Saturday, 24 March 2007
Early one morning while in London recently, I popped into one of those café chains to get a take away coffee there was an unfeasibly long queue and just one poor trainee barista at the counter trying to take care of everyones' orders. I was becoming impatient, so was everybody else. I asked myself why do we stand here like idiots we should just leave. Then it struck me. We can't leave, we are prisoners. We are all addicted. It's the drug.
A friend of mine just came back after a week learning how to make the perfect espresso at the coffee university in Trieste, Italy. Since his return he's become a terrible snob. I called him up to suggest we meet up for a coffee and he told me he doesn't drink coffee in French cafes anymore because it's all rubbish (then gave me 55 reasons why Italian coffee was better). He has some fancy la-di-da espresso machine at home now. I heard him take a sip of what was, I believe, his 12th cup of the the day. I listened a little bit longer to him burbling on hyper-actively before making the excuse that it was getting late. 'Late?', he said confused, 'to be honest I hadn't noticed'. I hung up.