Reading: The Trial by Franz Kafka
Since coming to Ecuador, I have begrudging given up coffee, regardless of the fact that Ecuador is in fact a producer of fine, often shade grown and organic, coffee. It’s not to say that I planned on doing this nor was it by my own doing. In fact, I even hauled my French Press to-go mug down here, along with the last remains of my Coffea grounds with every intention to continue my coffee pretentiousness for the next two years of service. Yet, due to unfortunate circumstances, namely being my lack of kitchen and Ecuadorians’ fondness of Nes Café, my coffee drinking came to an end back in Tumbaco when I ran out of my supply from the States.
To many, there’s a great misinterpretation that Latin American’s love their coffee. The misinterpretation lies in the fact that they do drink a coffee like substance, Nes Café, with breakfast, lunch, and dinner whether it’s in the sweltering heat, just hot or when it’s somewhat cool. However, do not begin to think that Nes Café is in any way shape or form the same thing as coffee.
Coffee connoisseurs in the States often like to make a mockery of Folger’s instant coffee (or for the real snobs, the over-roasted coffee of Starbucks). But let me say that at least with Folger’s there is still enough of an essence of coffee to be it’s scorn. Nes Café, on the other hand, it such a bastardization of coffee, that the only way that I can drink it day in and day out is to convince myself that I am really drinking something else. And so I have transformed from the purist, who craved nothing more then a well brewed, untainted cup of joe to some who will drink this horrid imposter saturated with sugar and even milk, if one could be so fortunate.
After five months of living here, I often forget about the unfavorable circumstance regarding my beloved drink and no longer twinge when served Nes Café. Thus, when I sat down for dinner at the neighbor’s house after pealing pounds of Breadfruit seeds, I was hardly expecting anything from this norm. But, to my delight, when I drink of what I thought to be the watered down imposter, I was shocked to taste real, toasted coffee. Better yet, it was home grown and toasted by Marilyn and Lorenzo.
Perhaps it was simply the amount of time that has passed since I have had coffee that made it such a pleasant surprise. Or maybe it was the fact that dinner had been served without rice, I was eating fish that had already been de-boned or that we were watching the Mexico vs. Panama game instead of a tacky novella that added to the euphoria. But I would like to think that it was just that good of a cup of coffee. Because how often can you drink coffee that was grown twenty meters from the table, picked the week before and toasted in the kitchen you were sitting in?
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| Coffee cherries |
To many, there’s a great misinterpretation that Latin American’s love their coffee. The misinterpretation lies in the fact that they do drink a coffee like substance, Nes Café, with breakfast, lunch, and dinner whether it’s in the sweltering heat, just hot or when it’s somewhat cool. However, do not begin to think that Nes Café is in any way shape or form the same thing as coffee.
Coffee connoisseurs in the States often like to make a mockery of Folger’s instant coffee (or for the real snobs, the over-roasted coffee of Starbucks). But let me say that at least with Folger’s there is still enough of an essence of coffee to be it’s scorn. Nes Café, on the other hand, it such a bastardization of coffee, that the only way that I can drink it day in and day out is to convince myself that I am really drinking something else. And so I have transformed from the purist, who craved nothing more then a well brewed, untainted cup of joe to some who will drink this horrid imposter saturated with sugar and even milk, if one could be so fortunate.
After five months of living here, I often forget about the unfavorable circumstance regarding my beloved drink and no longer twinge when served Nes Café. Thus, when I sat down for dinner at the neighbor’s house after pealing pounds of Breadfruit seeds, I was hardly expecting anything from this norm. But, to my delight, when I drink of what I thought to be the watered down imposter, I was shocked to taste real, toasted coffee. Better yet, it was home grown and toasted by Marilyn and Lorenzo.
Perhaps it was simply the amount of time that has passed since I have had coffee that made it such a pleasant surprise. Or maybe it was the fact that dinner had been served without rice, I was eating fish that had already been de-boned or that we were watching the Mexico vs. Panama game instead of a tacky novella that added to the euphoria. But I would like to think that it was just that good of a cup of coffee. Because how often can you drink coffee that was grown twenty meters from the table, picked the week before and toasted in the kitchen you were sitting in?
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