Not such a lengthy blog for a change, this Saturday night. Having written essays in recent weeks about curry and kings and tangerines, this post will be as short and stimulating as a shot of Greek coffee.
My favourite place to drink coffee (not that I do it so much anymore) is in a Greek καφενείο (coffee house) as pictured. In truth, it's really Turkish coffee, thick and black (from that Islamist tradition narrated above), but the Greeks stopped calling it that for political reasons in the 19th century.
The coffee tree was first cultivated commercially in the Yemen, having been introduced there from the rainforests of Ethiopia where it grew wild. For a long time the Yemenis had a world monopoly on the export of coffee beans.
From 1538 to 1636 the Ottoman Empire controlled the southern coastal region of the Yemen, notably its famous coffee port of Mocha. Egypt was the richest province of the Ottoman Empire at that time and the chief commodity it traded was Yemeni coffee.
Cairo merchants were responsible for moving it from the Yemen to markets throughout the Islamic world - the Arabian peninsula, Persia, Syria and Türkiye. Cities like Cairo, Damascus, Istanbul and Tehran all contained coffee houses by the middle of the 16th century and coffee drinking became a staple feature of Muslim life.
From the Middle East, the Mediterranean trade route soon took coffee to Greece and Italy and from there on to Germany, France, the Netherlands and England. Coffee houses were well-established in many major European centres by the end of the 17th century.
The French were initially responsible for taking coffee plants to the West Indies and from plantations there it eventually spread to Mexico and then South America. Today Brazil is the world's leading producer of coffee beans, closely followed by Colombia Guatemala, Indonesia, Nicaragua, Venezuela and Vietnam.
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| a Greek café |
A good café, coffee house or kafeneio should be a restful place to read, socialise or just watch the world go by while enjoying an invigorating shot of caffeine.
Coffee houses are civilised and hospitable institutions, a kind of universal oasis in the maelstrom of life, and that's all there is to it really.
For a café related poem, I have turned again to my favourite Palestinian-American poet, Naomi Shihab Nye. This is from her 1998 collection, 'Fuel'
Serum of steam rising from the cup,
what comfort to be known personally by Barbara,
her perfect pouring hand and starched ascot,
known as the two easy eggs and the single pancake,
without saying.
What pleasure for an immigrant—
anything without saying.
My uncle slid into his booth.
I cannot tell you—how I love this place.
He drained the water glass, noisily clinking his ice.
My uncle hailed from an iceless region.
He had definite ideas about water drinking.
I cannot tell you—all the time. But then he’d try.
My uncle wore a white shirt every day of his life.
He raised his hand against the roaring ocean
and the television full of lies.
He shook his head back and forth
from one country to the other
and his ticket grew longer.
Immigrants had double and nothing all at once.
Immigrants drove the taxis, sold the beer and Cokes.
When he found one note that rang true,
he sang it over and over inside.
Coffee, honey.
His eyes roamed the couples at other booths,
their loose banter and casual clothes.
But he never became them.
Uncle who finally left in a bravado moment
after 23 years, to live in the old country forever,
to stay and never come back,
maybe it would be peaceful now,
maybe for one minute,
I cannot tell you—how my heart has settled at last.
But he followed us to the sidewalk
saying, Take care, Take care,
as if he could not stand to leave us.
I cannot tell—
how we felt
to learn that the week he arrived,
he died. Or how it is now,
driving his parched streets,
feeling the booth beneath us as we order,
oh, anything, because if we don’t,
nothing will come.
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| coffee with my grandson recently |
My Uncle's Favourite Coffee Shop
what comfort to be known personally by Barbara,
her perfect pouring hand and starched ascot,
known as the two easy eggs and the single pancake,
without saying.
What pleasure for an immigrant—
anything without saying.
My uncle slid into his booth.
I cannot tell you—how I love this place.
He drained the water glass, noisily clinking his ice.
My uncle hailed from an iceless region.
He had definite ideas about water drinking.
I cannot tell you—all the time. But then he’d try.
My uncle wore a white shirt every day of his life.
He raised his hand against the roaring ocean
and the television full of lies.
He shook his head back and forth
from one country to the other
and his ticket grew longer.
Immigrants had double and nothing all at once.
Immigrants drove the taxis, sold the beer and Cokes.
When he found one note that rang true,
he sang it over and over inside.
Coffee, honey.
His eyes roamed the couples at other booths,
their loose banter and casual clothes.
But he never became them.
Uncle who finally left in a bravado moment
after 23 years, to live in the old country forever,
to stay and never come back,
maybe it would be peaceful now,
maybe for one minute,
I cannot tell you—how my heart has settled at last.
But he followed us to the sidewalk
saying, Take care, Take care,
as if he could not stand to leave us.
I cannot tell—
how we felt
to learn that the week he arrived,
he died. Or how it is now,
driving his parched streets,
feeling the booth beneath us as we order,
oh, anything, because if we don’t,
nothing will come.
Naomi Shihab Nye
Thanks for reading. Have a good week, S ;-)
