A Tragic Mug'n

IN LATE SEPTEMBER the abduction of Mug'n' Muffin by the latest bank in the Square didn't alarm me. The growing infestation of mercantile marauders stirred in me no more than a vague feeling of camaraderie with the old men that wander shopping malls shaking their heads at VCRs and two-dollar loaves of bread.

But in the depths of reading period the value of my old friend the 'Muffin has finally been driven home in the caffeine-slurping vacuum that was once my brain. Gone are the 79 cent days in personal study paradise.

Whatever happened to the bottomless mug of coffee? Another True American Tradition is dying in the midst of our decade's backwards swirling vortex of Republican nostalgia and Classic Hits radio.

Some efficiency-minded troglodyte out there with no appreciation of the true nature of the Bottomless Mug is sure to point out that there is always the day-and-night free coffee in the dining halls. But the Bottomless Mug is more than free caffeine. It's an atmosphere.

That atmosphere cannot be found at Harvard proper. Studying in the dining halls is like getting trapped in a fluourescent bulb with a horde of albino slugs. Blinded by the reflection of trashy chandeliers off Pinesol-scrubbed linoleum, clutching a slowly melting styrofoam cup of tootsie-roll colored stomach acid, that is the dining hall experience.

But the Mug'n' Muffin, or any cafe that draws devotees of the Bottomless Mug, is a Jack Kerouac kind of place. Personality, character, noise, life, odors, arguments.

And the Mug'n' Muffin actually was a good place to study, too. The background buzz of conversation and warm restaurant smells gives concentration something to work against...other than the whirling fantasies of a studious mind. At the 'Muffin, during those five minute study pauses absolutely necessary for prevention of brain damage, you avoided suffering through the stifled mutters and echoing snuffles of bored undergraduates. Instead, the Bottomless Mug patron can sit back and happily soak in the gentle bustle of cafe life, and then, refreshed, ease back into work.

The unhappy fact that the Square offers no replacement for the 'Muffin's Bottomless Mug further aggravates the reminiscent old crony budding within me. This is more than just one bank buying out one restaurant, more than the ruination of my reading period study habits; a tradition is at stake here.

IN BRANSON, Missouri, my Grandpa and his pals used to head down every afternoon to the straightforwardly named Branson Cafe--another bygone champion of the Bottomless Mug. Amidst a clutter of ash trays and never-empty mugs, they'd toss around sly insults, last week's news, and raspy laughs. That place was their entertainment, their escape, and the Bottomless Mug was the basis of their circle.

Now in Harvard Square, a hive of cigarette-filled psuedo-bistros and bullshit conversation, the mug of coffee is no longer an un-self-conscious staple of a social gathering. Instead, it is the dainty focus of 1980s pretention--tiny china thimbles of eight-dollar espresso, or perhaps Ethiopian Harrar for the poseur with an international social conscience.

The Mug'n' Muffin was the last local refuge of the honest-to-goodness, homey mug of coffee. When each cup has a cash bite, you lose the soothing, forevermore flow of half-mugs that can sit unnoticed.