Coffee on my mind

Beaten with sugar and frothy, instant, cold, shaadi espresso with cocoa, black, Italian espresso, Latte, Mocha, Mochacino, Americano, Vending machine variants, capsule flavours, pad flavours, South American variant beans, Turkish, Greek frappe, French press, Aeropress, Filter, Indian single estate 

This may be an approximate chronology of my coffee experiences. Each has left a distinct taste on the memory of my palate and aroma which I can re-live and relish. Coffee in geographic zones, like an regional beverage seems to be a sneak peek into the socio-cultural character. And like any other cultural identity has assumed a global flavour.  Yet somewhere in your cognitive senses there is click for an association to a Greek frappe or a watered down Americano. 

The rhythmic click-click of the spoon against the special coffee mugs, blending “beating” the Nescafe with the loads of sugar to make a smooth, creamy, fluffy paste are the first memories of coffee to me. Seeing mama change the dry brown powder to this amazing paste was nothing short of a wonder. Her delicate hands with the jingling bangles and the clicking sound of the coffee being beaten, warm milk being frothed and poured over dollops of this paste and then sitting to savour this taste after endless minutes of this exercise. The all encompassing memory of taste, sound, emotions, vision are nearly hallucinating as are the expressions which as child I yet fondly remember. The love of coffee was born. 

As all things born can be attributed to your mother, but the bloom comes with the love of your life. Deepam got in her cold coffee in our house. That cold coffee was not a cold - milky - coffee but an art with many a nuances, she continues to explain me and be exasperated by me even today. The right proportion of coffee and sugar - Ah you uninitiated soul, its much more. Its the type of milk, the time it spends in the freezer prior to being churned, the churning, the pour and so much more. The morning taste of cold coffee with all the silent workings on it, taste like a piece of heaven being shared when I get one. Specially on a weekend after a sweaty workout - I can sense and feel Deepam and her idiosyncrasies in a single gulp. 

A single gulp, a small sip, a roll of the tongue, the search for the flavour on the palate, the after taste and at times the urgent need to get over the unpleasant expreirince - all is a part of the personal affair I share with my coffee cup. It depends on the coffee, the day, mood, time and my. Limbic system, in short. 

Intermediately the epitome of coffee was also a shaadi espresso. Doing from a hot steaming machine, frothed steamed milk with generous doses of coffee and sugar topped with a cocoa sprinkle. After a particularly greasy meal and overloaded sweet this felt the perfect flush down. How can one forget the up and down of the steel mug with the milk below the steaming nozzle that was steaming over in the cold shaadi nights after an long wait in the queue. 

A bright Summer morning in Tuscany at a bistro on the roadside close to Firenze - a small strong espresso with a croissant served with the practised placement of the plate and the small thick cup on top with a short chocolate. Arrogant in taste, vulnerable in after taste, black to being beautiful with a careless splash of froth on white mug wall of an artistic streak - this is hat it evokes. Wether at Firenze or in front of the airport at the pavement in Bergamo, in the hills of Turin or the mountain hut at Dolomite. 

Snap over to Greece, a hot bright sunny morning in Summer - swing in to the cafe and ask for a frappe. Coffe…a lot of coffee with even more sugar , stirred to a liquid add in lots of ice and some cold water - and you have a frappe. First you get taste and then the zing. Its cool and fun. Its the Duvel amongst the coffees if you may.     

Sitting accross a mosque in the evening resounding with the muzanin, the adjacent busy bazaar glowing in lights, the Bosphorous strait observing the evening unfold like another since the centuries passed by. I get my fix of a Turkish coffee from a hole in the wall at Istanbul. Its thick and strong with a character of being in the face, its ground very fine and taste is as coarse as it gets. Whiffs of cigarette smoke, float by, so ubiquitous here. Gustatory, olfactory and visual recollection of this short coffee are strong. 

Sonia first showed the small ladle to decant the Turkish coffee. A small white cylindrical vessel with a long handle - delicate flowers drawn on the enamel. In contrast to all the delicate detail it sat on a fire with strong coffee being brewed inside, the froth is repeatedly shaved off the top and the thick brew becomes thicker within. The Turkish coffee with the Albanian take on it. The Frenchpress - is like a successful idea - simple and meaningful. Camillo Sargicamo showed and experimented to no end the temperature of water, duration of stay and so on. There were be days in my PhD I would debate in my head - flavoured capsule, lung, Frenchpress ?? The days I was set to correct and modify it was lingo, long working day meant a Frenchpress while a short capsule was for days with a crispness of an autumn leaf. 

The Americano is a disgusting affair at its best. Its big in volume, low in taste and its a mockery of the finery that a coffee can wear. Ryan remarked at Starbucks - leave some room on the top, don’t water it down. But when you add some milk to it - it becomes an affront to sensibilities. The chalkboard houses, black friday sales, big cheesy burgers and an Americano make a fairytale for the sordid story. The Dutch do better that what Americans do, and so it holds. 

The Ethiopian Kafka - took their art with the easy-going fun as most Africans would. Sing-a-long and bring out the beauty without a mess. No much processing, no much fancy-talking - you want coffee and you got a good one at that. 

At Coorg staying on a coffee estate and seeing it dry, its lovely flowers, interspersed pepper and vanilla and the blue flowers of banana got more than taste to the flavour. I could put faces and society behind the beans and powder. The filtered coffee bursts with its bold and on the face taste. Add a dash of milk and sugar and it assumes a new identity. The morning cup up in the misty hills of Coorg with the green rolling hills is as much of a memory of taste in four dimensions. Bangalore at its innumerable Coffe day shops sell only coffee - is that not amazing. No pretensions, only fresh beans, ground to your mix and texture, in the neighbourhood. A 50-50 robusta and arabica in a mocha got me going each morning and makes me yearn even now. 

. After deciphering the morning roasts there is white, organic and the host of African/ Sub - sharan to try also.

As much as the brew its the mug. The strong short in a short glass for the buisness of coffee while the shallow, pensive Bodum for the gustatory stimulation of finding the taste and appreciating the texture. The big mug for the Frenchpress with its deep blue recess and strong handle to face the absent minded bang-downs and hold cavernous amounts for the days of contemplative thought and writing. The white mug wins a hand down for a cappuccino. And for the cappuccino I borrow from Deepam the chilling of the milk before it goes into the frother - that mysteriously decided to come along with us (wink - wink) while we left Brussels or the frother that Lucio and Claudia so patiently helped me to buy, which I had seen Bunny bhaiya use. 

Coffee and me share a morning relation. It knows how my day would be and even after its gone - it stays on