If you’re an urban poseur like me, then you spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about, searching for and drinking coffee. You might even be a café habitué with your own dark corner of a local coffee house.
Here in the glittering berg of Perth, Western Australia, we are blessed with some halfway decent caffeine and for that I believe we must thank the Post-World War 2 wave of European migration to Australia. See, sometimes the movement of entire populations owing to industrial-scale violence is good, because it improves the menu somewhere else in the world.
Starbucks haven’t moved in here yet. Although my conspiracy theorist chums like to insist that they have, by telling me that Starbucks already own ‘Dome’ or ‘Gloria Jeans’ , but I am too damn lazy to research the truth of this statement.
My point is this. Yesterday, I was at a seminar for work in the city. I was gabbing with some colleagues and in swift succession I did this: grabbed a ‘styrene cup, poured some hot water out of an urn into the cup, swilled in a tea-spoon of some brown powder, added a teaspoon of brown sugar and finally popped in a soupcon of full cream cow’s milk (I’m building the suspense here, people.)
And it was the best coffee I have had in a month. This hit of cheap institutional instant in a foam cup was So Excellent, that I persuaded myself out of having another.
I thought, no, that moment was as near to perfection as Aristotle and I can expect to go. This is my peak experience for the day; I will meditate on this and cherish it.
And of course go home and blog on it in excruciating detail.
Elevate the Insignificant!