There was a time in the not too distant past when a major New York City gripe was that there was nowhere to go for just a cup of coffee. Since Starbuck's and similar outlets have sprouted up, the situation has changed, and locals dimly remember their deprived past.

As there are two Starbuck's branches within four blocks of my apartment in the Chelsea section of Manhattan, I occasionally wander into one or the other. But my coffee house of choice is the unique Big Cup, a marvel of decorating chemistry. This venue turns up its nose at the concept of feng shui. Instead, it's a combination of second-hand furniture and loudly painted walls and columns, flaming orange, flamingo pink, fish-tank green. The founding partners, although tempted by lucrative franchise offers, said no, and subsequent owners have stuck with the decision. Wise, because the place can't be duplicated.

What has made the Big Cup my home away from home, however, are the regulars with whom I scan the newspapers and swap information and opinions early every day between 8 and 10:30. Mostly men (there's one woman, a movie-set dresser), they have become close friends. This, despite my hardly ever seeing see any of them outside the BC confines.

Recently, though, clouds have crowded the Big Cup horizon. One of our number, a Spanish journalist named Nicanor, has returned to Madrid; Rod, whose interests and memory were boundless, succumbed to emphysema two months ago; Joey, doing pre-production work for a film, hasn't time to stop in; Alix, the set dresser, has been spending weeks at her mother's Hamptons house. So, without much warning, the breakfast club, which worked better than caffeine to get me going in the a.m., has evaporated. And for the present, morning for me is also mourning.

The lesson has been that it doesn't matter where you are city or country, small town or large, it's the friends there that give the place meaning.