Thanks to Tim of espressophile fame for giving us a heads-up on this article posted yesterday from GQ magazine: The Most Important Drink of Your Day: Restaurants + Bars: GQ. Tim got his heads-up from the guys down at Verve Coffee Roasters, who are among the handful of regional coffee shops highlighted in this best-of article. Also cited from the ‘hood, with photos, were Blue Bottle Coffee and Ritual Coffee Roasters.

Even if GQ doesn’t register on our respectable reading list — after all, they have a sub-section on their Web site dedicated to Megan Fox — we liked a few quotations from the piece, including:

So why, every morning, do you pay $4.79 for a watery latte that was lovelessly made on a push-button machine that could be safely operated by a 4-year-old?

GQ: Read it for the pictures, not for the articlesBut, as always, things get stupid when they stumble over this “Third Wave” business — what we’ve long dismissed as delusional, fabricated nonsense perpetuated by people who think they just invented good coffee or just discovered consumers who appreciate good coffee. (Or perhaps worse: naïve journalists that take this nonsense as fact.)

For example, in one paragraph, GQ presents a statement about these cafés returning to the quality practices of yore:

In case you haven’t heard, we’re living in a Golden Age of Coffee. (Note: Please don’t actually go around calling it that.) Thanks to a new generation of purveyors bent on returning craft and artistry to the beverage

Then to completely sound like they’re talking out of another bodily orifice, a few paragraphs later they commence mumbling about the “Third Wave”:

Here’s the deal: Vacuum-packed stuff like Folgers and Hills Bros. is considered coffee’s First Wave in America. Peet’s and Starbucks, which brought us espresso, are Second Wave. Third Wave? That’s the painstakingly crafted brew we’re talking about. Here’s how the new breed does it.

So which is it? New breeds, a new wave? Or is it a throwback “returning craft and artistry to the beverage”? The article should have stuck with its own final advice: shut up and drink it. All that time staring at January Jones’ cleavage on the cover has clearly affected their coherence.