Java Dude

I just finished a perfect cup of cappuccino, extracted by my very hands made breve’, which is frothed cream instead of milk.  Picking the perfect cup to house the perfect liquid is just as much a part of the ritual as the overall extraction.  This particular cup is a true cappuccino cup by its size, half blue half purple, one side says “conflitti” and the other “sogni”, loose translation from Italian to English, “conflicts and dreams”.  I found this rather synergistic, because this evening I did not select this cup but rather it selected me. Recently my days have been full of conflicts and dreams, which seemed so ironic. Peering into the empty cup flanked on its sides by the faint thin coat of cream stained by espresso, I begin to reflect on my love affair with coffee and how she helps to temper and balance my life. 

This relationship started as a young boy when I really did not understand her true charisma, or her seductiveness.  Climbing in the way back machine I find myself in my grandmothers kitchen watching her fix the traditional breakfast she prepared religiously every morning.  She would begin with the coffee in the percolator so it could marinade in the water and finish in time with the other breakfast delights.  Her breakfast was legendary with bacon or sausage, a side of fried potatoes, fresh fruit, and biscuits or toast.  The coffee was strong and black like the seasoned cast iron skillet and held its own amongst the other breakfast players.  It was by all standards some of the worst coffee I have ever had but I did not know this at the time.  Adding enough Coffee Mate and sugar made it as smooth as silk going down.  I remember feeling so grown up drinking coffee with her. It would be years of drinking this dark acidic sledge that would set the stage for my love affair with this elusive beauty. 

Fast-forward to the first house my wife and I had built.  How those new counters screamed for an espresso machine.  Appearing one evening looking all fine and masculine with his sleek lines and dark tuxedo case accented with stainless steel.  Anxious to pull my first shot and froth my first pitcher of milk, I totally skipped reading the directions.  In our home reading the directions is only a last resort not as a jumping off point.  Well long story short a friend called and said she wanted to come by for a visit, she had some guests in town she wanted me to meet them.  Anxiously I said of course, oh and we will have cappuccino from my new machine.  Everyone was so excited as if someone had dropped a small Italian Café in Middle America. I was not aware you frothed the milk I thought you added it in the vessel and it frothed/steamed and spit it out into the perfect cup of espresso.  As you may have imagined the machine burnt the hell out of the milk and when I turned the knob to release the milk through the steam nozzle, it spit burnt, foul scorched milk bits in the air.  The counter and floor looked as if a soured, burnt cow had exploded all over the kitchen.  Standing there in utter shock wondering what the hell happened the doorbell began to ring.  Without another word my wife answered the door and I took a moment to scan the directions where I learned the milk was to be steamed and or frothed with the nozzle, I was to add only water to the receptacle and nothing else, this would produce the steam.  It was too late the bits of burnt milk floated in every cappuccino and latte that evening.  I am certain knowing what I know now that this was the worst coffee in the world.  The coffee gods were not shining on me.  But these were the best guests a guy could ever have.  Everyone slurped his or her cappuccino down followed by much praise, I am not sure how that could have been, but I did take their praise and kindness to fuel my continued passion.  I also learned that evening, directions do serve a valuable purpose in life. 

With each passing year my love grew stronger like a perfect cup of espresso.  I found myself in the dark underworld of the coffee geeks.  I openly talked of my addiction with fellow geeks and only my very close friends.  Pilgrimages to obscure coffee shops were scheduled into family trips.  Like a heroin addict I would slip quietly into the shops to observe the locals and sample the nectar.  I was drawn to the quirky coffee lounges that housed the misfits and caffeine crazed souls.  It didn’t take long to learn who was a poser and who belonged as a true coffee snob.  The snobs all walk with a lot of get up and go, a slight twitch, a flicking eyelid and ever-present gentle quiver of the hand.  Like all addictions the addict chases the original high, and coffee is no different.  In the end the taste sensorial is the true journey. 

My maturing self understood the taste sensorial was my next step in the evolution of my understanding of coffee.  Any coffee geek or snob will tell you coffee should taste as it smells.  How coffee is extracted determines the experience of the participant.  Espresso is my favorite way to experience coffee.  A great cup of espresso will run from the

porta-filter like thick brown and red striped honey, starting with a bite and finishing clean with dancing notes of taste in varying degrees on the tongue. 

Years of experimentation and exploration culminated to a new level when I finally made my first trip to Italy.  I could not believe I was in the land of espresso. Every corner was adorned by a café of cups catching the pressurized liquid, accompanied by the song of the steam and groan of the milk rumbling and doubling in size.  The Italians take great pride in every cup they produce.  I understood this passion for perfection and reveled in the experience of watching the masters do their work.  Frankly the only thing that overshadowed the Vatican was the dark thick liquid in its squatty petite cups and saucers.  Early one morning I was on the fast train to Florence when I discovered the coffee car.  You cannot imagine the pride this barista took in her work.  Each cup of espresso was a true work of perfection.  My friend and traveling companion Tom is a rather traditional guy.  I was so engrossed in feeling all Italian drinking my espresso, rocking gently with the motion of the train, feeling as if I were the first person to ever experience a finely extracted coffee to notice Tom was in a bit of distress.  The barista had handed Tom his cup of coffee, which was actually a shot of espresso, Italian Coffee.  Tom stared in the cup as if it were a warm cup of piss.  Laughing softly I asked the barista to turn his into an Americano, a shot of espresso with water added to resemble a traditional cup of American coffee. He politely took the Americano and made his way back to his seat where he promptly offered me his coffee, which I enjoyed.  The rest of the trip when offered coffee Tom would ask politely. “is it Folgers, you know American coffee”.  I clearly understand now coffee is like a fine wine.  Some folks want the top shelf and some are pleased with the ripple.  Either way coffee brings a joy and familiarity to the drinker.

I suspect I will leave this planet with a cold cup of coffee clutched tightly in my hand.  I hope the other side has coffee.  But until then I shall be content with chasing her through back alleys and the streets of the places I visit in search of the perfect cup of java.