Coffee

Yesterday I found a place in the UK that makes coffee and I nearly wept.

Since arriving in the UK I have paid good money for cups of liquid purporting to be coffee. Some so offensive they were thrown away. Only once did I do it in the shop looking the 'barista' in the eye, who seemed so unmoved it was as if I had conformed precisely to his business model - order and pay at counter, collect from bar, taste, grunt in disgust, deposit in bin, leave.


If I was lucky, the coffee was merely very bad and I drank, shamefully ever the addict, to extract caffeine.

If the gods were smiling and the fates combined I might find a cafe (3 found to date) that achieved the distinction of not being offensive. I want to be clear - I am not using exaggeration for artistic purpose. By 'not offensive' I mean the liquid they served failed to repulse me. This is not a raving review. The pinnacle of my UK coffee experience could best be described as mildly disappointing.

All of these coffees, the bad and the very, very bad, came from supposed artisan third wave coffee shops. These are cafes that have websites that rave about new bean shipments and have blogs following the owner's trip to visit individual Nicaraguan farmers to source new beans. These are cafe's that boast about trained baristas judging the grind of your shot to the nearest micrometer to adjust for humidity and the local water hardness. These are cafes that know the name of the cow that produced the milk! The problem is, and I suggest it's a serious one for an entire industry whose key value proposition is the provision of a decent cuppa, they just can't make coffee!
__

Early in my execrable journey through the UK coffee scene my wife handed me a small lifeline.

"Don't order a flat white," she said.

"But the flat white is the cornerstone!" I said. "'Arise, Hotter-dryer-latte-in-a-cup-not-a-glass, you are 'Flat White' and upon this rock I will build my coffee chain' (St Paul's Letter to the Barista ch.1 v.16)."

"Oh do shut up and listen," she said "They just don't do them here."

"But it's written on the board!" I countered.

"Yes, they do know there is such a thing as a flat white. Australians have been coming over here and asking for them. So they've written it on a board and priced it 30p higher but that's as far as they've got. They just don't do them. Order a latte and you'll only be upset rather than disgusted."

And, as usual with everything meaningful in my life, she was right.
__

Ever hopeful in my search for a less bad brew I turned to the internet and trawled through cafe reviews. One place seemed to be mentioned over and over again as producing a decent drop and although it didn't seem any different from the other supposedly decent cafes (Hip website - check, world-travelling bean-seeking owner's blog - check) I though it was worth a look.

It was hidden in the middle of a lovely art deco arcade in the quieter end of the city, surrounded by empty un-let shops. It was 5pm on a Wednesday and, probably understandably considering the time, the place was empty. Bracing myself for disappointment I went inside.

I was greeted with a half-hearted "Hiya" as I approached the counter by a pretty and distinguished looking dark haired woman of indeterminate age.

"Could I have a fl... a latte please?"

"Small or Large?"

"Small."

"Sugar."

"No."

She took my money and turned to the machine (for those who care - A 3 group Astoria machine with those spoutless filter heads, good sign!). She turned the grinder on, freshly ground the coffee and measured it into the filter basket. With a deft flick of the wrist she tapped the side of the handle with the tamper to settle the grounds and then tamped firmly and with care.
I made some sort of involuntary sound, somewhere between a gasp and a gurgle which caused her to turn.

"Yes?"

"Nothing, sorry, it's just that's so... I think this will be the first decent cup of coffee I've had in such a long time."

"Oh."

She tuned and checked the thick caramel creama as it dolloped into my cup and became a rich stream.

"I'm from Australia you see and, well, it's been so long..." I said.

She measured just the right amount of milk into a small jug, cleaned the steam wand, and began to steam the milk.

"We had a lot of Australians in here during the olympics." she said. "They all seemed very appreciative."

She dipped the wand deeper now and adjusted the steam for the final burst, cupping her hand on the jug to be sure of the temperature. With another flick of the wrist she turned the steam off. Cocking her head, she dressed the milk with a few deft swirls and poured a perfect rosette. I think I may have whimpered out loud because she looked at me strangely and said "One pound fifty please."
I gave her two.

"Please," I felt a catch in my throat, "keep the change."

I took a sip - bliss! I turned to go.

"Oh, just one more question" I asked.

"Yes?"

"What would you have given me if I asked for a flat white?"

"A double-shot latte"

"Ah. Well. There you are. Thank you."

I took my little vessel of happiness outside to luxuriate in on my own.