What wafts through the speakers usually delivers your first impression of place and personality. That’s sort of my approach to the perennial question of music in restaurants. His response was always a glare that said: “Eat sh-t.” Or so he’d translate for me after the queue subsided and I sat sipping his delicious brew, entertained by it all. I remember a couple of first-time customers asking Manny to turn the music down. His customers waited with uncaffeinated stoicism as his sound system pounded out the complete works of Machine Head, his favorite band in the world - shredding guitar riffs, tornadoes of percussion, hellish lyrics, thrash metal at the height of bellicosity. I would arrive early because Manny usually worked solo and the line grew swiftly. Of the many baristas I’ve known, he had the best palate for coffee and a nose to match.
When I lived in New York City, I’d walk 15 minutes from my apartment to the tiny shop between Columbus and Amsterdam Avenues where Manny made coffee.
