A Demitasse of Doubt in the Dugout: Or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Just Point

The Shanghai air, thick as a politician’s promise, still clung to us after a brisk fifteen-minute march along the Bund. Scores of tourists, all of them seemingly performing interpretive dance routines for their TikTok followers, had populated the boardwalk like so many digital locusts. Having just survived a steak dinner at the Roosevelt – a place where the steaks were as robust as the bill – Jessie, my companion for this particular anthropological excursion, declared that a direct retreat home was, to quote her precise words, “unacceptable without further liquid fortification.”

And so, we found ourselves at Dugout Coffee and Brunch, nestled precariously in Huangpu, a stone’s throw, or perhaps a well-aimed spitball, from the legendary Bund. The establishment presented itself as a Spanish stucco affair, elevated slightly from the thoroughfare, offering a commanding view of… well, another road. The kind of road that, as we soon discovered, served as a personal racetrack for Maserati enthusiasts with an urgent need to inject carbon monoxide directly into their lattes.

“Charming,” I mused, surveying the scene. “It’s like someone tried to build a bullring but ran out of budget and settled for a glorified bus stop.”

Jessie, whose external demeanor was often as cool and impenetrable as the diamond jewelry adorning her exquisitely tattooed arms, surveyed the metal chairs. “And these cushions,” she stated, picking one up gingerly. “Evidently, comfort is an optional extra, much like oxygen in a submarine.”

Our attendant, a gentleman of remarkable poise and, as it turned out, profound auditory disinterest, approached. He was deaf. Which, in a city where every interaction is an Olympic event in charades, added a layer of complexity I hadn’t anticipated. I ordered a Spanish Latte, a concoction with a name suggesting flamenco dancers and passion, but which, historically, tasted suspiciously like a regular latte with a slightly more exotic passport. Jessie, meanwhile, opted for an Americano.

“He’s rather… stoic,” Jessie observed, watching my valiant but ultimately futile attempts to communicate.

“Stoic, or just thoroughly unimpressed by my interpretive dance of ‘coffee, please’?” I retorted. “I tried to sign for milk for her Americano. You know, the universal sign. The milking motion?” I demonstrated, miming the downward pull.

Jessie watched, her piercing eyes unwavering. “You’re aware, darling,” she deadpanned, “that in some circles, that gesture might be misconstrued as an invitation to engage in an act of solo self-gratification?”

My hand froze, mid-air. “Ah. Right. Cultural nuances. Always something new to learn.” The barista, bless his unhearing soul, remained impassive. I eventually resorted to the universally understood language of pointing and grunting. He returned, sans milk. We had to ask again. With less provocative hand gestures.

The coffee itself, when it finally arrived, was a testament to compromise. My Spanish Latte tasted remarkably like any other latte that had forgotten its heritage. Jessie’s Americano was, as she aptly put it, “weak with an attempt to retain coffee flavor.” Visually, it was murky, like a poorly executed premonition. And yes, for the record, no sugar, no milk. One had to request such luxuries, as if they were contraband.

“Well,” Jessie said, swirling her Americano, “at least it’s hot. And speaking of Americanos,” she mused, her eyes twinkling, “it reminds me of that old Italian song…” And she proceeded to hum a few bars of "Tu Vuo' Fa' L'Americano." At this point, a Maserati roared past, its exhaust fumes momentarily serving as an unsolicited air freshener for our beverages.

The ambiance was a study in contrasts. The street outside hummed with traffic, though being on a side road spared us the full symphonic blast of the Bund. Inside, it was a semi-circular room, boasting original old stones in the walls and ceiling, providing just enough ambient light to attract mosquitoes, which, I presumed, were the local connoisseurs of fine dining on human ankles. The other customers were the usual mélange: lost tourists consulting their phones as if they were sacred texts, young Chinese couples engaged in an unspoken competition of who could appear more bashful, and a smattering of students, likely pondering the philosophical implications of lukewarm coffee. No music, of course. A quiet blessing, given the automotive serenade.

The tiny toilet closet of a bathroom held a particular surprise: a peculiar painting of one woman squeezing another woman’s nipple. Jessie, ever the diplomat, described it as “cheeky.” I, on the other hand, knowing a thing or two about her past experiences, found myself in the unenviable position of trying to ascertain if it was "cheeky" in a good way, an uncomfortable way, or simply a tactical diversion from the shortcomings of the espresso. The things one ponders on a coffee date.

Ultimately, Dugout Coffee and Brunch was less a haven of artisanal beans and more an exercise in character building. The coffee was a lukewarm lesson in managing expectations, the ambiance a symphony of accidental exhaust, and the service, well, let’s just say it required a certain level of interpretive talent. On the spectrum of Shanghai coffee experiences, I’d place it somewhere between “I’ve had worse hangovers” and “I’m almost certain I contracted a new form of cultural confusion.” As for the date? With Jessie, even a murky Americano and an unintended gesture can transform a simple coffee stop into a memorable, if slightly bewildering, theatrical production.