Here it is — the place where I first forged my long lasting relationship with the drug of my choice. Peet’s Coffee in beautiful Berkeley, California.

A friend dragged me, a 19 or 20-year-old coffee skeptic there one fateful morning. I couldn’t drink the strong brew black (still don’t), but with milk and sugar, it was something else. Coffee has been a pleasure for me ever since.

Peet’s really does represent, to me anyhow, the pinnacle of coffee — there’s no mistaking the aroma that hits you when you walk into a Peet’s, so much stronger and more distinctive than the not-bad-at-all aroma of a Starbucks. I don’t want to make too much of this, but to me really good coffee is what wine is to a lot of people, only it actually makes me work better. (On even the smallest amount of alcohol, I’m utterly useless as anything but an lengthy conversationalist.)

Anyhow, while struggling with an overlong, self-indulgent post that I may never succeed in making sense of (stay tuned for that), I came across the news that Mr. Alfred Peet, the company’s founder, passed away last week at the moderately ripe age of 87. I could say a lot of things, but all I really want to say is this: Thanks, Mr. Peet. You’ve made my life better.

Here’s the NPR piece and a obit. Now go and get some Major Dickasen’s.