The taste of coffee
For simple circumstantial reasons I haven’t had a cupa the past three mornings. It’s not that I am following some odd New Years resolution, nor is it because I ran out of the grounds. I just didn’t bother making the stuff with my cheap french press doodad.
As I sort of savoured my cupa this morning, I mused about the taste of coffee that I experience and even miss from time to time. I have never been a great coffee drinker, but one of the taste experiences of my life was savouring an “authentic” espresso in the sun at a trattoria in Rome before getting on the train from Rome to Milan on fine spring morning in 1984. It may have been the occasion, or the taste of real espresso with a tasty pastry on the side, or even the sense of well being I had at that moment, but I have never forgotten that taste experience.
The taste of coffee for me doesn’t seem as existentially satisfying as a glass of wine or of good draft ale. Drinking wine is a fun experience for me, wherever and whenever it happens. That’s not the way I feel about drinking coffee, but I do miss the taste experience of my cupa when I don’t have it for a while.