I’ve written many of my books right here, in the corner table of my neighborhood Cosi.
Is it the cleanest restaurant in America?
No.
Best food?
Laughable question.
Ambiance?
Mediocre, at best.
Comfort?
Hell, find me a chair that doesn’t rock. Just one.
In short, my local Cosi is something of a shithole. Hell, it took this blog to get the place couches without rips. And even the ones they finally added were discards from another store.
So why do I come here? Location-location-location. Cosi is a three-minute walk from my house, and there are always a couple of open tables with outlets. Plus, unlike Starbucks, you don’t leave here smelling like coffee for the next six months. Hence, I’ve been a Cosi guy. Over and over and over.
No longer.
It seems the people at Cosi have placed a speaker above my favorite table. And emerging from that speaker is Cosi-endorsed elevator jazz. But not just any elevator jazz. The worst, most unlistenable elevator jazz ever invented. It’s almost as if the makers of this certain brand of elevator jazz gethered together one day and said, “How can we drive people out of a restaurant?” Well, they’ve succeeded. I can handle silence, talking, giggling, shouting. I can handle people on cell phones and a bunch of high school girls cooing over Jimmy John Smith. But, this—no.
I’m out.
