“I love Hobbs’s espresso!” said no one ever.
Until I did. My friends, who hail from the likes of Boston and New York City, gave me worrisome, even patronizing looks. I started to defend myself. “No, guys. I know what good espresso is. I’ve been to every Dallas coffee shop. Dallas has good coffee. Great even.”
I was met with a “Kush, you are single-handedly keeping them in business.”
Hobbs, Swarthmore’s beloved — and only — dedicated cafe (no, Dunkin doesn’t count) has a highly contested place in the hearts of the Swarthmore student body.
Despite this, you can find Hobbs filled to capacity on a regular weekday. Accompanying Mazzy Star, TV Girl, or some form of alternative electro-pop playing on the speaker is the rattle of the coffee grinder, the whirr and suck of the milk frother, the periodical opening and slamming of the industrial fridge, the chatter of the baristas huddled near the kitchen when business is slow, and scattered whispers or raucous bursts of laughter from patrons. Swarthmore students are relatively quieter, usually knee-deep in a chemistry problem set or engrossed in one of their class’s many reading assignments. This all blends into a sort of cacophony I call The Hobbs Ambience.
At the beginning of my first semester here at Swarthmore last fall, I tried Hobbs once. I thought the espresso was diluted and subpar and that the lattes were too milky, even for me (my friends say I drink milk with a touch of coffee instead of coffee with a touch of milk).
I lamented the lack of quality espresso in Swarthmore. That semester, I survived mainly on Sci lattes and spent most of my time in Cornell Library — no work was accomplished.
Needing a more discreet location than the Dining and Community Commons to recap a weekend of eventful degeneracy, my friends decided Hobbs was the perfect place. I begrudgingly followed.
The best way to assess the espresso quality of a coffee shop is to have a control. Naturally, everywhere I go, I order an iced vanilla latte, light ice. A basic enough drink where the syrup flavor contributes to the taste but doesn’t mask the espresso quality.
So, I ordered an iced vanilla latte.
“I think this is the best latte I’ve had since coming to Swarthmore!” I proclaimed. Probably too loudly. Some people turned their heads; the beloved baristas probably heard, too. They kept a good poker face.
Maybe my incessant consumption of Sci lattes has skewed my taste buds, or maybe I have bad taste — though this isn’t likely: my favorite coffee shops back home in Dallas far outshine any I’ve tried here in Philadelphia.
The latte was perfectly milky. The vanilla presence was there, not too sweet or strong as a syrup should be. Hobbs routinely makes all of their iced lattes with double shots. The bitterness and earthy flavors of the espresso made their presence known, but not overpowering.
No, the Hobbs latte likely will not have a layer of cream foam atop it, nor will its espresso typically have crema — the usual mark of quality espresso. But it tasted right.
I soon started to frequent Hobbs on the weekends. A slightly above-average vanilla latte was my only motivation to not sleep in past noon on the weekends. I realized I had free will and could also order their moderately priced bagel for three dollars (the egg and cheese version only being slightly extra for a great protein boost).
On Fridays, Saturdays, Sundays, all of my mornings and Swat Points went to Hobbs. An iced vanilla latte, an everything bagel with cream cheese or egg and cheese, and occasionally a salted double chocolate cookie. Every time, every day of the weekend, and most weekdays too, between awkward gaps in classes.
I soon realized that Hobbs was the only real hub of community at Swarthmore on the weekends. Sure, the bar nearby occasionally filled up on a sunny day. Students and families frequent Dunkin, but they leave just as fast as they came. Hobbs is the only real place to gather beyond purchasing an item, consuming it, and leaving.
The Hobbs latte may not be the pinnacle of espresso artistry because it was never meant to be. Hobbs is not your typical hipster, over-priced, third-wave coffee shop. Hobbs remains affordable for a coffee shop on the East Coast. Cheaper than most places in Texas, lattes stay under five dollars, and they serve a wide variety of hearty brunch items and pastries.
The interior is not laden with exposed beams, concrete floors, or other markers of a superficial industrial aesthetic. Rather, the floors are made of well-treaded, creaky wood, as are the cherry-stained wooden tables and chairs. Nothing, other than perhaps some of the men who order matcha lattes, is performative in Hobbs.
On Saturday afternoons, there’s an older woman who frequents Hobbs. Sometimes alone, sometimes with her friends. I love her because of her ceaseless obsession with hair. Walking by her table, it’s all she seems to talk about with her friends. The first time she saw me, she was taken aback. This was to be expected given my three-foot-long curly hair.
As I was getting up to leave, she stopped me to start a conversation. I got the usual questions: “How long is your hair?” (3 feet.) “Have you ever cut it before?” (No.) “Why?!” (I’m Sikh.) More interestingly, however, she began to tell me stories from her time as a young teenager in China when her hair was almost as long as mine. Under her smile lines and graying hair, I believed her. I sat down at her table as she began talking about her son and her life here in Swarthmore. I listened to her stories until we were kicked out at 3 p.m. for closing.
Not a few Saturdays later, I encountered her again, but with a friend of mine who was accompanying me. He happens to have thick, luscious, curly hair, and I could feel her gaze had zeroed in on the back of his head as we ordered coffee. As we sat awaiting our orders, she, predictably, flagged my friend down. A smile crept on my face as we walked over to her table. He bent down so she could touch his hair and ask him questions about it. He told her about his home country and she told him about China and, of course, her son. He nodded his head, intently listening until the conversation was cut off by the announcement of our coffee orders.
The beautiful thing about Hobbs is that its creaky wood floors are treaded not just by Swarthmore students or matcha-drinking males, but also by residents, families, and your favorite guy at the CO-OP who hooks you up with the best sandwiches every time.
Many, myself included, still lament easy access to good espresso. But Hobbs is quite close.
