Papa wrote to say that he's been checking my blog and it is stale.
I can't deny that I have been very lazy about it or that I have not felt particularly inspired.
So, I'll write about one thing in my life that is constant, rarely changes, and I share with my father: coffee.
Or "coffeeyah" as Papa so lovingly refers to it.
One of my very favorite occupations out of very many was that of a barrista. A constant flow of new and familiar faces made for a varied day at work. I was in a position of power, which I enjoyed, because people don't go into a coffee shop just for the hell of it, they NEED something. And the good thing about being a coffee-slinger is that you don't have to feel guilty about fueling the addicted. Wherein as a bartender, this is an unfortunate facet that goes with the territory. But coffee addiction doesn't directly ruin peoples lives, tear families apart, destroy careers, etc. Quite the opposite, it encourages ritual and thoughtful contemplation in an ever quickening environment.
Was I born into it? I don't know. I remember that the local shop & save had free samples of coffee and donuts every morning, and my walk to High School was often punctuated by a stop in the bakery section for a free breakfast. I remember one of my first jobs was working the graveyard shift at a truck stop, where I developed an appreciation for convenience store coffee that's just this side of thickening into tar from sitting on the burner too long. The truckers thought I was crazy, and often insisted on a fresh pot, but something about that burned flavor went so well with a lucky strike and leftover Danielle Steel paperbacks.
After we all left home, Papa got into roasting his own beans in an air popper. We'd bring up bags of green beans from the roasteries in Burlington, just to make sure we didn't miss out on the wonderful experience of drinking Papa's very own roast, pot after pot all day on a Sunday. Now, he orders the beans on the internet, and has an actual roaster, I wonder what happened to the popper?
Of course, as a barrista in a coffee shop that prides itself on the freshly roasted beans, I became a bit of a coffee snob. Trouble is, if you travel at all, you simply must be able to let go of that snobbery and figure out your way in a world over-run by Starbucks and styrofoam cups. Trick one: order Americanos, short, at Starbucks. They go through so much espresso that it ends up being the freshest, and it's cheaper. Or, order a double espresso on ice. That is quite impossible to mess up. Trick two: always bring your own cup. Even if it's a mug. That way you don't have to go through the excruciatingly disgusting experience of drinking out of styrofoam, and you'll feel cool while making everyone else feel like a loser for not doing it themselves. HA. Trick three: if the coffee pot looks terrifying, but you need to stay awake for those last few hours on the road, don't be ashamed to take advantage of the vanilla and hazelnut International Delight. Stooping to flavored coffee, on the other hand, is unforgivable. If you knew the level of toxicity those flavors posses before they go onto the beans... Trick four: if there is a place that you always return to, (an example for me and mine would be Winter Park, Fl), do take the time to find your very own local coffee shop.
I like Palmano's off of Park Avenue. The atmosphere is diverting, and the coffee good, and the staff friendly, informed, and welcoming. Palmano's was not around when I lived there, but I go back often enough that the comfort of familiarity is well appreciated. I remember for a year or two my sisters and I were hooked on the cappuccinos (it's an Italian joint). The last time I was there, it was very hot. I ordered espresso on ice the first day, and they told me about the new craze of having it shaken. I declined until the next day, when I discovered that it ended up having a foam similar to a cappuccino, but with no milk! (Iced cappuccino, it does exist! I'm now feeling shame at all the people I looked in the eye and told "there's no such thing" when they tried to order this from me. Oh, where was invention and experimentation then?) On my way out, the owner told me that he brews a concoction called "toddy". He described the procedure, which involved precise brewing, filtering, and aging to take away the bitterness and develop the fullness of the flavor. I'd only heard of the hot kind made with whiskey. He offered me a taste, and I was hooked! For the duration of my stay, I drank iced "toddy" like it was going out of style.
When I first moved to Orange County, it took me a long time to find any good coffee. But I persisted, and after getting a few recommendations on the same place, I checked it out and it has been my saving grace. Keane Coffee in Newport Beach is quite honestly one of the best roasteries I've ever had the pleasure to frequent. The proprietor used to run this huge coffee chain called Dietrich's which I believe sold out to Starbucks a few years back. I can't say that I'm sorry, because now he has the time to produce amazing coffee in small batches, and they are always getting in new beans from crazy farms and co-ops all over the world. The people who work there are borderline psychotic about their place of employment, (always a good sign). The only thing that isn't good about this place is it's location. I rarely go down there...
There is a coffee shop around the corner from my house called "Javatini's". It's been there for a while, but I never went, mostly because it's in a weird spot and the font of the sign looks just like Starbucks so I figured it couldn't be that good. But one day, I went there, on a lark. Guess what? They roast their coffee fresh on-site every morning, and throughout the day. AND, if you go in and want a pound, they'll roast it for you while you wait, takes about 15-20 minutes. AND they gave me a bunch of jute sacks that I am in the process of transforming into these fabulous tote bags for grocery shopping and beach bags! Just goes to show: don't judge a bean by it's bag. You must first explore, sit, and sip.
While I was last in Florida, my Grandmother told me about her father's coffee. Once a month, a woman named Monse would come from the village to roast the beans in the backyard in a big pot over an open flame, constantly stirring with a big wooden spoon. The beans were roasted darkly, and a concentrate was made called "tinto" that was kept in a cruet, thick and black as ink. Every afternoon, after his nap, Vincente Usera, my great Grandfather, would have 2-3 drops of this "tinto" mixed with milk to make cafe con leche.
The first time I had cafe con leche was in Miami, with my Uncle Jerry and Aunt Maria-Luisa. They took me to a Cuban cafe that they said made the best cafe con leche in the city. This was made with condensed milk and espresso, and it was very, very good.
For me, coffee reminds me of home (in all it's incarnations and locations!), of family, of comfort. And each morning when I grind my beans and drink a cup under the lemon tree, I remember how big the little things are. Even the seemingly insignificant movements of our day are connected to our history and values. And I would like to thank Papa for nurturing and encouraging this love of coffee in me.
