ANYBODY who’s endured a trip to Bali will know that there’s a type of coffee bean sold for exorbitant amounts of money because it comes from the butt of a rather unusual looking cat.
The “cat poop coffee” comes as a result of a partially-digested bean, then partially cleaned, partially roasted and resulting in a partially bearable cup of coffee.
I’m far more wedded to a South American blend of coffee bean, but never really regarded myself a snob of any description – not coffee, not wine, steak, much at all really.
I’m pleased to drink whatever’s on tap at the local, with or without froth. And I’m happy for my steak to be shoved between a couple of bits of bread with sliced cheese.
It takes you back to form school where the teacher cooking a barbecue for 30 class-mates thought it was a fair lesson in life to give children a half-cooked sausage to prove salmonella was real.
Not so long back Wanda and I were travelling in one of our more rural parts, and we pulled in to a service station.
The lovely lady behind the counter looked at Wanda as if she’d come from the butt of a cat, asked me what I wanted and proceeded to get on with her accounting which consisted of a blue pen, a 48-page ruled notebook, and a stapler.
“I’d like a real coffee if you’ve got one,” I asked.
Who’d have known that I’d be opening such a can of worms.
“Real coffee, huh?” she didn’t look up from her notebook, instead reaching for a ruler which I found a little intimidating as I recalled a teacher in grade 4 who took delight in rapping boys over the knuckles with the edge of a 40cm wooden measuring stick.
That teacher’s ruler was slightly thicker than your average 30cm variety. And heavier. It hurt, albeit less than my feelings when a hardened service station proprietor launches into a tirade about “real” coffee.
“In this shop, we have a kettle that boils the water, and we add it to some powdered stuff they put in a can. You know, like Milo, but tastes like coffee,” she said.
“If you want milk, we have that too. But don’t ask me for milk produced by any form of animal other than a cow because we don’t have it. And we only have the stuff the farmer puts into a bottle with the lovely slither of crust across the top if you’re lucky enough to get a fresh batch.”
She wanted $4 for her coffee. Funny thing was, across the road the Ladies Auxiliary was serving coffee to tourists from an urn. For free.
The experience got me thinking.
Wanda likes her coffee smooth, preferably a latte with one of those fancy hearts in the top. Yes, she likes a “real” coffee and when she doesn’t get it in a time of early-morning need, she starts to grow knives from the top of her fingers.
There’s a fairly distinguished gentleman at the club, kind of like a rose among thorns in that place, who drinks piccolo in those tiny cups with two fingers. A refined man with a refined coffee-drinking technique.
Before my best mate Geoffrey landed himself in full-time care, he was a little more rugged. He always ordered a flat white when he was with me.
I don’t think he ever saw the point in paying for a coffee when you could stir your own at home. He and the service station lady would have gotten along just fine.
Yet, when there were three or more people, Geoffrey would always – without fail – revert to a cappuccino. Let’s call it an astute flat white.
The head of Neighbourhood Watch likes to look down on people. She wears Camilla, or so she keeps telling everyone. I don’t know what “Camilla” is, but she sounds impressed with herself when she says it. Kind of like when she orders a chai latte. When you really want tea, but feel you need to order a coffee to fit in.
I personally like an espresso. It’s a little dark, but allows me to appreciate the true flavours of the coffee bean without all those extra unnecessary additives.
Does that make me a coffee snob? Maybe it does. A little judgmental at best.
Does it make me want to engage conversation with an old-fashioned accountant whose timewarp consumed her manners along with any desire to buy a coffee machine?
Hey, Wanda. Where’s the cat?
