Growing up, I always liked to visit my maternal grandmother, Laura La Plante Sturtz, a small woman of French-Canadian ancestry from Montreal. A visit meant an easing of the parental rules of childhood, in my periodic stays with her. At seven years old, I could have a cup of that forbidden liquid – coffee, with plenty of milk and sugar and, so armed, could sit back and sip, invested with the ‘perks’ of adulthood.

That penchant for caffeine remained with me when I matured, only now it was black coffee, none of those childish garnishes. But the addiction came when I became a reporter in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, the center of strong coffee. I remember hearing how people in Louisiana took to mixing their coffee with chicory during the Civil War to make it go further.

It is still the home of dark roast with brands like French Quarter, Community and Luzianne and it’s served everywhere as a social accoutrement, often free and in public places, supplied in paper demitasse cups. It is a dark, pungent liquid, said to be dense enough to support a spoon vertically.

As a beat reporter, I would hit city hall and make the rounds. Mayor’s office, cup of coffee while questioning any newsworthy events; council offices, cup of coffee; road department, cup of coffee. And on and on through the entire roster of city government, then go on to the parish government offices and more coffee. It was a ritual that was expected.

I remember when Carlton first took me around the government offices to introduce me, the coffee was not really offered. Carlton knew where the cups were and helped himself like a member of the family, and I followed like the dutiful apprentice and would-be family member.

I would take one of the cardboard cups with the rounded lip, unfasten the flat-folded cardboard bits that formed the utilitarian handle and pinch them outward into action, dip the cup under the spout and activate the lever that would send the dark roasted and long simmering liquid splashing into my cup. I remember counting 18 cups of coffee in one morning.

Then of course it was back to the television station where we’d all head to the coffee shop for more of the same. 

The station’s coffee shop was just a niche off a long hallway, an afterthought really, meant to appease the caffeine gods and to look like employees got real benefits in the employ of Guaranty Income Life Insurance Company, the owners of the station. It was wide, yes, but only deep enough for about three people to stand shoulder to shoulder.

On a Formica island stood the cylindrical industrial chrome coffee pot large enough to measure out gallons of the stuff to employees (and large enough so that one brew made it last all day, stewing in its own juices and adding another layer to its original full body flavour). And of course, a matching skinnier chrome cylinder to hold the paper demitasse cups.

It was here that you could enjoy brief respites from the television business and get a good blast from the air conditioning duct as well. Your co-workers would help pass the time it took to sip a demitasse – Tex Carpenter, the weatherman, the booth announcers, (for all announcing was done “live” back then. The Federal Communications Commission required you to identify yourself so many times an hour), secretaries, the switchboard operator, the janitor, Buckskin Bill the kiddies’ pal – even the sales department from the building across the street (when they wanted a favour) and, occasionally, Tommy Gibbens, the General Manager. There were no stars in the coffee shop – all were welcome to worship at the caffeine altar.