sacred times

Sacred continues to top the coffee charts for me. It is something about the coffee, something about the chat, and a little bit of high convenience thrown in. I begrudge not a penny of the extra money it costs.

This week Michelle is in the kiosk and I find it amazing how, using the same ingredients and machine, and with the same training, coffee can taste ever so slightly different when made by a different person. Incidentally, I struggle with the right word for the person who makes coffee. I believe 'barrista' is the Costabucks term but I shy from using it to the experts - nay, magicians! artists! - that craft beans into heaven.

I always want to ask a new coffee purveyor where they trained as a [coffee-magician / bean-artist / insert your own term]? So my regular question is 'where did you learn to make coffee like this?'. It needs sharpening up, I'll admit, but it does. Never is there an easy 'two days at company x' answer: always a story ensues - which is why I ask, of course. My favourite stories start with 'back in the day...' and relate to travelling or Saturday jobs, or a lifetime in the catering trade - one even contained the words 'Melbourne coffee guru'.

So if you want to make the very best coffee, it seems it can't be taught in a day: years of practice are needed to hone the craft. And, just perhaps, a little help from a guru.

figs and honey

Grey skies, dark morning, a chill in the air: all counteracted by a ray of the Mediterranean for breakfast.

Fat figs, split open, flesh bursting forth, under a hot grill with a dab of brown sugar for a couple of minutes. Then drizzled with 'caerlaverock honey' (not for sale yet, people, but take a look at the bee-keeper's book) and indulged in. The gent, living up to his name, spooned the seedy flesh up, whilst I became sticky of finger and juicy of face.

There was a small dish of plain yoghurt each, and a pert espresso of Monmouth coffee to wake our senses.

Then away on our bicycles, like a two-man fleet of earnest Londoners, sweeping south across the city, to work.

two-stage breakfast

First, 'pomegranate infused granola' (no, I didn't invent that) with Greek yoghurt and raspberries. Then a pause whilst the gent fetched newspaper and bread, then onto the second stage: sausage sandwiches with plastic bread and tomato ketchup. It is my ongoing battle to resist understanding the term 'Tommy K'.

Coffee was Monmouth - as ever - and in my yellow tea-cups. Strictly speaking not the right vessel, but the canary yellow can't help but make me feel wonderful. Sort of queenly combined with headmistressy, but with a sausage buttie in hand.

And my laptop arrived this week: I'm back online! Ketchup all round.