The first memory of coffee are my grandparents using their tiny moka (the Italian coffee pot) on the stove, after my grand dad had completed his ritual of manual grinding the beans himself. It required skills, I thought, because he was making kind of a big deal out of it.
Once the coffee pot exploded because of a faulty safety valve (Italian coffee can be tricky sometimes). I think they told that story a hundred times over the years. There was still a dent in the stove, years after, when we were renovating the kitchen.
When I moved to Vienna I was asked many times about how I could live without Italian coffee. I solved the matter two ways: adapting to the long soupy coffee they make here and getting myself a proper espresso machine.
I would have never told that at the end, what I really crave is American Coffee. It might be the mug, which looks way better next to my laptop than a tiny “tazzina”, the small espresso cup, or it might be all the rituals around it. I don’t know.
Truth is don’t actually care that much, I simply like it best and I don’t make a religion about it. Sometimes I get an espresso from my trusty Italian warhorse machine or I pour long dark steamy liquid in a mug. I’m fine either way. Sometimes I forget about coffee and I don’t drink it for days. I don’t need caffeine to function properly.
You know what? I’m gonna get one now. ☕️
The prompt “American Coffee” comes from Andrea.