Good Coffee

In Search of the Perfect Cup of Coffee
By Diane Selkirk, Freelance Writer

I’m giving up coffee. The aim is to make my body what the books refer to as a ‘healthy receptacle for new life’. First it was wine. Gently, I set aside th It is easy to find good food and cheaps goods in Mexico, but a good cup of coffee proved elusive. e Merlots, Vidals, Gewurztraminers and Shirazes. I ached a little when a late harvest white was served after a good dinner, but I accepted the transition with grace. Then, I balanced my diet; enough vegetables and fruit less chocolate, this was also OK. But coffee is a problem.

I’m shamelessly addicted. Not to mediocre supermarket brands: those contain beans without pedigree, which are roasted and packaged by people without soul. No, my coffee is grown in the shade, without pesticides and is picked by loving hands. Then its dried under the warming rays of an affectionate sun, before being carefully shipped to a store, where it is roasted to an inviting mahogany tone, mere hours before I buy it.

I love everything about coffee; from the rich flavor, to the pleasant buzz. I even take pleasure in the appearance of the sludge at the bottom of my cup. I am a coffee snob who, in fits of caffeine withdrawal, has begun to dream about coffee - and Mexico.

When we first arrived in Mexico, I was elated. One of my favorite coffees comes from high in Mexico’s mountains, and here I was – in Coffee Land. Our first morning ashore I sat down in a little restaurant and prepared to order breakfast. Priorities in order, I first requested
“café, por favor.”

“Café Americano, Mexicano, con leche, or typico?” The waitress inquired.

With Dressed in uniforms, local children prepare for a day of school. out enough Spanish to ask about the differences, I decided to plunge right into the Mexican culture with “typico”. Eagerly I waited, imagining the rich aroma. Out came a tray with a steaming cup and beside it - a jar of instant coffee. Distraught, I ate my breakfast and ignored the “coffee”. Then I went back to our sailboat and used up a few more of the precious beans I had brought from home. I drank down the elixir like the victim of a drought.

At the next restaurant I tried a different option, “Café mexicano, por favor.” I requested. Out came a steaming cup of water, milk on the side and instant coffee. “Café americano?” This got me hot, premixed instant and warm milk on the side. I was getting desperate, only café con leche was left. This sounded promising, it even looked promising, with its rich tones and heady aroma. But after my first sip the stale, bitter tang of instant coffee overpowered the subtle flavorings of cinnamon and chocolate.

It was time for extreme measures. Having coffee mailed from home was one option, but I knew there had to be another way. Coffee GROWS in Mexico, so it must be possible to buy it.

So we went in search of a coffee plantation.

When we first entered the village, we were sure we had made an error. The smell was so awful and so over powering I decided that there must be a Spanish word for “garbage dump” that sounds just like the word for “coffee plantation”. What else could that smell possibly be? As we walked down the road, the source of the smell became evident. Spread out across several large, raised drying platforms were coffee beans. Ranging from carpets of brilliant red to the palest cream. The coffee beans were being raked, sorted and bagged by men whose lower faces were covered by bandanas.

“Yuck! How did people ever decide to drink this stuff?” My husband complained as he pinched his nose closed. I decided the best way to clear the smell was to head to the nearest restaurant and sample the local bean in its perfect form. “We were simply experiencing it in the coal stage.” I explained. “The diamond is just ahead.”

We sat down on rickety chairs that were set randomly around on a dirt floor. I ordered café. The old woman shuffled over to the stove, poured hot water from the kettle, then took a jar of instant from the shelf. I was stunned and couldn’t restrain myself as I jumped up, yelling “No, no! Eso! Eso!” Gesturing frantically towards the stinky part of town. The woman calmly nod Vendors peddle their wares on the streets of small town Mexico. ded and told me I wanted the “Good export coffee.”

She took down a pot and filled it with milk. As it heated, she hand ground some fresh beans then began to throw small handfuls into the steaming liquid. Next, she grated cinnamon chocolate into the mixture. Just as it started to foam she lifted it from the heat and poured it through a strainer into a chipped jelly jar. Solemnly she placed it before me and watched my face as I inhaled the complex aroma and filled my mouth with the flavorful brew. I detected rich oak, with undertones of nut and chocolate, hints of cardamom and a finish of warm cinnamon.

Thoroughly satisfied, I drank two more cups and purchased several bags
of the freshly roasted beans.

Shortly after getting back to our boat we went out with friends for breakfast. As we prepared to order, they lamented the fact the only coffee they could ever get was instant. Smugly, I informed them I now knew the secret. I would get us “real” coffee. Delicious coffee.

I ordered “Good coffee for export, por favor.” Then waited expectantly.

Out came four mugs filled with hot water, and a jar of Nescafe on the side.

**All photos by Diane Selkirk