I was in the backseat of a Lyft headed back home when a friend spilled the beans. Cobb Café, located in the basement of Cobb Hall, is marketed as the worst place to have a cup of coffee to prospective students. Apparently, on those days where the sun is out about 40% of the day (as opposed to 5% in February) these tour guides laud iced-shaken espressos from Plein Air which cost an arm and a leg. Hearing that skirting south on the Dan Ryan made my blood boil.

You might believe that the faces behind the register find being labeled the “worst” as a badge of pride. The hodgepodge curation of the space which includes “No Parking” signs, French New Wave actor Alain Delon movie posters, a fully functioning claw machine dishing out candy cigarettes may only speak to the freaks and geeks. Maybe the iconoclasts get a hard on too when, who knows. I could imagine the faces behind Cobb treating the label as a marker of success like Coppola with Megapolis. Yet, I was raised a certain way, to move through the world with humility and an unyielding respect for others, particularly those who make my coffee. This is my small token of appreciation.

The beauty of Cobb is that you always know what they’re serving—a strong hot black coffee for $2.50—but you never know who’s ringing you up. They define what roll is spinning on the VCR and what vibrations are rattling the windows upstairs. A key memory of first year was watching Sean Connelly’s Bond in Goldfinger as Dopplereffekt played. That rupture between what I saw and was hearing was a first. A dissonance, or suspension as everyone continued doing what they did. The barista continued working on his economics problem set, his role behind the register operated as either a performance of cool or a rude interruption of his studies. I loved it.

A consequence of late-stage capitalism or whatever they’re calling it these days is the difficulty to be surprised. As we “backslide” or continue down this slide into the great unknown, places to simply exist, alone and together, transient yet a home, are disappearing all together. Where do we come together and think alongside one another? To me, Cobb holds the key.

Like every year, as time drags on and slowly the basement changes. The new hires decide to play lo-fi beats from Japan, and the old heads came back to give Clobb (Club + Cobb) a proper rest. Who knows where the tables disappeared to or how the speakers arrived, but we danced like Beyblades all night long. The night orchestrated by this year’s General Manager, Mel Lopez, was even attended by UCPD. Up until that point, it was a haven for the underage drinkers who toyed on their phones in the outskirts unsure of how to “party.” I don’t remember the song or who DJ’d, but for ten minutes after their first or second drink, they came onto the dance floor trying out the two step and there it was—love happening where I eat my lentils and focaccia for lunch. A kiss, hands held, and a scurry to the bathroom all wedged between minutes. I hope they pay their respect where it’s due.

When I was 14, I went on a 100 mile or so death hike with my Boy Scout Troop. Patience became a virtue and the practical uses of a bear canister became apparent. I fished for the first time on a rock in the middle of an alpine lake at 11,000 feet. On that rock, the oldest boy, 17, remarked how special the rock was holding all 9 of us from different walks of life and ages. We taught each other how to properly tie a fishing line, scale a fish, and make a stone oven experimenting by the water. I never thought of it till now. In Cobb, I learned the difference between Witch House and Hard House, played Geo Guesser, and had my fair share of run-ins with TAs and somewhat knowns. There is a living lineage here, open to all, moreso now than ever.

When I think of Cobb I think of the people, good coffee, and experimentation. Old tech and new frequencies. Lentil soup and focaccia. The taco trucks and sticky tables. The barista hats and Choffees. I am still curious though, has anyone ever tried the Tweaker? That one DJ battle and all the Clobbs (yes all of them).

Thank you to all of the people who made Cobb into the basement we know it as today. And I know we don’t need the validation of the spineless propagandists at College Admissions, but I do think a round an appreciation is warranted.

With Love,

James