"Why did you give the exclusive interview to the Los Angeles Times?" Hugo and Joseph were walking west along Sunset Boulevard when Hugo, with a faint trace of doubt between his brows, asked Joseph, "Was it because Nicholas spoke positively about our movie this time?"
Speaking of Nicholas and Hugo's past grievances, apart from this time with A Few Good Men, there weren't many pleasant memories. Even during the solo interview for the Scent of a Woman crew, Nicholas's subsequent report still carried subtle jabs at Hugo, not to mention that his earlier pieces showed no trace of positive impact.
So when the topic of the exclusive interview came up, Hugo's first thought could have been any other media outlet, but he absolutely did not expect it to be the Los Angeles Times. This was Hugo's very first exclusive interview in his life, and he had imagined a friendly conversation with the journalist. But now, because of Joseph's decision, that fantasy was shattered.
"Because they have enough influence, and because they've shown enough sincerity." Joseph revealed a helpless smile. The Los Angeles Times's influence across the entire West Coast was beyond dispute. Even the professional film magazines Variety and The Hollywood Reporter were slightly inferior, because the Los Angeles Times's influence was comprehensive, not to be underestimated.
"Besides, this exclusive interview isn't the only one. The Los Angeles Times just happens to be scheduled first. Why do you care so much? You'll have to talk to them sooner or later anyway." Joseph looked at Hugo unexpectedly. Naturally, he couldn't understand the "first time" sentiment in Hugo's heart, assuming this was just another ordinary interview. Although Hugo hadn't received any exclusive offers over the past year, in the three years before that he'd done so many interviews he couldn't count them on fingers and toes—there should have been nothing special about it.
Hugo opened his mouth but couldn't directly rebut, so finally he stammered, "Because I'll have to be ready for questions about the Razzies again. I don't want to ruin my good mood." Back then, the Los Angeles Times had been the most fervent in covering the Golden Raspberry Awards.
"I thought you didn't care about the Razzies at all," Joseph was a little surprised. Whether on the awards night itself or afterward, Hugo had remained calm and composed, looking as though the Razzies hadn't hurt him in the slightest.
Hugo spread his hands and shrugged without answering, but that simple gesture made Joseph understand.
No one could truly be indifferent to the Razzies. Hugo was merely facing difficulty with self-deprecation and optimism. It was like someone accidentally falling into a puddle—not crying, not discouraged, but climbing back up strong. That didn't mean the person would have a favorable impression of the puddle. To put it more vividly, replace the puddle with excrement.
It was three o'clock in the afternoon, the beginning of Sunset Boulevard's most beautiful moment. In winter, the orange sunlight painted record stores, second-hand bookstores, and cafés along the street with a nostalgic hue. Palm trees fragmented the light into mottled and scattered patches, like large shards of crystal strewn across the ground, reflecting a tender and serene beauty.
Leisurely strolling along such a road, temporarily setting aside the pressures of life, the setbacks of work, and the burdens of livelihood, relaxing the shoulders, quickening the steps, chasing the shadow beneath the feet under the sunlight—it carried a unique charm of "a half-day's leisure in this fleeting life," a sense of comfort and happiness.
Hugo and Joseph's steps came to a halt in front of a gray cement wall. At six-foot intervals were two seven-foot-tall, four-foot-wide panes of glass embedded into the wall. On the left was a floor-to-ceiling window, on the right a sliding door. To the right of the sliding door, neatly drawn in charcoal, was "1331," the house number—their destination. Above the sliding door, in white and red letters, it read "Intelligentsia Coffee."
Sliding the door open, a rich aroma of coffee instantly mingled with the sunlight and rolled forth, as though stepping into Willy Wonka's chocolate factory, entering a colorful and wondrous world.
"Hey, over here." Hugo had just stepped inside when a voice came from the left. Turning his head, he saw Nicholas in a black shirt. Nicholas was actually a vibrant, handsome young man: short blond hair, a sharply defined square face, and a pair of narrow eyes that always seemed half-squinted, as though constantly scheming something. In fact, Nicholas was only one year older than Hugo.
Nicholas greeted them warmly, eagerly stepping forward to shake hands with Hugo and Joseph. "So, what about coffee? Do you have a preference?"
"I'm fine with anything, Hugo's the picky one." Joseph could clearly feel Nicholas's enthusiasm. As Hugo's agent, it was his responsibility to take the lead in communication, so he answered first before glancing at Hugo with an inquiring look.
Nicholas, standing nearby, also looked at Hugo, his tone slightly raised, "Hugo, are you a coffee connoisseur?"
Hugo's past "research" on coffee had mostly been theoretical. Back when he could barely afford meals, how could he have had spare money for coffee? It had only been a casual interest. But after his rebirth, over the past year, while other changes might not have been noticeable, his coffee habit had taken root completely. At home he had all the essentials: coffee machine, beans, cups, and other professional tools.
"No, just a hobby, not really research." Hugo said while glancing around the café. Truthfully, he was only a beginner coffee enthusiast, just recently moving beyond Starbucks's low-level tastes, now starting to brew coffee at home himself. He was still far from being a true expert. But this café before him stirred his strong interest.
The Intelligentsia Coffee shop had no complicated décor. It looked like a simple warehouse conversion, its slate-blue cement walls dominating the sight. The interior resembled a laboratory—one filled with postmodern artistic vibes. In the center was the brewing and cashier area, lined with a dazzling array of professional equipment. The surrounding counters were arranged like bar seating, currently occupied by many customers. In the back, simple booths were casually placed along the four walls. In the western corner stood a shelf stacked with all sorts of bottles and jars—some looked like flower pots, others like test tubes—altogether resembling a chemistry lab, or perhaps even a medical laboratory.
"Are you sure this is a coffee shop?" That was Hugo's first thought. Although the rich aroma of coffee and the black liquid in the hands of the customers inside were telling him: this was indeed a coffee shop.
Nicholas chuckled lightly. "I thought this should be your turf." The sarcasm in this remark could not have been more obvious. On one hand, this was Sunset Boulevard, less than a ten-minute walk from Hugo's home; on the other hand, if Hugo truly had an interest in coffee, then he should have been adept at discovering good coffee places.
This immediately reminded Hugo: the reporter in front of him could never be considered his friend. So Hugo shrugged and replied coolly, "If I owned this place, I think my bank account would have told me." Hugo deliberately twisted the deeper meaning in Nicholas's words, locking the definition of "turf" onto the Intelligentsia Coffee shop itself rather than Sunset Boulevard. This retort, instead of offending, only made Nicholas's smile more relaxed.
"The coffee here is famous for its innovation and professionalism." Nicholas seemed not to notice Hugo's counter, redirecting the topic back to the coffee shop. "Although preparing a cup of coffee takes so long that it makes people want to turn around and leave, if you allow it, each professional barista has their own curated coffee menu. They will create new blends according to their imagination, and they will even take customer feedback to make improvements."
This did spark some interest in Hugo. He raised his brows and looked up at the menu hanging above. Sure enough, he saw a small blackboard labeled "Barista's Menu of the Day." Clearly updated daily, it did not list specific coffee names, only a person's name: Nathan Skyer.
Evidently, this was the signature feature of Intelligentsia Coffee: the barista prepared surprises for customers, and one would only know what coffee they had ordered when it was served. This was a bold experiment, perfectly suited to those who loved innovation.
Hugo immediately said to the clerk taking orders, "Give me a Nathan Skyer." The clerk smiled and nodded. Hugo then turned to Joseph, who had few requirements when it came to coffee. After thinking a moment, Joseph said, "A cappuccino."
Nicholas looked at Joseph with slight surprise; indeed, not many men chose cappuccino. Hugo, however, was not surprised at all. Joseph had always had a special fondness for sweets. Thinking back to the time Joseph ordered a caramel macchiato, Hugo's mind echoed with Joseph's voice demanding "extra caramel," and he couldn't help but laugh.
Joseph had long been used to such situations and didn't mind in the least. He turned to Nicholas. "So, I suppose we can begin our work now."
Nicholas quickly regained focus and said with a smile, "My work has already begun." Then he looked at Hugo. "Do you like drinking coffee? What do you usually prefer?" After all, an exclusive interview was simply about gaining deeper understanding of the interviewee, and the direction of that understanding was in the journalist's control. Hobbies and interests were one of those directions.
Hugo followed Nicholas to the spot he had reserved earlier. On the wooden coffee table sat a notebook, a fountain pen, a recorder, and a cup of coffee already one-third finished. This cup contained no milk foam or cream. Although the exact type was unclear, it could be guessed that Nicholas was not a fan of sweet things—at least not when it came to coffee.
"Just an interest. Recently I've been trying Supamo." Hugo sat down by the window, watching Nicholas opposite him pick up the recorder, turning it over in his palm.
"Supamo? Bitter with a hint of sweetness, a distinctive aroma—indeed a very good choice." Nicholas, it seemed, was also someone knowledgeable about coffee. In this way, he lightened the atmosphere between them.
.....
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