![[Photo: Cow Chip Cookies]](ccc.jpg)
I stole this picture from another ad on the now-defunct website seattlesquare.com. There's something compelling about their photos.
It was Tuesday morning, my last morning in Seattle. I'd been walking South of the Kingdome, finding out that it can get pretty cold and windy in Seattle and you should probably have your jacket handy in the wintertime, unlike me. I sought shelter in a Café Paloma, near Pioneer Square, warming my hands around a cup of coffee and filling my stomach with a couple of biscotti. And I was eavesdropping.
A specialist was on site. He specialized in clear, fast outgoing messages for retail establishments' answering machines. He worked with the proprietor, doing some simple marketing. What product was the place most proud of? Mediterranean food? Mediterranean specialties, maybe? Okay, the message could mention Mediterranean specialties. Where was the place? On Yesler? Yes, a good start. Also, mention that it's across the street from Magic Mouse Toys. People know where that is.
The barrista asked the specialist about his line of work. The specialist had answers: Anyone could do it. Some performance artists did this to make ends meet. Sometimes a customer was looking for a special kind of voice. When this guy couldn't emit the desired voice, he would refer the customer to some other message-leaver. He talked about the excitement of meeting a friend of a friend, discovering a very good phone voice. He found a gig that would be perfect for the FoaF, coached him in message-leaving, and the FoaF voiced a great message. Later on, our hero found out that he'd gotten the pronounciation of a name wrong, got back together with the FoaF for another try. This time the FoaF froze up, kept messing up. Not just anyone could do it, apparently.
It was nearing time to go. I had a lunch appointment with Ron, and an errand to keep. I stepped outside, breathed in the cool, clean mist. I went into the cookie store.
The atmosphere inside Cow Chip Cookies does not suggest crisp biscotti. It suggests butter and chocolate and other rich things. It isn't easy to walk through that air; one feels the urge to paddle, to push one's way through the medium. Inside, the proprietor was talking to the milkman, talking about a mutual friend. I waited, amazed: somehow my lungs weren't having any trouble breathing. The atmosphere felt like it must be somehow made up of poison gas, yet I was obviously doing fine. Eventually, the conversation ended, and I ordered some cookies.
The last time I'd come to Seattle, I'd failed to procure cookies; I'd been running late. This time, nothing had kept me from my goal. Exiting the store, I glanced at my watch. I was running late. I jogged over to the amazon.com office for lunch.
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