Hi Vic,

I trust that you and yours are well.

Apropos the recent discussion (as well as one a year or so back) on
the making of "real" coffee, I extract a description of the making of
Greek (blasphemously read Turkish, Egyptian, Lebanese etc) coffee from
a friend's yet to be published writings.

I use the word "apropos" to you as due to your appreciation of a
decent brew (not the standard as gnat's water, weak and stewed in a
pressure pot American coffee), I deem you to be a civilised
non-Neandertal person. However, should it not be defined in meaning in
Websters, I would be only too happy to elucidate.

My friend is Australian born of Greek parentage. His father had a
corner store in a Sydney suburb.

"In winter, Dad conducted a ritual several times a day that really got
up the noses of his customers, but it was ironically also one of the
reasons why they kept coming back. On these occasions, he made his
Greek coffee on the old ‘Cosyside’ kerosene heater that took pride of
place next to him behind the counter. He would literally stop serving
and then proceed to fill his little ‘bríki’ (a special, narrow-necked
pot for cooking Greek or Turkish coffee) with water and carefully
heaped spoons of Greek coffee and sugar. He would stir the cold
mixture several times and then place it onto the kerosene heater’s
radiant dome. Then, he would stare transfixed at the brewing coffee,
waiting for the special moment when the mixture would begin to bubble
and boil and then rise lava-like to the top of the pot.

But, just at the critical moment before it overflowed - and absolutely
no sooner - Dad would smoothly lift the pot off the heater and turn to
the bemused customers. He would then lift a finger and say with a wry
smile, “One”. After that, he would put the pot back onto the heater
and start the volcanic process all over. Again, just before the
critical moment, he would lift the pot off the heater and then
announce with the same bemused expression, “Two”. But, again the pot
would be placed down onto the heater and the process repeated once
more. All the while, the waiting customers would be growing more and
more irritated, but transfixed as well.

Finally, as the frothing liquid threatened to disgorge over the lip of
the pot, he would lift the pot off the heater and proclaim, almost
religiously, “Three”. The holy trinity of Greek coffee making had been
invoked. You see, it is very important when you are making Greek
coffee - to Greeks there is no such thing as Turkish coffee, of
course! - to slowly boil and re-boil the mixture, thereby forcing the
volatile coffee bean oils to the surface to form the creamy topping
known as kaïmáki. Only a skilled coffee maker can do it well, and of
course my dad not only considered himself an expert, but he wanted to
share the fact constantly with the rest of the world as well.

Letting the mixture settle momentarily, he would then carefully pour
some of the mixture into the tiniest of porcelain coffee cups,
ensuring that the top of the coffee was covered in creamy kaïmáki. He
would look at it proudly for a moment and then, finally, take one
small sip; drawing up the hot surface cream without his lips actually
touching the cup; and only one sip mind you. His loud response was
always a boisterous and effusive: “Ahhhh!” Then, he would delicately
replace the cup onto its waiting saucer, turn to the anxious customers
and, with a very self-satisfied look, give forth with the great
Greek-Australian epithet: “Yes pliz?”

Many, many times, the rest of the cup of coffee wouldn’t get consumed.
But, then, it was really the cooking process that brought the great
sense of satisfaction and, of course, the ‘hit’ provided by the first
tiny sip. After that, to continue on would simply mean lowering one’s
sensations into base oral gratification. Evidently, a connoisseur
doesn’t need that.

On one level, Dad was a simple, suburban grocer who spoke with a Greek
accent and perpetuated a stereotype about Greeks in Australia. But, on
another level, he had a touch of real class."

cheers
Peter

"Herodotus" wrote in message
...
Hi Vic,

I trust that you and yours are well.

Apropos the recent discussion (as well as one a year or so back) on
the making of "real" coffee, I extract a description of the making of
Greek (blasphemously read Turkish, Egyptian, Lebanese etc) coffee from
a friend's yet to be published writings.

I use the word "apropos" to you as due to your appreciation of a
decent brew (not the standard as gnat's water, weak and stewed in a
pressure pot American coffee), I deem you to be a civilised
non-Neandertal person. However, should it not be defined in meaning in
Websters, I would be only too happy to elucidate.

My friend is Australian born of Greek parentage. His father had a
corner store in a Sydney suburb.

"In winter, Dad conducted a ritual several times a day that really got
up the noses of his customers, but it was ironically also one of the
reasons why they kept coming back. On these occasions, he made his
Greek coffee on the old 'Cosyside' kerosene heater that took pride of
place next to him behind the counter. He would literally stop serving
and then proceed to fill his little 'bríki' (a special, narrow-necked
pot for cooking Greek or Turkish coffee) with water and carefully
heaped spoons of Greek coffee and sugar. He would stir the cold
mixture several times and then place it onto the kerosene heater's
radiant dome. Then, he would stare transfixed at the brewing coffee,
waiting for the special moment when the mixture would begin to bubble
and boil and then rise lava-like to the top of the pot.

But, just at the critical moment before it overflowed - and absolutely
no sooner - Dad would smoothly lift the pot off the heater and turn to
the bemused customers. He would then lift a finger and say with a wry
smile, "One". After that, he would put the pot back onto the heater
and start the volcanic process all over. Again, just before the
critical moment, he would lift the pot off the heater and then
announce with the same bemused expression, "Two". But, again the pot
would be placed down onto the heater and the process repeated once
more. All the while, the waiting customers would be growing more and
more irritated, but transfixed as well.

Finally, as the frothing liquid threatened to disgorge over the lip of
the pot, he would lift the pot off the heater and proclaim, almost
religiously, "Three". The holy trinity of Greek coffee making had been
invoked. You see, it is very important when you are making Greek
coffee - to Greeks there is no such thing as Turkish coffee, of
course! - to slowly boil and re-boil the mixture, thereby forcing the
volatile coffee bean oils to the surface to form the creamy topping
known as kaïmáki. Only a skilled coffee maker can do it well, and of
course my dad not only considered himself an expert, but he wanted to
share the fact constantly with the rest of the world as well.

Letting the mixture settle momentarily, he would then carefully pour
some of the mixture into the tiniest of porcelain coffee cups,
ensuring that the top of the coffee was covered in creamy kaïmáki. He
would look at it proudly for a moment and then, finally, take one
small sip; drawing up the hot surface cream without his lips actually
touching the cup; and only one sip mind you. His loud response was
always a boisterous and effusive: "Ahhhh!" Then, he would delicately
replace the cup onto its waiting saucer, turn to the anxious customers
and, with a very self-satisfied look, give forth with the great
Greek-Australian epithet: "Yes pliz?"

Many, many times, the rest of the cup of coffee wouldn't get consumed.
But, then, it was really the cooking process that brought the great
sense of satisfaction and, of course, the 'hit' provided by the first
tiny sip. After that, to continue on would simply mean lowering one's
sensations into base oral gratification. Evidently, a connoisseur
doesn't need that.

On one level, Dad was a simple, suburban grocer who spoke with a Greek
accent and perpetuated a stereotype about Greeks in Australia. But, on
another level, he had a touch of real class."


Yes, that is the proper way to do it. But even in Greece I have never heard
the word 'briki'.
I have two of those little coffemakers at home but have always heard them
referred to as 'jezva' (?spelling). Maybe that is Turkish.
But they always make it too sweet in Greece. You have to insist to get it
without sugar and the word is 'scato'. Once they were used to me in my
favourite restaurant the waiter used to say 'scato' to me even when offering
a glass of water!

Either way, with or without sugar is great.

Yes, that is the proper way to do it. But even in Greece I have never
heard the word 'briki'.

aka ibrik

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Turkish_coffee

The necessary equipment to prepare Turkish coffee consists of a
narrow-topped small boiling pot called an ibrik, cezve, džezva, xhezve or
μπÏ�ίκι (brÃ*ki) (basically a tiny ewer), a teaspoon and a heating apparatus.

I have two of those little coffemakers at home but have always heard them
referred to as 'jezva' (?spelling). Maybe that is Turkish.

Yep.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cezve

But they always make it too sweet in Greece. You have to insist to get it
without sugar and the word is 'scato'. Once they were used to me in my
favourite restaurant the waiter used to say 'scato' to me even when
offering a glass of water!

Heh, mispronounce the word for check sometime. My wife is still embarrassed
about it. Seems our captain (a catamaran) though it'd be funny...

On Thu, 08 May 2008 16:50:09 +1000, Herodotus
wrote:

He
would look at it proudly for a moment and then, finally, take one
small sip; drawing up the hot surface cream without his lips actually
touching the cup; and only one sip mind you. His loud response was
always a boisterous and effusive: ?Ahhhh!? Then, he would delicately
replace the cup onto its waiting saucer, turn to the anxious customers
and, with a very self-satisfied look, give forth with the great
Greek-Australian epithet: ?Yes pliz??

Many, many times, the rest of the cup of coffee wouldn?t get consumed.
But, then, it was really the cooking process that brought the great
sense of satisfaction and, of course, the ?hit? provided by the first
tiny sip. After that, to continue on would simply mean lowering one?s
sensations into base oral gratification. Evidently, a connoisseur
doesn?t need that.

This shows a truthful insight about coffee: the ritual of its making
is at least as important as the final product of its making.
After the ritual is done and the first sip approves of it, the rest is
simply ingesting some caffeine.
All within limits of course, as arbitrary as they may be.

On one level, Dad was a simple, suburban grocer who spoke with a Greek
accent and perpetuated a stereotype about Greeks in Australia. But, on
another level, he had a touch of real class."

Indeed. I would have liked to witness his performance - and try the
coffee.
This account reminds me of a Greek gyros restaurant I frequented in
Chicago. Three Sons it was called, and at that time I knew Dad, Mom
and the three sons by name. I usually knew when Dad and Mom were
visiting Greece, and took my own vacation from gyros when they were
gone.
Dad had passed his gyros slicing artistry to one son only I think,
since they were the only two who sliced.
As opposed to the typical gyros joints - which I avoided after finding
Three Sons - these fellows cut the meat paper thin, sharpening their
knives on a strop 3 or 4 times in the course of making up one plate of
gyros. The resulting slices were almost transparent.
I always stood by the counter to watch the slicing, and demanded my
suburban friends that I brought there watch with me, paying due
respect. There would be plenty of time later to sit down and eat.
The slicer always received some oohs and aahs from me, which sometimes
incited my friends to be a vocal audience.
And some remained quiet, probably thinking I was nuts.
Getting into the taste difference between this gyros so thinly sliced
and selected from where the flame had properly done its work and the
typical gyros hack job could lead to endless arguments among gyros
connoisseurs, so it's best not to go there, and beside the point.
Suffice it to say that I found it delicious to the last bit.
But I don't really remember the taste. I remember the slicing.

--Vic

On Thu, 08 May 2008 10:02:44 -0500, Vic Smith
wrote:

This shows a truthful insight about coffee: the ritual of its making
is at least as important as the final product of its making.
After the ritual is done and the first sip approves of it, the rest is
simply ingesting some caffeine.
All within limits of course, as arbitrary as they may be.

This account reminds me of a Greek gyros restaurant I frequented in
Chicago. Three Sons it was called, and at that time I knew Dad, Mom
and the three sons by name. I usually knew when Dad and Mom were
visiting Greece, and took my own vacation from gyros when they were
gone.
Dad had passed his gyros slicing artistry to one son only I think,
since they were the only two who sliced.
As opposed to the typical gyros joints - which I avoided after finding
Three Sons - these fellows cut the meat paper thin, sharpening their
knives on a strop 3 or 4 times in the course of making up one plate of
gyros. The resulting slices were almost transparent.
I always stood by the counter to watch the slicing, and demanded my
suburban friends that I brought there watch with me, paying due
respect. There would be plenty of time later to sit down and eat.
The slicer always received some oohs and aahs from me, which sometimes
incited my friends to be a vocal audience.
And some remained quiet, probably thinking I was nuts.
Getting into the taste difference between this gyros so thinly sliced
and selected from where the flame had properly done its work and the
typical gyros hack job could lead to endless arguments among gyros
connoisseurs, so it's best not to go there, and beside the point.
Suffice it to say that I found it delicious to the last bit.
But I don't really remember the taste. I remember the slicing.

--Vic

Thanks for this insight Vic.

I also find myself often fascinated by the making which can be more
memorable than the eating. Your beautiful description of gyros or
jeeros slicing reminded me of watching the making of Ramadan bread in
Turkey, Roti Chanai in Malaysia and all the other skills that make for
interesting food. I once tried making what is termed in Malaysia and
Singapore as "tea arik" or "pulled" tea whereby the tea with added
milk is poured from a pot into a cup at both outstretched arms'
length in an arc and back again several times. All I managed was wet
trousers.

I suppose it's a bit like cruising in a small boat - it's all about
the getting there and the anticipation of arriving whereas so often
the actual arrival is an anti-climax and sometimes disappointing.

I was eagerly anticipating an "anti-American" bite about the 'apropos'
and the "American coffe" comment but obviously need to try harder.

Best wishes and cheers
Peter,
Herodotus

On Fri, 09 May 2008 12:50:50 +1000, Herodotus
wrote:

I also find myself often fascinated by the making which can be more
memorable than the eating. Your beautiful description of gyros or
jeeros slicing reminded me of watching the making of Ramadan bread in
Turkey, Roti Chanai in Malaysia and all the other skills that make for
interesting food. I once tried making what is termed in Malaysia and
Singapore as "tea arik" or "pulled" tea whereby the tea with added
milk is poured from a pot into a cup at both outstretched arms'
length in an arc and back again several times. All I managed was wet
trousers.

Well, though some techniques add to the flavor, others are meant for
entertainment and overdone.
Japanese chop-chop stuff and so on. Boring. Maybe because my wife is
a professional cook and I see close to the best daily.
I'm afraid she's getting carpal tunnel problems though, so that may
have to end.
I do like table flamed goat cheese at Greek restaurants - because I
*know* I'm going to like eating that cheese, so my drooling instincts
kick in.

I suppose it's a bit like cruising in a small boat - it's all about
the getting there and the anticipation of arriving whereas so often
the actual arrival is an anti-climax and sometimes disappointing.

I've noticed a small letdown when arriving by air, but never when
driving. When in the Navy the longer at sea the more exciting the
arrival in port. My destroyer was once at sea for 31 days (circling
Cyprus in 1964) and we practically jumped the rails upon arrival in
Bari, IT.
You may be too well traveled and have jaded yourself.

I was eagerly anticipating an "anti-American" bite about the 'apropos'
and the "American coffe" comment but obviously need to try harder.

Get serious. You expect me to defend weak coffee because I'm an
American? Peter, Peter.

--Vic

In article ,
Vic Smith wrote:

On Fri, 09 May 2008 12:50:50 +1000, Herodotus
wrote:

I also find myself often fascinated by the making which can be more
memorable than the eating.

1960's Singapore had magic carparks which filled every evening with food
carts, illuminated with Tilley lamps and woks, heated by charcoal
burners.

Nasi- and Mee-gorengs were thrown, chopped and mixed by master showmen
done for the audience of eager, hungry customers, who received their
completed meal wrapped in a banana leaf and tied with a strip of liana
(by an eight year old) to complete the 'take-away'!

Delicious too.

--
Molesworth

On Fri, 09 May 2008 12:40:34 -0500, Vic Smith
wrote:


I suppose it's a bit like cruising in a small boat - it's all about
the getting there and the anticipation of arriving whereas so often
the actual arrival is an anti-climax and sometimes disappointing.

I've noticed a small letdown when arriving by air, but never when
driving. When in the Navy the longer at sea the more exciting the
arrival in port. My destroyer was once at sea for 31 days (circling
Cyprus in 1964) and we practically jumped the rails upon arrival in
Bari, IT.
You may be too well traveled and have jaded yourself.
Hi Vic,

Quite possibly, but there always remains the excitement of a new place
and a need to land and explore, to eat food you don't have to cook and
to meet new people. I suppose that there is the dawning recognition
that no new port will have quite the same exoticness and magic of your
first foreign landfall or even the arrival at your first ever
destination when you first launched the boat and took up cruising. I
find now that many of the more memorable times were of the getting
there such as when you turn off everything and DR by chart and compass
and your senses and the expected landfall rises in the early morning
gloom (and of course when it doesn't and you have to figure out the
error).

I was eagerly anticipating an "anti-American" bite about the 'apropos'
and the "American coffe" comment but obviously need to try harder.

Get serious. You expect me to defend weak coffee because I'm an
American? Peter, Peter.

There goes another stereotype - that Americans have no subtlety in
their humour.

cheers
Peter

--Vic