You know how people derive their pride from things they can control easily just to maintain the illusion that they’ve got their life under control?
For me, sometimes, it’s the coffee I drink. I’m not one of those people who say “I like MY coffee like…” because there’s no ONE way I like coffee. I like it to be perfect, but it can be perfect in a lot of ways. The “Expresso” with chocolate powder at Indian weddings, which gave such unrealistic expectations that when coffee shops served “Espresso” you felt THEY are wrong. But they’re both nice.
If you’re coffee and you want to be liked, you just have to be at the right place at the right time. It doesn’t matter if you’re a basic sachet of instant coffee. If you’re in a hotel room with a man desperate for coffee, surrounded by sachet of sugar and milk powder, you’ll be loved more than the coffee they buy from duty free shops. Although, the popular belief is that the best coffee you can buy from duty free shops is alcohol.
Then there’s South Indian filter coffee. I was addicted to it before I realized it took too much effort. I make it the traditional South Indian way- put coffee powder and hot water in a steel percolator and wait. WAIT. It’s the waiting that sucked. I belong to the test cricket generation that came of age in the T20 era, so obviously I have mixed feelings about waiting.
These days I get this instant coffee that’s way more expensive than your regular coffee. Worth it, because I’ve figured out the perfect proportions of coffee, water and milk so that its flavour and taste are exactly what I want, and anything else would just spoil it.
I’m telling you all that only so you know that I’m a man of fine taste. But sometimes men lose control. They question what is really sacred, and do bad things to it.
I ordered gulab-jamun for dessert after lunch yesterday. And put the leftover sugar syrup in my very expensive coffee.