My first exposure to coffee was when my mother poured it on a slice of bread, put sugar on it, and cut it into nine square pieces. I was no more than five and perhaps you can read a lot into this childhood experience. I acquired a taste for coffee and the positive impact of caffeine on my brain. For most of my life, coffee has been a generic morning drink with a positive social connotation that stems from the breakfast table with my parents or cafés with friendly voices of farmers, waitresses and cooks.

I am old enough to remember five cent coffee. When it went to a dime, there was outrage from some, and prediction of doom by others. The view of rural Americans has been that coffee, like gasoline, should be readily available for consumption in whatever quantity needed, without causing economic hardship. But, as the service industry became more prominent, coffee became more expensive even though it still remained a generic blend that came from somewhere we didn't know or care about.

I thought Folgers and Maxwell House were varieties of coffee until I was an adult and working for a TV station in Oklahoma City. I finagled a free week in Canada by shooting film for the local wildlife show and, during a thirty hour bus ride, I learned the real truth. I sat beside the manager of an upscale grocery store who knew far more about coffee than anyone I'd ever met. Of course, he had to start pretty "Okie" because I didn't know anything more than that the stuff was roasted and ground.

You can learn a lot by listening to stories from new acquaintances and he eloquently described the major coffee growing regions of the world and the subtle differences between coffee that is grown in the shade versus that which is grown in full sunlight. He told me that altitude makes a difference and gently broke the news that Folgers was a blend of several cheap coffee varieties that were shipped here to be roasted, blended and mass marketed.

When I found out that I had been drinking the cheap stuff, my upwardly mobile posterior immediately wanted to know what the good stuff tasted like. He suggested Kona coffee, grown in Hawaii, as the one to try. As soon as I got home and found it in his exclusive grocery store, I determined to see if I could taste the difference. It cost ten times what Folgers cost and it wasn't even ground. I did like the little grinder in the store and had some fun before I took it home to brew.

The flavor was sensational--rich, smooth with a great finish. The next week I offered some to my parents but they didn't like it. "Too strong, not Folgers," was their total assessment. I decided not to tell them what I'd paid for it since they considered it substandard. I also wondered when I'd get old enough to dislike anything that was different.

From that point in time I've considered myself knowledgeable about coffee and a connoisseur of the good stuff, but I have recently found that Starbucks has put my level of sophistication back in the "Okie" category.

I knew that the Starbucks chain was expanding and that they had various kinds of coffee. What I didn't know was that Starbucks is not about coffee, it's about being a "Yuppie."

The people who go to Starbucks seem to be there to make a statement about their unique taste in coffee which sets them apart from others in life. The concoctions that you may have seen in an episode of "Frasier," where he and brother Niles are in the coffee shop, is exactly what goes on at Starbucks every day.

I decided I'd try the place that's on my way to work. I drive up in my Ford F-150 pickup (It's a Lariat). I go in wearing my khaki pants with discount golf shirt XL, XB (Extra Large, Extra Belly) and get in line behind a lady who is just ready to order.

"I'd like a triple Venti, vanilla, skinny latte, extra hot, no whip," says the chic young woman to the eager coffee artist behind the ten thousand dollar cappuccino maker. The order is written in shorthand on the large cup made of 40 percent post consumer waste. The people who work at Starbucks aren't your typical Quickiemart cashiers. They have to remember the mixtures and run a complex register with an average charge of about $4 a cup. That's what some folks call the place--Fourbucks.

"What may I get started for you?" asks the twenty-something, highly cosmetically enhanced Barista.

"Coffee," I stumbled.

"How would you like that coffee?" she asked smartly.

"You got any cups?" I ask sarcastically

"Oh, you are one of those," she said with what I hoped was a feigned critical response and not the type I get from my wife and daughter. "Do you want room at the top for cream?

"No, leave it at the bottom," I counter.

The coffee was Sumatran and it was earthy, bold and rich. At least that's what was printed on the sign and I said, "Yup, that's what I was thinkin'." I pay the $1.89 and generously drop the remaining eleven cents in the tip jar.

When you want something badly enough you can deal with the negatives. I got over my distaste for Yuppies, although some actively avoid me. It's fun to watch them watch others. You don't see that much at the corner café. But I love the coffee and the hired help thinks I'm a lot more fun than their other customers. I have a favorite college-age girl who is always happy and busy. I call her "Perky."

Some other time we can discuss the current status of Juan Valdez and the peasants who used to make their livelihood from hand picking coffee until Brazil and Vietnam started growing coffee like we grow soybeans. They even have mechanical harvesters that look like the Tasmanian Devil when he winds up. Starbucks says they are making sure that these small growers and pickers get a fair wage and tout their "Fair Trade" coffee, but I can't verify that it's more than public relations.

I sometime sit there with a cup on Sunday morning and think, "Once again, we've taken a staple of society, added wealth and snob appeal and pushed it off the edge." I don't drink the "moka choka" much yet, but I can feel it pulling on me. It's just a matter of time.

Editor's note: Ken Root is a farm anchor at WHO Radio in Des Moines, Iowa. He is a 28-year veteran of agricultural broadcasting and writing. He can be reached by e-mail at: kenroot@clearchannel.com or by writing to him at the Journal at P.O. Box 760, Dodge City, KS 67801.

Date: 3/24/05