While I’m not much of a coffee drinker myself, I was introduced to Peet’s Coffee at a very young age. My grandparents’ home, perched alongside Claremont Canyon, is about a 20 minutes’ walk from the fourth location of Peet’s Coffee, on Domingo at Ashby Ave in Berkeley.
When our family would gather around holiday times, we’d make the trek down the hill to Peet’s. The adults would get their lattes, while the kids would get their hot chocolate. Peet’s was the place that we’d always go, no question — it (and the adjacent Bread Garden) were always the destination. There was the crowd of early morning coffee drinkers, the bikers, the commuters, and the leisurely people who peruse the Chronicle on the benches outside.
Growing up in Southern California, before Peet’s expanded its stores there, my mother used to keep our freezer filled with Peet’s French Roast. She’d put in monthly orders to Berkeley just to preserve that taste of home.
Years later, when my aunt Heidi moved to Connecticut, she and Nell — two Californians longing for a taste of the Left Coast — first bonded after Nell offered her a cup of coffee not often found in New England: “I have Peet’s!”
Today, my parents no longer have to order from Berkeley, as they regularly walk down Montana Ave. in Santa Monica and can get their fix there.
RIP Alfred Peet, and thanks for all the beans.
