The other morning my favorite online news service reported that medicos have more or less concluded that drinking coffee is good for one’s health. It’s all the enzymes and nutrients that made a favorable impression on the researchers.
For coffee drinkers, the guilt of a cup or two a day has been banished. That makes me happy because I am a coffee overachiever, good for at least six cups a day. Just coffee, preferably strong and bitter, and with no additives like cream, sugar or anything else.
I was not always a coffee drinker. When I was young, The Olds were dead set against letting children drink the stuff. They said it would stunt our growth, ruin our heart and make us feel so wound up it would ruin our sleep.
When I challenged Father about his morning coffee, he hemmed, hawed and said he only did it for “sociability with the boys” when they convened each morning at Woolworth’s lunch counter.
Besides, Mother made truly awful coffee. When we had “good company” it was always Sanka, with the name itself pronounced in the most reverential of tones. The rest of the time it was whatever was least expensive at the Piggly-Wiggly.
Either way, it reminded me of the essence of a roadkill skunk who had aged for a few days on the blacktop under a hot August sun.
Nor did I ever care for pop or soda. That was my sister’s department. She was and still is addicted to Dr. Pepper.
When I suggested going on a vacation to France, her first question was whether they had cans or bottles of that sickly sweet carbonated prune juice. I assured her they have coffee.
It wasn’t until a few years ago when I had my first cup of coffee. My late wife Pat and I were at a summer art camp in southern France. It was a hot afternoon and the only thing they had to drink was espresso. Not surprisingly, French coffee smells like roadkill skunk, but it was either a small cup of espresso or nothing, and the prospect of dying of dehydration was looming closer.
Then I tossed it back. A few minutes later I felt like the top of my head was about to launch into space. I couldn’t wait for another hit or two. That was it — I was hooked and have spent much money buying cans of black, acidic, bitter-tasting coffee grounds.
Coffee and coffee houses began in the 1600s in England, with the Jamaica Wine House now recognized as the oldest. In 1688, Lloyd’s coffee house opened its doors and soon became a favorite of merchants. It was the original location for the insurance giant Lloyd’s of London.
Coffee was new, chic and quickly became popular with almost everyone except the monarchy. The reason was simple: Taverns, such as Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese, established in the 1500s, were favored by writers and journalists, and served alcohol. Alcohol dulled the senses; coffee enticed people to think, and the monarchy did not like their subjects to think too much.
Coffee, and what became known as coffee culture spread to Europe, then the United States.
France and the US have their own styles of coffee culture. The French seem to use coffee as the medium to get together with friends and acquaintance. They meet at their favorite coffee shop, order and sip their drinks for as long as they like. Sometimes they cut it with water to make it last longer.
Jean Paul Sartre and Simone Beauvoir met every morning at the Deux Maggot to discuss philosophy and write. Before them, it was Picasso the artist and Apollinaire the poet who met most afternoons at the same café to discuss modern art and literature.
Hemingway took his coffee across the street at the Brasserie Lipp, where he had a favorite table to meet with other writers. Down the street is the Flore where politicians and journalists have met for decades to exchange views and news, always off the record.
Our coffee culture is different. Here, coffee drinkers have their own language as they order a blend from various plantations around the world, and then use it as the basis for a seemingly exotic drink. Often as not, it goes into a disposal cup, and soon out the door.
In our country, portable coffee is seen as something of a status system. In France, people would be appalled to see someone eating or drinking while walking.
Recently I’ve been lessons with Madame C. We began with the most important words and phrases to learn in French — swear words. She explained that if I would learn and remember to use the vocabulary I could hurl verbal insults to fellow idiots on the road. It is much safer because they have no idea what I’m saying.
We recently had a late-night discussion about the differences between French and American coffee culture. Madam C said I could not use my “highway vocabulary” inside a café, and it was time to learn new words while discussing the arts, politics or anything else.
Being Parisian, she is appalled at our traditions, well beyond coffee-to-go. Too many choices, too fancy, too little discussion and too few opportunities to use the swear words suitable in public.
Tragically, my joy at the medical hall pass for drinking coffee soon came to an end. The same day I read the good news about drinking coffee, I thought I should pick up another can or four at the grocery. I knew the price had gone up, thanks primarily to the tariffs, but this was sticker shock on steroids.
I turned full-bore Parisian at that moment as I growled at the unpleasant surprise, muttering a few choice words fresh from my latest tutorial under my breath.
I eventually cooled down and made a rational decision. Just as soon as that long-promised tariff rebate or $2,000 compensation check comes from the federal government, I am going to invest a chunk of it in my favorite over-the-counter stock: coffee.
