I mentioned to my father that I was heading out this afternoon to Berkeley Espresso, which is where I sit as I write this. It not being one of his usual haunts, it took him, a third-generation Berkeleyan, a moment to remember it, but it soon clicked. "Oh yeah! I like that place! One of the last old Berkeley coffee shops." I knew immediately what he meant by this description, even though I'd never used it myself. They're slowly dying out, and I remember them fondly, so I figured I'd contribute my own small written memorial.

What's curious about my dad's description is that Berkeley Espresso is hardly "old Berkeley." Two (fallen) titans of Berkeley coffee culture - Caffe Mediterraneum and Au Coquelet - opened in 1957 and 1976 respectively. But Berkeley Espresso didn't open until 1995 - a century after the city was chartered, and decades after Berkeley planted its flag in the country's social consciousness. "Old Berkeley," when it comes to coffee shops, apparently starts in the 1980s. Caffe Strada and Espresso Roma and Brewed Awakening opened in that decade, and Cafe Milano opened in the next. Berkeleyside reports that People's Cafe didn't open until 2006, but frankly, I'm skeptical of the reporting.

I'm skeptical because it shared the other, older places' vibe. Modern coffee shops are minimalist and cozy, but old Berkeley coffee is big. The ceilings are high, the windows large, and the walls looming and frequently mirrored to create the illusion of additional space. The furniture is haphazard and chaotic - a thousand tiny tables periodically rearranged by patrons like the tide reorganizing driftwood, sometimes washing up against a handful of awkwardly deep, mismatched sofas. The floor and the walls are either gray stone or grody white tile, because warmth should come from your beverage or your company, but never the decor. Any music playing is classical.

Sales counter real estate not occupied by the espresso machine holds a display case (or three) crammed with cookies and pastries, which complement a salad and sandwich menu of middling but serviceable quality. (Your best bet - no matter where you are - is a sandwich inevitably named something like the "Italian," and no, sorry, we cannot accommodate your particular dietary restriction.) Prominently displayed on the wall behind the counter is the shop's collection of Torani flavor syrup, of which any self-respecting establishment has at least three dozen kinds. Hazelnut, almond, and vanilla are needed to zhuzh up coffee drinks, and the rest can be mixed with seltzer to create a customizable "Italian soda." (After emigrating from the Berkeley bubble, I was astonished to learn not only that obscure Torani flavors like "huckleberry" are not coffee shop staples, but that the phrase "Italian soda" usually summons confusion instead of a beverage.)

The clientele is diverse in a stereotypically Berkeley way (more than none, but less than the city thinks of itself). Three archetypes recur: UC Berkeley students, gray-haired old heads, and the unhoused. The last two groups are not always visually distinguishable, because there is considerable overlap between idiosyncratic hippie fashion and outfits assembled from raw, desperate need. The most numerous group at any given moment depends on the time of day and the month: Student presence waxes and wanes with the university's schedule, the unhoused hide from the elements, and the hippies follow their own hippie logic.

These three groups in particular like old Berkeley coffee shops because the combination of food and plentiful seating minimizes the pressure to turn tables over. Hours-long encampment is normal - with a book, or a term paper, or just a desire to get off the goddamn street. I first experienced old Berkeley coffee during my first job, which didn't care where I did my work or when, so I'd park my laptop at a table, drown myself in iced tea, and see how much I could get done. The joints characteristically stayed open into the night proper - 9 P.M., 10 P.M., midnight - which encouraged a wacky work schedule that my early twenty-something self loved. Even today, they defy the economic reaper that's otherwise savaged Berkeley's operating hours. These beacons in the night comfort me, but who knows how long they'll last.

Some of the city's new coffee shops growing among the fallen trees of the old are lovely in their own right, and I hope they do well. But they have no grunge. I don't feel fully comfortable in a coffee shop designed by someone who understands negative space or fire code-compliant egress, where nu-Hygge visual language airily rejects threadbare purple peacoats and strange knit hats. That's just a business. An old Berkeley coffee shop is a place.