The Many Moods of Coffee

If there is one thing that divides humanity more sharply than pineapple on pizza or vegetables in maggi, it is coffee. The bean, that humble little brown nugget, has caused more debates, declarations, and disappointed sighs than any other beverage in the known universe (except perhaps tea, but that’s another battlefield altogether and I have already written about it earlier).

Now, coffee lovers come in a bewildering variety. There are the connoisseurs, the snobs, the purists, the innovators, and the ones who simply want caffeine in any shape or form. The bone of contention is never instant vs. filter coffee – that’s too obvious a duel. Instant coffee, poor dear, is universally looked down upon. Even those who secretly adore it put on a scholarly expression and murmur about “body,” “acidity,” “notes of chocolate,” and even “notions of fair trade,” before skulking back home to beat instant coffee with sugar and milk like guilty lovers.

Ah, instant coffee. The comfort drink of our college days! That brown liquid courage at late nights which helped us look convincingly studious before exams. It wasn’t just coffee; it was liquid drama. “Don’t disturb me, I’m revising,” one would say, while stirring that same old cup for the fourth time. Even the hostel canteen served it late at night as a specialty during exam days. Even today when I sip the so-called Espresso Coffee, essentially a distant cousin of that canteen brew, my heart experiences a nostalgic flutter. It still is quite popular at served at weddings or tourist joints around the lakes here. Call it what you may, but there’s still something endearingly homely about that hand-beaten instant coffee with hot milk, sweetened to the last molecule, or even this popular Indian version of Espresso Coffee which comes nowhere near to the Italian version.

But, alas, times have changed. Coffee lovers have gone international or as we say, have developed a more “overseas” palate. Beans are now roasted, ground, and discussed as if one were evaluating fine art. There are tasting notes, aromatic profiles, and equipment that look like they belong to a physics laboratory.

First, we have the Moka pot enthusiasts – a determined tribe who believe pressure and patience yield the perfect creamy brew. Then there are the French Press people, leisurely souls like most people around me who let their coffee steep while contemplating the meaning of life. The pour-over crowd insist theirs is the purest, most refined form of coffee, unpolluted by fines or filters. One such friend is my unofficial coffee instructor. And of course, our proud South Indian filter coffee with the upside-down magic that turns coffee-making into both ritual and performance.

Among a few high-end coffee elite, even using pre-ground coffee is considered a mild moral failing, while those who grind their own beans are treated with near-religious awe. I, for one, dare not trespass into that sacred territory.

Then we enter the dark forest of roasts, grind sizes, and brewing ratios. Medium roast, dark roast, coarse grind, fine grind – it’s all frightfully complicated to a simple person like me. I once tried to appear intelligent in a coffee discussion at a friend’s evening gathering by saying, “Ah yes, I prefer a medium roast with balanced acidity.” A dangerous move. Within moments, I was asked if I preferred washed or natural processing. Which method did I brew it? Where did I buy from? I nodded gravely and changed the subject to weather which it seems is always a safe subject to retreat to. Though I do remember a vague bit of information that one of the best coffees is processed from the poop of some civets, not that I fancy it or am even daring enough to try it.

And let’s not even talk about coffee pods. They make me feel like I’m committing a crime against the spirit of the bean. Too electronic for my taste. Coffee percolators? A good idea perhaps for an office, but they rob coffee of its romance. I tried it for a few months but always felt that I was playing with an over-complicated piece of machinery. Coffee should burble and gurgle, not blink and beep.

Everyone seems to have a favourite roaster these days. Some speak in hushed tones about small-batch, single-origin beans from estates with unpronounceable names. Others swear by their trusty omnipresent brand. The more expensive the package, the more convinced people seem that it must taste divine. Personally, I can’t tell the difference. Once I pour milk into it, all notes of “earthy caramel” and “smoky undertones” vanish without trace. Though, even before pouring the milk, I always struggle to find them.

For me, coffee falls into just two reliable categories: with milk or without. Simple. Honest. The milk might be frothed, steamed, or just obediently poured in. Sometimes, I take a shot of hot black coffee and pour it over a scoop of vanilla ice cream. Sometimes, it goes over a brownie. That’s about as experimental as I get, and that too for the sake of my guests.

A strong black coffee does have its merits, of course. It wakes me up faster than even the ruckus created by the birds on top of my roof in the mornings. But if we’re talking sheer pleasure, the creamy comfort of coffee with milk wins every time for me.

So while the rest of the world debates beans and brewing ratios, I sit by my orchard, under and old apple tree with morning sunlight filtering through, watching the hills stretch into a quiet yawn, and sip my cup of modest, honest coffee. No fancy names, no foreign beans, just warmth, aroma, and the hum of morning. After all, life in the hills teaches you one thing: whether it’s coffee or conversation, what matters is not the method, it’s the moment.

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