Coffee to Go
After Enough Caffeine, All of The Candidates Seem to Have Buzz
By Hanna Rosin
Washington Post Staff Writer
Sunday, January 25, 2004; Page D01
Another in a series of reports from the New Hampshire primary campaign
CONCORD, N.H., Jan. 23
An early riser in New Hampshire risks encountering icy roads and Sen. Joseph Lieberman, out for yet another "Cup of Joe" with Joe, his ritual breakfast greeting of the local voter. Sometimes he'll stop by old institutions like the Merrimack in downtown Manchester, a dimly lit, vinyl-stool kind of place where breakfast meats are a must. This morning the chosen spot is Bagel Works in downtown Concord, an up-and-coming chain that's a vision of the Nouvelle Hampshire, with exposed brick walls and Green Mountain coffee and a freezer full of organic Odwalla juices.
But even here the habits remain the same for average New Hampshire citizens, half-numb to the spectacle around them. As the distinguished senator from Connecticut walks into the room, many patrons do not stop what they're doing. When Lieberman sits at Cathy Gatto's table to chat, she continues chewing her bagel and is slow to pull away from her morning paper ("Good luck," she says politely). When Lieberman sneaks behind the serving counter to greet the young man and lady preparing the sandwiches, he fails to distract them from the task at hand:
"Dijon or regular?"
"Any cheese with that?"
In the corners of the restaurant his presence hovers like the music of a lounge act, drifting in and out of the thoughts of diners, affecting their conversation in indirect ways. Lieberman is answering a question about Medicaid when Joe Regan, half listening, reminds his wife, Martha, she has to go to the doctor. "I can't believe how high insurance premiums are," he says, after a long pause. And then, "Have you called your grandmother?"
In Lieberman, the intersection of the New Hampshire voter and the presidential aspirant is at its most poignant. As a campaigner Lieberman has given his all to this state. He skipped the Iowa caucuses. He moved his family here, lodging them in a corporate apartment furnished with hotel lobby couches and tinny cooking equipment. He even invited TV and print reporters into his kitchen at 6:30 a.m. to broadcast the evidence of his singular dedication. (That's how we know he prefers for his own breakfast protein-rich Alaska sockeye salmon, straight from the can.) Yet up to this point he's remained stuck, polling only in the single digits.
This week, however, Lieberman is not alone. In the days leading up to Tuesday's primary every Democratic candidate except Al Sharpton is making himself hoarse courting the state's 92,000 or so Democratic voters, fewer than half the number in D.C. If this is the capital of retail politics, this week is the quadrennial trade show with the state's southern tier as the convention hall, and candidates hawking themselves in every corner. You're lucky, as Wesley Clark will say at a health care convention, "if you can find a square inch of the state where there isn't a presidential candidate."
In a state this size it's possible, if one is determined, to see all six of them in a day. It takes time (16 hours or so), a lot of driving (200 miles) and maybe an over-the-counter alertness drug. It means making some tough choices: Clark and Sen. John Edwards do their best events at the same time: Edwards has buzz, but Clark is an unfolding mystery, forced to regroup now that Howard Dean is not his only major opponent. Catching a cup of Joe means deferring Dean until the evening, when he will be about a two-hour drive away.
But the endeavor is worth it. Campaign veteran Bruce Reed, now president of the Democratic Leadership Council, describes this final week as a "magical time," the suspended moment before the first vote has been cast when any man could be the next John F. Kennedy, the next Bill Clinton. This is the last week a candidate can remain fully convinced of his own success story, without qualifications. Particularly since Sen. John Kerry, considered a footnote here, suddenly won Iowa, it's possible to believe in miracles.
"This is still undecided," says Lieberman that morning. "I felt great after last night's debate. There was a great uprising in Iowa where the polls switched dramatically. Voters can switch. People know how important their vote is. They know what's on the line."
And then the wild card always played at the end: "People in New Hampshire are independent-minded." (In fact, later that night, new polls will show Lieberman at 10 percent for the first time, within striking distance of Clark and Edwards.)
These are the final days with all the feverish symptoms in evidence. There are cameo appearances: Ted Danson for Clark, Rob Reiner for Dean. Lieberman brings along former congressman Jim Maloney (D-Conn.) and Rep. Dennis Cardoza (D-Calif.) along with Katrina Lantos-Swett, wife of former congressman Dick Swett and an ever-loyal booster of egos ("You got the only electable Democrat here," she tells the cameras at the bagel place).
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