These days, nightfall comes early and temperature (in 'C) would drop down to single digits overnight. Having tired eyes from staring at computer screens the whole day, I put my vintage table lamps out soon after supper last night, just in time when Mr. Snoffles was coming in from his evening hunt. I 'hit the hay' and as I was settling comfortably under the quilt, this tabby cat hopped on top of my bed and tunnelled his way under my blanket.
I FELT SATISFIED after a full night sleep. I got up at six, gave Snoffles his morning 'bread', put my cool-weather gears on and walked down the sleepy streets to get some flat white from my newly discovered coffee bar. I love their brew— the smoothness of the coffee flavour, the sweetness of the perfectly heated fresh milk in it... those natural tastes that were gradually released as the barista meticulously worked on his machine. So like a thirsty camel who has found its oasis, I've been coming here since Saturday to grab a drink!
Earlier, while I was across the counter watching the young barista preparing my order, I asked him about the secrets in making good coffee, "...is it the barista, the coffee beans or the machine?
"A bit of each," he casually replied and handed my take-away flat white to me.
As I walked down the sycamore-lined street, intermittently sipping some hot beverage from a holed cardboard cup clasped in my hand, I remembered my younger days back in the barrio when my late father would ask me to make a cup of instant coffee for him. Yes, I was once a barista and I had a customer who genuinely loved coffee. He'd tell me that I make delicious coffees; but, honestly, I would only follow his suggested techniques... I'd only use briskly boiling water to re-hydrate a teaspoonful of freeze-dried coffee, then I'd add a rounded spoonful of powdered milk to it, stir and hand my brew to him.
I started drinking coffee and got addicted to caffeine only later in life, so, back then, I hadn't had the slightest idea how a great coffee should taste like. Like the barista this morning, I didn't get to taste those doses of caffeine I handed to my only 'customer', I just trusted myself, believing that I made it right. Consistency and love; I guess these were the important ingredients I added to my own brew back then.
Having spent his life in a secluded village— in a hut humbly standing in the middle of the ricefield, I wonder if my late dad, before at least facing his life’s untimely expiration, ever had the opportunity to taste and enjoy barista-made coffees during his regular visit the city to see his siblings... to enjoy this relatively sophisticated kind of brew that have become my favourite these days. If he did have, then I’m sure, like the fluffy McDonald's pancake we, together, once had in Ilustre St., Davao, he would have been raving about this flat white.
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