COMMENTARY, April 1 — I ought to stop writing about coffee. Friends are calling me a coffee snob.
Let me explain.
So I like coffee. Which is nothing remarkable given that many of us do. According to the International Coffee Organisation, over 160 million 60 kilogram bags of coffee are consumed worldwide every year.
It’s not like I’m particularly biased either. I wax lyrical about instant coffee (a particularly moving beverage when stranded in a foreign land). I get nostalgic about the kopitiam drinks menu, from a kopi O kaw to the divine blend of coffee and tea that is cham.
And yes, sometimes I write about that nebulous entity known as “specialty coffee” that, rather than the fresh-faced kid on the block it was a decade ago, is now rather ubiquitous. Even our grandparents, who used to groan at the heftier price tags, might now have a regular order, be it a flat white or an iced long black.
Yet it is the latter category that I am most associated with, which would be advantageous if specialty coffee were a niche market and I a subject matter expert. But everybody is writing about it now.
Which makes it a tad annoying that my friends call me a coffee snob. (My enemies, assuming any exist, would likely call me something else entirely.)
ME: I am not a coffee snob.
FRIENDS: Yeah, you are.
ME: No, I am not.
FRIENDS: Yeah, you are. Coffee snob.
ME: I hate you guys.
FRIENDS: Coffee snob.
So I grind my own beans and brew my own coffee at home. That hardly qualifies as snobbery. Frugality, surely, given I save money by spending less than I would at coffee shops? My friends would hear none of it, and I’m starting to wonder if having enemies instead might not be better.
Some of my friends drink coffee. Some don’t. Some are baristas. Some aren’t. They are all awful people. (I hope you are reading this, my friends.)
On a separate note, it’s interesting how many baristas are called Michael. Expectant parents who are coffee lovers might consider this as a potential baby name. Imagine little Michael or Michaela pulling you an espresso shot first thing in the morning. (One can dream.)
MICHAEL #1: What can I do you?
ME: Oh, anything you make is fine.
MICHAEL #1: Really. Come on. Challenge me.
ME: Well, I haven’t had a good Dirty in a while...
MICHAEL #1: Cool! One awesome Dirty coming right up!
[Interlude: Cue sounds of espresso machine and cold milk being poured]
MICHAEL #1: There you go. One freshly made Dirty just for you.
ME: Hey, thanks.
MICHAEL #1: Let me know what you think.
ME: ...
MICHAEL #1: You’re speechless because this is the best Dirty you’ve ever had, right?
ME: Not quite.
Fortunately my barista friends are a hardy bunch, and the always affable Michael #1 didn’t take my lack of enthusiasm personally. He noted wryly that a thick skin is part of the job description, if baristas even hoped to survive the barrage of criticisms from disgruntled customers.
My ho-hum response was angelic, or so he claimed, when compared to some of the caffeine fiends and café horrors he encountered on a regular basis.
(Please. Be nice to the good folks who make you your coffee. Even if you don’t like what is served, do say so politely.)
The local coffee scene being the incestuous circle (not literally but you get the idea) that it is, it wasn’t long before I got a text from the ever busy Michael #2.
MICHAEL #2: So I hear you’ve been hunting for the perfect Dirty.
ME: Wait. What?
MICHAEL #2: I have spies.
ME: [curses Michael #1]
MICHAEL #2: I’m going to practice very hard so that the next time you come over to our café I can serve you a Dirty you might approve of. I’ll do you proud.
ME: I’m going to kill the other Michael.
But really, who can blame them? It’s an affliction of their profession; we have to applaud these craftspeople who commit to continuous learning.
What excuse, then, do I make for my friends who aren’t baristas but who have fallen for the pretty and shiny coffee brewing gadgets they see in the cafés they frequent?
Just last week, my friend Chai asked for recommendations for various coffee brewing paraphernalia; his wish list included a dripper, a grinder, a digital scale, perhaps a gooseneck kettle. All hail shopping apps, flash sales and the glories of impulse buying.
CHAI: I’m thinking of a Comandante grinder. And an Acaia Pearl S scale. What do you think?
ME: Why would you need those? Most baristas don’t even have those. Our grandparents didn’t need digital scales to make coffee.
CHAI: But you have a Comandante grinder. And you have an Acaia Pearl S scale.
ME: Well... yes?
CHAI: Pot calling the kettle black, much?
ME: …
ME: To be fair, I only bought them because we won some money at the slot machines in Macau.
CHAI: Uh-huh.
ME: And when we got back to Hong Kong, there were all these pretty and shiny coffee brewing gadgets in the cafés we visited.
CHAI: Uh-huh.
ME: So it seemed prudent to transform the extra cash into stuff. Better than carrying it around, right?
CHAI: Uh-huh.
ME: I wouldn’t have bought them otherwise. It was entirely for personal safety.
CHAI: Uh-huh.
CHAI: Hello, Mr. Pot.
The coffee snob doth protest too much, methinks. (Drats.)
Then there’s the time when another friend invited me over for some coffee. She had just gotten some new beans. Imported, of course, she clarified. This bag of Colombian beans is from a Danish roaster, oh and this Costa Rica is from Hong Kong, roasted by some barista champion fellow.
ME: Aren’t the international shipping fees exorbitant?
ELLIE: Sure, but you get what you pay for.
ME: Why not just buy from local roasters?
ELLIE: Well...
ME: Wait, you do know there are local coffee roasters, right?
ELLIE: …
ELLIE: Oh, and this bag is from Portland. They got the beans from Peru and...
ME: …
All that carbon footprint. Greta Thunberg would not be pleased.
Why not support local businesses, especially small roasters such as Sweet Blossom Coffee Roasters in Johor Bahru, which roasts only in small batches, or local coffee farmers such as Sabarica Coffee with their beans grown in the highlands of Ranau, Sabah.
If we are to be coffee snobs, let us at least know all our options.
Speaking of coffee snobbery, my friends aren’t really awful people (even when they are awful to me). Maybe they are right; maybe I am a coffee snob. True friends call you out on your cowpats.
Or — far likelier — they just want to get a rise out of me, and they know exactly how to achieve that. True friends call you names because they care. And you let them, secretly pleased, because there is no one else you rather.
This is not a tirade against hobbyists. I am one, and it brings me much joy. Brewing a cup of coffee first thing in the morning — and taking a little bit more time than scooping a spoonful of instant coffee granules, adding boiling water and stirring it — is a balm.
The calm before the storm of the day with the avalanche of emails and demands. The intense and unexpected pleasure in crafting a better cup today than yesterday. That satisfaction, that bizarre buzz we recognise as happiness.
Yes, we take our hobbies, our home brewing of coffee, seriously. Here’s to not taking it so seriously we forget to have fun. Here’s to not being so smug and self-congratulatory that we exasperate the hapless loved ones by our side.
Here’s to enjoying a good cup of coffee, however it is made, and to thanking those who made it for us.
Unless we made it ourselves, in which case, feel free to throw a fit. In space — the self-contained space of our work-from-home bubble, that is — no one can hear us scream (at ourselves).
Happy brewing, my friends!
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