Coffee on an easy Sunday morning
Sunday morning. (Early afternoon, to be honest). I leave my house, bring my laptop and my notebooks, and move to a new coffee house in my street. They call themselves a coffee parlour and serve New York-style bagels. They have a giant, red, Italian La Marzocco coffee machine. It is beautiful.
I take a seat outside. They have small tables and chairs, which seem to be taken from an old-fashioned classroom. They bring me my espresso. It’s dark, short and strong. I take a sip. It tastes black, bitter, sweet. It has other flavours I can’t place. I wonder what kind of beans they use, how the machine influenced it.
Five sips. And then all is gone except for the lasting impression of the moment.
