Jet Fuel Coffee's Lovers and Haters

I'm howling this morning (with affection for all parties) at BlogTO's bemused review of Jet Fuel Coffee Shop (519 Parliament) and the frantically wound up detractors and defenders in the comments. Because Jet Fuel is what it is, like one of those fixed points in space and time that turn up occasionally on Dr. Who.

Now I've known owner John Englar since about 1992, when he first opened (across the street, south of Carlton, upstairs, with four stools and coffee for two bucks). I may not be precisely a regular, but I have been drifting in there on and off for more than 15 years; for the six years or so when I lived in Cabbagetown I was there a lot. And I would still say the service can range from "quizzical to withering" (as I wrote in a little Enroute magazine piece about it). So I don't know who qualifies for kid-glove treatment, and I don't really care.

I like the coffee in the tall glasses with the tall spoons kept in the glass Barbicide jar on the counter, and the art shows, and John's deadly sense of industrial design and all things stainless steel. I like the loose newspapers lying around. I love the lemonade. I enjoy being able to run into a certain sort of friend (dancers, cyclists, Islanders, Cabbagetowners, journalists, activists). I find it comforting that it obstinately stays the same, like my beloved Chalet Bar.B.Q. on Sherbrooke Street in Montreal that was so much part of our family life for 35 years that we held my brother's funeral there.

Nobody has to love Jet Fuel. If you don't, the east end has a wealth of great coffee shops to patronize instead. But I cherish the element of ritual and familiarity, and if the barista doesn't know who I am, well that's okay. I know where I am, and that's enough.

Image uncredited, from Jet's Fuel's photo album