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In 1955, Allen Ginsberg wrote a poem, “A Strange New Cottage in Berkeley.” In it, he recounted that amidst the vines obscuring the porch of his new residence, he found a decent coffee pot. He was approximately four blocks from the location of our new cafe. Jack Kerouac was a mere two—a beer can’s throw, you might say. We like to imagine them writing their respective works fueled by cup after cup. We only wish we could have been there to pour them another.