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