. Although regret at not taking a picture of a house mug sets in almost immediately; for another time, then.
On a plate – for here, not to-go – sits a half eaten pesto chicken melt, whose other half will be eaten well before this is finished. This writer is no food critic, but this melt is enough to make her want to eat just pesto chicken melts until the end of days.
A girl in distress – or, noticing her body language, facial expressions, constant movement of a hand to her forehead, and the strained phone conversation, she is seemingly in distress – causes infrequent distractions with jolting movements. Hopefully distress did not linger.
A thick accent to the left, shared by two people (speaking flurried English) who have a table next to two people not saying a word but looking around intensely as though they hope to find something to talk about soon. Ah, it seems as though they found that something. For now.
Behind sits a woman who is keeping busy with papers and a laptop, and who looked irritated when yours truly sat down at the table close by. Yours truly is not sorry, however, as she too, likes to be anchored by a wall and not out in the open dining space.
Low hums of more distant conversations mixed with peppy outbursts from music playing blends newspaper rustles, the clanking of silverware on plates, people moving about, including this writer, who, after browsing the coffee shop merchandise, ducks out the back to return another weekend.