My relationship with coffee started at my first summer job in Boston while working for a law firm. I was earning money for college in the fall, and had a difficult early morning schedule. I rode into the city with a senior colleague who insisted on leaving our small town at 5:30 am to avoid the traffic into the city. We were the first ones to arrive at the office every day. My overachieving colleague was delighted, but my only objective was to stay alert and involved (so as not to be fired) and for that I turned to caffeine.
I was eighteen years old, and my only experience up until that point was to sip (when invited) from my mother’s coffee cup. She took her morning coffee with cream. Sometimes she spent an afternoon with her friend Lena on summer afternoons, lazily stirring a tall glass of iced liquid with a long, silver spoon. I observed this ritual with fascination. Cold coffee smelled different, and my mother even acted differently drinking it in the afternoon with her friend.
I can’t say that I was impressed with the taste. As I recall, the coffee in our house came out of a Sanka jar and was heavily sugared and creamed – more like a chemistry experiment than a reverently brewed beverage. This wasn’t my mother’s fault, it had more to do with supply and demand than her personal preference. Yet here I was in a windowless break room faced with a dilemma. This was the cold, hard reality of a corporation with mundane supplies. I tried pouring gobs of sugar and Coffee Mate into hot cups of bitter liquid. It was horrible of course, and I wondered how my coworkers could stand it. I tried combining powdered cocoa with java that was made using Boston’s tap water. The caffeine worked, and I felt slightly grown up, but I really didn’t see what all the fuss was about. Why was everyone so crazy about coffee if it tasted like crap?
As I tried more coffee varieties and developed more mature taste buds, I realized I didn’t have a sweet tooth. The sugar that I had been pouring into my coffee had been contributing to its ill taste. Once I stopped this behavior my morning beverage immediately became more palatable. I experimented with different flavored coffee (hazelnut, almond, etc.) but quickly realized that these types often came with hidden sweeteners, which eventually drew them out of my favor.
There was enlightenment on my horizon, however. About a year later I started dating Steve. He was my first serious boyfriend, and three entire years older than me at twenty-three. Steve was a graduate of the culinary institute Johnson & Wales, and a chef at a prestigious seaside French restaurant. He was educated, charming, well spoken, and he wined and dined me – every girl’s dream. One night, when he wasn’t working, he took me to his restaurant. After an amazing seafood dinner (Steve was also a scuba-diver and knew about lobster, read more here) we ordered dessert and coffee. When the coffee came, presented in an elegant, oversized silver pot, he poured us both a cup. Out of habit, I reached for the cream. He said,
“Did you ever try a cup without cream?”
“Yes,” I said, “it’s awful!”
He motioned toward the cup and said, “try this without it. You might like it.”
His eyes twinkled and he raised his cup to his lips, and with that challenge I took a sip. The rich, dark liquid was freshly brewed, and it tasted unlike any of my morning caffeine jolts. I was hooked. It was a revelation, and at that moment my relationship with coffee changed forever. I finally realized what I had been missing by poisoning my coffee with sickly sweeteners and sludgy creamers. I had never actually tasted the coffee bean before. From that point on, I drank my hot coffee au natural.
I later understood that cream actually curdles when it is poured into a hot liquid like coffee, and that contributes to the taste (for some people this improves the experience). I’m a bit of a snob when it comes to quality, though – and all because of that night many years ago with my first boyfriend at a fancy restaurant that knew how to percolate the best beans.
These days, I take my coffee iced, and fondly remember my mother at her friend Lena’s house, stirring with a long spoon – although I confess I use my finger.
