What could be more full of meaning?—for the pulpit is ever this earth’s foremost part; all the rest comes in its rear; the pulpit leads the world. From thence it is the storm of God’s quick wrath is first descried, and the bow must bear the earliest brunt. From thence it is the God of breezes fair or foul is first invoked for favourable winds. Yes, the world’s a ship on its passage out, and not a voyage complete; and the pulpit is its prow.
-Moby-Dick, Chapter 8: The Pulpit
If I were served this air as soup, I would pronounce it cold and dry. But as atmosphere, I want ladle and spoon. There is a salt tang to this seaside broth. It sloshes over the repentant morning-after streets of Delray Beach, swirls around the slow roll of Humvees, and trickles across railway tracks until it laps at the door of Deke’s in Delray.
The barista behind his bar is a priest in his pulpit. His face is lit with the golden glow of an east-facing window and an easy certainty in the virtue of his flock. He sermonises and rhapsodises, catching us in the net of his enthusiasms. As regulars enter, he calls each by their name. From all walks of life they come to stand at his bar. Police officer, realtor, gardener – he has a story for each of them. Behind him, the drinks menu reads like a hymn board. Cortado 4oz - 499. The whine of the machine turns water into coffee.
In this ristretto religion there are but three commandments: No sweeteners, flavours, or syrups. I suppress an urge to confess a torrid moment with a pumpkin spice latte in a supermarket carpark. Feeling unworthy, I step outside with my espresso, and I am submerged bodily in that heavy air. On the street before me lie palm fronds, scattered as if thrown to the ground. What have I been part of here?
