Au Bon Pain, Harvard Square

Ah, yes. College. Four years surrounded by your peers; laughing, crying, remaining stationary in your room meticulously arranging sentences to make them appealing to readers, all factor into the best four years of your life. As I type this I sit in the College Union sipping on Paul DeLima's "Burnt Sienna" blend. It makes me glad I had the opportunity (during a Model UN trip) to experience the variety of cafes offered by Cambridge, Massachusetts.

God, did I mess that up.

At eleven at night, disoriented by the shaking and quaking of the T, I stumbled into the only open cafe in Cambridge (unless one considers "Qdobas" a viable alternative) within immediate walking distance: Au Bon Pain. Hungry and confused, I walked up to the cashier and ordered a pastrami sandwich and a medium coffee.

That's where the "fun" and "excitement" of my cafe sampling ended.

After ten minutes there, I had difficulty maintaining my neutrality towards this establishment- call the Swiss delegate off-position, but a motion to adjourn wouldn't be ruled dilatory (I really hope the readers participated in Model UN). Sitting in committee for six hours was more pleasurable than sitting in Au Bon Pain for six minutes, convenient because the first detail of this cafe that I noticed was a sign that read: "Please limit seating to thirty minutes". This ambassador was more than happy to oblige.

As I took my time-metered seat, I realized the customers to my right had food from other restaurants. As I bit into my sandwich, I understood why. As I shook my head in disappointment, I wondered how this meal could violate a physical constant- it had been toasted, five minutes before I bit into it yet the bread, meat, and condiments were still cold. Bravo, ABP... if only you focused your magic on making customers want to stay past your arbitrary measurement of "appropriate eating-time" rather than altering the temperature of sandwiches I would've found this experience more enjoyable.

On to the coffee:

You know a cafe is high-end when they have all three flavors from which to choose: House, French Roast, and Hazelnut. Not trusting the house, I stuck to my Swiss roots and went with the French.

Those peculiar Western Europeans are known for their tastes in wine, cheese, and coffee (Model UN can lend to cultural insensitivity, sorry); they would have been deeply offended to know that their name was lent to such a lifeless, bland and unspectacular coffee.

This was a coffee meant for accoutrement- it needed cream, sugar, milk, a shock- anything to raise this Frankenstein from the operating table. It needed life! The one characteristic abounding in my cup was the lack of an edge. Sure it tasted enough like coffee, bitter at first and, well, hot. Yet it didn't leave my pallet with a distinctive mark. Essentially this was coffee with only a denouement, in a literary sense. Dry and bitter before descending into an abyss of blandness and conformity.

I'm used to coffee that ends in a bite; coffee should leave a taste behind to mark its presence, to reaffirm its existence. This drink did no such thing. It's the same cup you unthinkingly grab from the office counter or the dorm lounge.

Buy it in bulk, label it with a hint of exoticism, serve it to the customers. ABP's recipe for success and coffee.

Fear not, readers! I left that establishment before a potential clash with management, promptly exiting with ten minutes left in my cafe-sanctioned dining time. Wandering around the Harvard campus I pondered the existence of this distinctly out-of-place restaurant in Harvard square. A mystery for the ages...