Last Saturday night, my better half I ambled over to the B-Spot, a teahouse on the second story a building on Pennsylvania, just above a pizza-by-the-slice shop.

I haven’t been there in a while, but I keep on meaning to go for their regular, Saturday night jazz sets, usually featuring the B Spot Trio, the teahouse’s aptly named house band.

The place serves quality tea (the owner takes his tea very seriously), is swankily decorated with modern looking furniture and paintings by local artists (the place also does brisk business in framing, which seems odd, but what the heck).

So I convinced her to come with me and listen to some tunes and drink some tea.

The Trio plays some good music and the crowd skews older – forties and up. With the more mature audience and the lack of alcohol, the vibe really was one of the coffeehouses I remember from my adolescence and early twenties, back when the main draw was not Starbucks latest attempt to serve a sixteen ounce cup of frothy milk, cut with a little coffee, nor even a place to bring one’s laptop, but rather music, poetry, and conversation.

And while my camera took a fuzzy picture, in the corner, next to the window, is a painting that looks for all the world like someone painted a portrait of Cornel West as if the philosopher was just coming off a two day bender and wearing a wife beater and drinking a warm bottle of beer.