LONDON: I grew up steeped in tea. It was the quiet sovereign of our household, a warm amber poured from bone china teapots into delicate cups, whispered about in the softest tones. Aunts passed on the formula, a teaspoon of Darjeeling for each cup, and an extra for the teapot.
Coffee, on the other hand, was a flirtation glimpsed only in glossy Nescafe adverts, an allure of wanderlust and bohemian freedom far beyond my reach. Bru middle-classed it. With its green lid, its heady, earthy South Indian filter coffee flavour and that dark and handsome companion chicory.
Once upon a time, coffee - just a tad more extravagant than humble tea - was the preserve of special occasions in the bustling college canteen. Oh, how we'd savour those moments. On winding train journeys, an entrepreneurial hawker might glide by, proffering what he called 'chaffee': an alchemy of tea laced with a dash of instant coffee. It was pure, unadulterated umami, a wickedly grown-up thrill.
Glide forward to the plush, AC havens of India's 5-star hotels, where cafeterias were as much a backdrop to corporate confidences as to secret glances on clandestine dates and those awkward encounters orchestrated by hopeful parents. All over a cup of posh coffee.
And then, the landscape changed. Cafes sprouted like monsoon mushrooms across the subcontinent, their menus a dizzying litany: latte, cappuccino, macchiato.... There was no ritual, no time of day too gauche - coffee became every bit as freewheeling and sumptuous as we dared to imagine.
A recent conversation with my school history teacher reminded me of Italy and its sanctified coffee codes. The post-dinner coffee? Of course. A cappuccino? Never. There exists a stubborn, almost unwritten law in Italy, where cappuccinos are concerned, that even Don Corleone would not dare tamper with. For this marriage of equal parts espresso, steamed milk, and foam, named for the Capuchin monks, must take its rightful place only before 11 am.
Should you order one after the magic hour? You might as well announce yourself a tourist extraordinaire, the Italians' whispered verdict like a sharp stab in the Florentine evening air.
It's said the milk in cappuccino hinders digestion after a heavy meal, a notion that suits the Mediterranean lifestyle, where meals are lyrical, unhurried, and marked by languorous time spent by belle donne and bel rizzi.
'Prendiamo un caffe,' Italians say, a casual 'let's get a coffee' that feels like an invitation to flirt, a Tinder date to converse - like a delicate opening line in the warm Italian breeze. Espresso itself is a small, potent shot, black as midnight, designed to cut through languor and invigorate. Doppio, the double shot, is rare.
Then there's the artistry: macchiato, an espresso kissed gently with a splash of froth; corretto, a naughty espresso 'corrected' with a measure of liquor; americano, an espresso diluted gracefully with hot water, a nod to the American palate and drip coffee; and lungo that's longer, stronger, a slow swirl of flavour. Just what you need before that meeting with the boss.
South Sicily whispers with its spices: cloves, cinnamon, cocoa - an echo of Arab influence. Up north in Le Marche, caffe anisette laces espresso with anise, a delicate twist. Tiramisu, the utterly mellifluous 'pick me up' Italian dessert, is a love child of espresso and mascarpone, swaddled lovingly with sponge fingers.
And since 1919, the Bialetti brand of moka and espresso coffee pots have been as much a part of Italian identity as Sophia Loren and Marcello Mastroianni. So integral are these to Italian culture that Dolce & Gabbana have even designed some of them. But this means drinking your shot in solitude, missing out on the most promising part of Italian coffee culture - perhaps the most essential ingredient - the conversation. Coffee in Italy is like the footwork of ballet - football scores debated, government policies dissected, laughter ebbing and flowing, all around a small cup of dark joy.
A caffe macchiato or two in the afternoon is not merely a drink, it's a ritual, a shared story, a quiet rebellion against the ordinary.
(Disclaimer: The opinions expressed in this column are that of the writer. The facts and opinions expressed here do not reflect the views of www.economictimes.com)
Coffee, on the other hand, was a flirtation glimpsed only in glossy Nescafe adverts, an allure of wanderlust and bohemian freedom far beyond my reach. Bru middle-classed it. With its green lid, its heady, earthy South Indian filter coffee flavour and that dark and handsome companion chicory.
Once upon a time, coffee - just a tad more extravagant than humble tea - was the preserve of special occasions in the bustling college canteen. Oh, how we'd savour those moments. On winding train journeys, an entrepreneurial hawker might glide by, proffering what he called 'chaffee': an alchemy of tea laced with a dash of instant coffee. It was pure, unadulterated umami, a wickedly grown-up thrill.
Glide forward to the plush, AC havens of India's 5-star hotels, where cafeterias were as much a backdrop to corporate confidences as to secret glances on clandestine dates and those awkward encounters orchestrated by hopeful parents. All over a cup of posh coffee.
And then, the landscape changed. Cafes sprouted like monsoon mushrooms across the subcontinent, their menus a dizzying litany: latte, cappuccino, macchiato.... There was no ritual, no time of day too gauche - coffee became every bit as freewheeling and sumptuous as we dared to imagine.
A recent conversation with my school history teacher reminded me of Italy and its sanctified coffee codes. The post-dinner coffee? Of course. A cappuccino? Never. There exists a stubborn, almost unwritten law in Italy, where cappuccinos are concerned, that even Don Corleone would not dare tamper with. For this marriage of equal parts espresso, steamed milk, and foam, named for the Capuchin monks, must take its rightful place only before 11 am.
Should you order one after the magic hour? You might as well announce yourself a tourist extraordinaire, the Italians' whispered verdict like a sharp stab in the Florentine evening air.
It's said the milk in cappuccino hinders digestion after a heavy meal, a notion that suits the Mediterranean lifestyle, where meals are lyrical, unhurried, and marked by languorous time spent by belle donne and bel rizzi.
'Prendiamo un caffe,' Italians say, a casual 'let's get a coffee' that feels like an invitation to flirt, a Tinder date to converse - like a delicate opening line in the warm Italian breeze. Espresso itself is a small, potent shot, black as midnight, designed to cut through languor and invigorate. Doppio, the double shot, is rare.
Then there's the artistry: macchiato, an espresso kissed gently with a splash of froth; corretto, a naughty espresso 'corrected' with a measure of liquor; americano, an espresso diluted gracefully with hot water, a nod to the American palate and drip coffee; and lungo that's longer, stronger, a slow swirl of flavour. Just what you need before that meeting with the boss.
South Sicily whispers with its spices: cloves, cinnamon, cocoa - an echo of Arab influence. Up north in Le Marche, caffe anisette laces espresso with anise, a delicate twist. Tiramisu, the utterly mellifluous 'pick me up' Italian dessert, is a love child of espresso and mascarpone, swaddled lovingly with sponge fingers.
And since 1919, the Bialetti brand of moka and espresso coffee pots have been as much a part of Italian identity as Sophia Loren and Marcello Mastroianni. So integral are these to Italian culture that Dolce & Gabbana have even designed some of them. But this means drinking your shot in solitude, missing out on the most promising part of Italian coffee culture - perhaps the most essential ingredient - the conversation. Coffee in Italy is like the footwork of ballet - football scores debated, government policies dissected, laughter ebbing and flowing, all around a small cup of dark joy.
A caffe macchiato or two in the afternoon is not merely a drink, it's a ritual, a shared story, a quiet rebellion against the ordinary.
(Disclaimer: The opinions expressed in this column are that of the writer. The facts and opinions expressed here do not reflect the views of www.economictimes.com)
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