A coffee by any other name
July 10th 2008 04:36
Backpacking through the Middle East I enjoyed a lot of taste sensations. It wasn’t long into my stay in Jordan that I learnt about Arabic coffee –thick and grainy it became a daily ritual- often enjoyed in street side cafes sucking on smoky apple tobacco from a teetering hubbly-bubbly.
By the time I made it to Turkey, the daily delight found in Arabic coffee had morphed into full blown addiction- so within minutes of arrival I set off in search a cup of the brew. But it was a case of a rose by any other name when we were curtly told that the hot, black, syrupy goodness we sought was not Arabic coffee at all, but coffee that was Turkish.
Indeed, who was I as a caffeine novice from antipodes to question? So I continued my journey enjoying repeat hits of Turkish coffee (also branching into another warm drink known as Salep- with its pale coloured runny custard consistency it never failed to satisfy).
Once I left Anatolia though, upon a heaving ferry crossing the Aegean for the Peloponnesian islands, the coffee conundrum presented itself again. In broken guide book Greek a coffee order was attempted- in an ‘it’s all Greek to me’ moment I sought to clarify our intentions by pointing to that familiar dark and sticky substance someone was sipping out of a little cup. Our waiter, eyes aglow with understanding exclaimed ‘Greek Coffee!’
I couldn’t help but smile…and made a fair prediction about what would happen when I made it to Rome.
By the time I made it to Turkey, the daily delight found in Arabic coffee had morphed into full blown addiction- so within minutes of arrival I set off in search a cup of the brew. But it was a case of a rose by any other name when we were curtly told that the hot, black, syrupy goodness we sought was not Arabic coffee at all, but coffee that was Turkish.
Indeed, who was I as a caffeine novice from antipodes to question? So I continued my journey enjoying repeat hits of Turkish coffee (also branching into another warm drink known as Salep- with its pale coloured runny custard consistency it never failed to satisfy).
Once I left Anatolia though, upon a heaving ferry crossing the Aegean for the Peloponnesian islands, the coffee conundrum presented itself again. In broken guide book Greek a coffee order was attempted- in an ‘it’s all Greek to me’ moment I sought to clarify our intentions by pointing to that familiar dark and sticky substance someone was sipping out of a little cup. Our waiter, eyes aglow with understanding exclaimed ‘Greek Coffee!’
I couldn’t help but smile…and made a fair prediction about what would happen when I made it to Rome.
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