Hello all,

John, the steward of this fine site, here. As we march into April—and as the weather begins to break and the flowers start to bloom—creativity, change, and the yearning for warm weather are in full swing at Ready Set.

Spring, as any Clevelander knows, is like Mother Nature spinning the roulette wheel every three hours or so. This time of year, adaptability and resilience are key. Long sleeve T-shirts and cargo shorts become the norm. Folks wear winter coats with the windows down just to make it feel like summer. People still trudge out in layers and shed them like a dog shaking off bathwater. Everyone “sticks to their guns” around this time: same shoes, that broken-in jacket, the trusty routine that gets you through the season.

And what’s more important to a daily routine than coffee? Specifically, your coffee cup?

The discourse over the ideal coffee cup is divisive, deeply personal, and highly opinionated. At least we can take solace in knowing that politics isn’t anything like that.

The ideal cup depends on the drinker—the weather, the mood, the appetite, the tiredness. A myriad of factors. So how, then, are we—the adaptable, resilient people of the North Shore—supposed to find the ideal coffee cup?

Here are some of the broad options I’ve seen, with pros, cons, and observations:

The Big Sippers

These are the Goliaths of the cup world. The Stanleys. The gallon-sized gym companions. The tricked-out, multifunction 64oz monsters that could last you two weeks in the Gobi Desert. Not for the faint of heart—these are more camel than coffee mug. But those who dare proudly brew their 10-cup machine right into one of these bad boys and call it a day.

IDEALLY FOR: The foreman with a high caffeine tolerance. The suburbanite making a statement at Heinen’s. The starving artist who also, coincidentally, has a high caffeine tolerance.

The Camper Mugs and Low-Dosers

If the Big Sippers are Goliath, this is David. The humble impersonators of the standard mug. Simple. Effective. They have the charm of your favorite at-home mug, but they’re always ready for the morning commute or that spontaneous glamping trip. People who sip from these know their limits. Ten ounces? That’s plenty.

IDEALLY FOR: The hard-to-shop-for dad. The morning commuter. The camper who forgot a pot and now has to boil noodles somehow.

The Press-Ganged

For the uninitiated: "press-ganging" is the act of forcing someone into military service—usually in the navy. The British did this to early U.S. sailors, which helped spark the War of 1812. But are we still talking about coffee mugs? Right. These are mugs meant for home use that have been drafted into the ragtag world of travel cups. I’ve been guilty of this. When duty calls and the trusty to-go cup is still dirty, sometimes that ceramic diner mug gets swept into action. You rarely see these in the wild. Usually, they’re stuck awkwardly in cup holders, and obviously never quite fitting right.

IDEALLY FOR: The perpetually late. The commuter who doesn’t care if it’s a diner mug. The art school grad trying to give off a “vibe.”

The Dollar Bin Cups

These are the pawns of the coffee cup world. But if you really break it down, you’re getting the most bang for your buck. Cheap and simple. Gets the job done. And if it gets lost? Big whoop. Just use your other $1 cup. Sure, the lid leaks. Sure, the barcode sticker still leaves a weird gluey smudge. But if you just need to move something hot from point A to point B, this one’s for you.

IDEALLY FOR: The forgetful coworker. The last-minute gift for that one family member. The thrifty and prudent.

The Disposables

You know this one. The double-walled white cup with the waxy finish. Maybe a brown sleeve so your 12oz drip doesn’t melt your palm. These are the Brady Bunch of coffee cups—different sizes, different looks, but they all share the same DNA. Like the Dollar Bin Cups, they’re plain and functional, but lack that ounce of care you give to a reusable one. Just chuck it and move on.

IDEALLY FOR: Everyday people. Not everyday people. The consumer. The person in a hurry.

But there is beauty in the disposable cup—like everything else in the world. And none showcase it better than the Greek coffee cup from NYC: Anthora. You might think you’ve never seen it, but you have. After much harassment from this post’s co-author, we bring you a piece about this American titan of both design and function...

Anthora

By Cameron Mays

Three quarters brown, one quarter white. Brown section cherry brown, encompassing top of the cup. On opposite sides is a pictogram of a wide cup and saucer with steam shooting out, the eidolon of java. Beans suspend magically around the cup in the brown sea. “Attention: Hot” in Brush Script on side. 

White section is classic paper cup white, bottom of cup. Arabesques of vines and flowers, definitely not of the coffee tree but imagination allows such an interpretation. A Garden of Eden, perhaps. Or the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. Unattainable and perfect, and when you get to the bottom of the cup, you crave it desperately. 

This is the creation myth of coffee. Every cup. Every time. Printed on every disposable coffee cups sold at the Best Deli Grocery at the corner of Wyckoff and George. This is the vestibule of my daily joe. 

I tried doing instant coffee as my moka pot remains missing in action after firefighters smashed up my windows and ceilings and the city deemed my home unlivable. It is a testament to the cruelties of this world that the worst part of your neighbor’s house burning down is the prison sentence of Nescafe.

When I arrived in New York City in September, my single use vestibule was as hopeful as it was insipid. Mr. Bagel, or maybe Wow Bagel (the sign belies the receipt which in turn belies the listing on google maps), had a stout to go cup that said “I Heart the Big Apple”. Although neither the word “heart” was written, nor a picture of a “heart” a la the “I Heart NY” tourist ads. Instead of heart, a picture giant apple, barely even heart shaped. So is it “I apple the Big Apple”? Unclear.

Can one apple anything? And if apple was to be used in verb form, why would one apple a big apple? It is an unimaginative use for a hypothetical verb. To illustrate this oddity, I walk a big walk is not a sentence one might normally utter. 

I assume the pictographic apple to be a stand-in for a pictographic heart, which is a symbol for love. By this logic, one could translate the the sentence to “I love the big love”, again, utterly ridiculous. Sit in on a puddled subway seat once and you will understand the Big Apple equals Big Love a fallacy. 

This is New York City. Summer of Love didn’t happen here. The Byrds ain’t from around here, either. This is Lou’s town, baby. And the Velvets’. And punk rockers’. It’s the town for the dark and druggy and smelly and gross. By best estimate, apple is the symbol for survive. “I survived the Big Apple”. 

But neither cups come close to the cup of the covenant, the incomparable Anthora disposable coffee cup. Leslie Buck, its designer, should be placed in the pantheon of great American artists of. For disposable paper cups is America’s version of Ming Dynasty ceramics. 

Prepare your grandchildren for it. American Disposables of the 20th Century, a special exhibition at the art museum. The molded drink carrier, the bamboo chopsticks in the red sleeve with the cartoon panda, sporks displayed neatly behind glass and under halogen bulbs, At the end of the exhibition hall, the crown jewel. Anthora. 

I sketch such scenes of quiet caffeination in New York City to aid the spirit of inspiration. Cleveland has no native cup. For a town peppered with great coffee shops, a town so proud of its identity, how can it surrender the fertile grounds of disposibility to the rest of America? 

This is my challenge to all coffee drinkers in Cleveland with a modicum of design sense. Give us a cup. Study the greats of New York City, digest them, and produce something that trumps them in its originality and loyalty.