Greg cracolice flies his coffee in from Milan every week. He even imports the sugar from France. But as good as the joe is at Soho, one of Washington, D.C.'s, newest coffeehouses, the customers clearly don't come for the taste alone. On their way to work, congressional drones fill the funky, mismatched chairs and stare at this month's art exhibit. At night the place belongs to twentysomethings, listening to live music or, laptops in hand, plugged into the gobs of outlets that stud Soho's gold, salmon and mint walls. And between dawn and dusk, Soho houses sippers of all stripes—slackers, secretaries, even the occasional socialite. "We had someone come in the other day who asked if one of us could stand by her Rolls-Royce while she came in and drank her coffee," says Cracolice, happy to oblige. "We have everyone."
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