‘Do you want that for here or to go?’ I get that question every time I order something at Power Coffeeworks because the barista du jour is supposed to ask. I invariably look at the coffee server in amazement and feigned shock. ‘Where else would I go?,’ I respond with my own somewhat rhetorical question. Should I wander the streets of Jerusalem clutching my take-out container and intermittently sipping the world’s best coffee? Can you imagine walking into your favorite watering hole and ordering whatever it is you order: a beer, a glass of wine, a cocktail, and being asked if you want to take it with you? In this particular case, I had an even better response. ‘Ellie, if I go outside in this heat with my iced latte, it will soon be a watery lukewarm latte, and who wants that’?

At that moment, there was nobody else in the place, and I could stand at the counter and, with perfect concentration (or as close to it as an ADD guy can get), savor Ellie’s version of this consummate beverage. Some things are as good as they can get – or even better – and in this world spinning rapidly out of control, it behooves us to pay attention and appreciate something that has been prepared with proper care – no matter how ephemeral – as in this perfect blending of espresso, cold oat milk, and ice.

Too bad I did not think of it in time. We just had our wills redone and signed off on what they call here an ‘End of Life Medical Directive,’ or some such. Why didn’t I think to insist that an iced latte from Power Coffeeworks be part of my final meal, and if I would be unconscious, administered intravenously? Let me die a contented man. (Maybe I can add a codicil? I’d have to ask Russell Mayer, our wonderful attorney.)

But five minutes later, as I was finishing my beverage, customers started arriving in droves. There was a young Israeli woman in shorts with tattoos covering her legs standing next to me, and behind her, waiting their turn was a man in a kapote and his wife in her sheitel, both speaking perfect New York English. (No, that’s not an oxymoron.) At this point, Ellie was working by herself in the store; there was no one else to pass the orders to. And no matter how good you are, there’s only so fast you can pull a shot of espresso – without ruining it.

In the middle of this hubbub, a woman walked in speaking a few words of English but mostly Spanish. The irony, as our young barista whispered to me, was that one of her parents was a Spanish speaker, but that was not going to help her in her hour of need. I’m hardly fluent in the language I learned almost 70 years ago, but help was clearly needed. Cinco minutos, I announced. Your order – whatever you decide – will be ready in five minutes. As if I knew, but it sounded good, and the woman and her husband were satisfied. But what did they want? That would be a little trickier. Frio. That I could handle. She wanted something cold for herself. But for her husband? What’s the opposite of frio? Luckily, the señora supplied the missing word, caliente. OK, one hot and one cold coffee. Chalav?, Ellie inquired. Not chalav, Ellie, leche. Con leche? Cuanto leche? Poco leche? Mucho leche? With some back-and-forthing in two languages, along with a few misplaced words in Hebrew thrown in, Ellie got the order straight. How much would it be? Twenty-six shekels. Six is…. Not sheis, that’s Hebrew. Seis. Twenty is….. I CAN’T REMEMBER. Luckily for all, the señora understood ‘twenty-six’ and handed Ellie two 20 shekel notes.

There was a guy standing behind us, in full sympathy with my predicament. I have enough trouble pulling out words in Hebrew, and now I need to use a third language! My new amigo had a similar problem, switching between German and Arabic. I can only imagine.

There are obviously lots of people who, in the twinkling of an eye, without batting an eyelash, or even raising a sweat, can switch between languages A and B, or even A, B, and C. For me, as I explained, it’s like each language in different compartments, in different rooms, not even on the same floor. Spanish is stored under the stairs in the attic behind three boxes of other stuff. I can still read what I learned from Mrs. Chase and Mrs. Moscoso with some accuracy, but to locate vocabulary that I haven’t spoken in sixty years is a problem. And the older I get…

The other fellow and I were commiserating with each other’s linguistic limitations while the señor and su esposa were sitting outside enjoying their beverages. I was preparing to leave when an Israeli couple arrived. Most people who show up at this haven for coffee aficionados for the first time walk up to the window and place an order, ignoring the list of possible beverages on offer. But these two wanted to know what was what. It really wasn’t my place to say anything, but kibbitzing is an official sport in these parts, and I was in a helpful mood.

There had been a discussion about preparing a proper menu describing the various coffee offerings, but with all the chaos over the last few years, it never got done. I can’t even imagine how many neophytes have walked up to the window and asked – in any language – what is a ‘dirty hippie?’ Yes, Martha, there is such a thing; you can google it: a beverage – hot or cold – made with coffee and chai. A ‘slutty hippie’? That apparently existed only in Brandon and Stephanie’s imagination. Mixing coffee and chai seems a bad enough suggestion; I’m afraid to even consider the other possibility. I certainly was going to dissuade these newcomers from considering such a dire fate.

This is how I put it. It’s one thing if you’re in a place with mediocre coffee; you might want to mix in other things to make it better. But here you have the best coffee in this part of the world (at which point, another customer nodded his assent). Why ruin it? You want something cold? Try an iced latte. And here I threw in the clincher. Do I look happy,? I asked, with the broadest possible smile on my face. Do you want to feel as happy as I look?  Then take my advice.

Whereupon I picked myself up and left the couple to decide on their future. I had a backpack and two shopping bags to fill at the shuk. After all, I have my own customers to wine and dine – although chez moi, we do it mostly in English.