turkish coffee
As a javaholic, I am always ready and willing to try new coffees, be them flavors, or different brewing techniques or rare beans. The history channels 'history of coffee' introduced me to Turkish coffee, of which I now love. Basically a shot of espresso triple brewed, mixed with a wee bit of sugar and a variety of spices, it is a delicious kick in the crotch dose of caffeine.
Over the summer, I stumbled upon a turkish restuarant/deli joint down at Pike Place Market during a jazz festival. An authentically old Turkish lady made me a delicious cup of brew in a copper pot as old as she. It was the best Turkish coffee I had ever had, which isn't saying much because there are very few coffee houses that make this type of coffee, mostly because to make it the age-old way takes a while. This morning, meandering down the road, enjoying my freshly brewed Dunkin Donuts coffee (imported from the East Coast), I passed a new cafe boasting a sign reading "Turkish Coffee Professionals." Elbasha Cafe, you have just registered on my cup-o-joe radar, thankyouverymuch. Late today, after grabbing a not-so-delicious-looking Subway turkey wrap, I realize I'm coming up to that cafe. Split second decision and I am berating the lady behind the counter with questions to determine is she really is a turkish coffee professional. Satisfied with her responses ("yes, I make turkish coffee") and deducing that she is probably mediterranean (olive skin and thick dark eyebrows? Check), I order up my coffee.
Speeding down the road the four-ish block to the apartment, my stomach has started the hungry grumble. The coffee has been brought to boiling three times, it's lethal hot and that Subway wrap didn't look too awesome. Besides, my stomach has been careful trained to survive days at a time on go juice, it now thinks coffee is the exclusive and adequate form of sustenance. I keep lifting the teeny cup to my nose, cautiously smelling the cardamon and espresso aroma, trying not to melt my nose with coffee lava. Having not eaten since 9ish, (what happened to the eating every three hours? who knows.) I'm more anticipating the coffee than the meal. Arriving home, scarfing down the wrap so I don't make myself sick with caffiene overload, I tentatively sip my brew. I like coffee luke-warm or stone-cold, so I can pound it fast and get another one. This was fantastic! Gritty at the bottom, smooth and creamy espresso-y goodness combined with a hint of sweetness and spice. And only 5 blocks from the apartment, I have now found a new coffee shop to frequently abuse.
I'm hopped up on my spicy cup of meth, and I feel great!
Over the summer, I stumbled upon a turkish restuarant/deli joint down at Pike Place Market during a jazz festival. An authentically old Turkish lady made me a delicious cup of brew in a copper pot as old as she. It was the best Turkish coffee I had ever had, which isn't saying much because there are very few coffee houses that make this type of coffee, mostly because to make it the age-old way takes a while. This morning, meandering down the road, enjoying my freshly brewed Dunkin Donuts coffee (imported from the East Coast), I passed a new cafe boasting a sign reading "Turkish Coffee Professionals." Elbasha Cafe, you have just registered on my cup-o-joe radar, thankyouverymuch. Late today, after grabbing a not-so-delicious-looking Subway turkey wrap, I realize I'm coming up to that cafe. Split second decision and I am berating the lady behind the counter with questions to determine is she really is a turkish coffee professional. Satisfied with her responses ("yes, I make turkish coffee") and deducing that she is probably mediterranean (olive skin and thick dark eyebrows? Check), I order up my coffee.
Speeding down the road the four-ish block to the apartment, my stomach has started the hungry grumble. The coffee has been brought to boiling three times, it's lethal hot and that Subway wrap didn't look too awesome. Besides, my stomach has been careful trained to survive days at a time on go juice, it now thinks coffee is the exclusive and adequate form of sustenance. I keep lifting the teeny cup to my nose, cautiously smelling the cardamon and espresso aroma, trying not to melt my nose with coffee lava. Having not eaten since 9ish, (what happened to the eating every three hours? who knows.) I'm more anticipating the coffee than the meal. Arriving home, scarfing down the wrap so I don't make myself sick with caffiene overload, I tentatively sip my brew. I like coffee luke-warm or stone-cold, so I can pound it fast and get another one. This was fantastic! Gritty at the bottom, smooth and creamy espresso-y goodness combined with a hint of sweetness and spice. And only 5 blocks from the apartment, I have now found a new coffee shop to frequently abuse.
I'm hopped up on my spicy cup of meth, and I feel great!
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