Acquired Tastes - Coffee

Heart warming home-made cappuccino.

My heavy eyelids creep open. Sliding out of bed and slipping on my big red woollen socks, I can almost see the smell wafting from the cracks beneath my door. It is this, which confirms that it is Sunday. I carry on down the flight of stairs, trying at all costs to avoid the cold wooden floorboards beneath the runner. The kitchen door is already open – that must be how the smell reached me earlier. I sit down around the breakfast table, littered with double paged spreads of the Sunday Times and croissant crumbs and soak it all in. I don’t even want to eat or drink, I just want to smell the exotic morning infusion of warming coffee.

Before teenage-hood set in, my grown up tipple of choice was Twinnings Earl Grey, or if I was feeling particularly brave or in need to show off in front of my young friends, I would pick out a bag of frighteningly scented Lapsang Souchon – oozing pre-pubescent sophistication. Coffee on the other hand, was reserved exclusively for grown-ups because mum said that the caffeine it contained would be harmful to a boy of my age. She maintained this stance up until my early twenties and frequently still comments on it, these days simply to encourage moderation. To drink coffee was positively an adult activity, but honestly its bitter taste never really seduced me. Smoky pine-scented tea was as much as I could take.

Frothing tools need not be complicated

Coffee temporarily escaped my life until one summer, strapped for cash, I worked a in a coffee house as a ‘barista,’ prouding myself on the beautiful nature of perfectly filtered espresso, the finely oxygenated bubbles of steamed milk and the precision of their balanced ratio’s, This was the perfect moment to put my OCD into practise. More than that, it was the whiff of that familiar roasted coffee bean in coalition with the heat from the machines that would envelop me in a warm blanket during my cold 6a.m. starts. Its nostalgia mindfully encouraging me to gently overcook the many pastries for sale that day, providing me with a hearty breakfast of Q.R.’s or ‘quality rejects,’ which I maintain to this day, was not the reason I was fired… Regardless of this, I was still not able to drink the brown stuff, probably I suspect because it contrasted too heavily with my beloved hot chocolate.

My newly found moka pot

After another gap in my life, coffee reappeared during an excavation in kitchen miscellany, where I unearthed a beautiful yellow moka pot. Having finally accepted the power of Gingko herbal tea to be far weaker than that advertised on the box, I came to terms with the fact that I needed something – anything to keep me going during a hard day’s work. Now swimming in the triply nostalgic state of morning parental coffee breath, barista cappuccino perfection and childhood memories of Parisian café culture, I set out to make these memories taste of something. Forget instant, filter or machine-made coffee, this is the real stuff. The iconic pot on the heat rekindling further memories, produces an honest hand-made espresso with a delicate crema so different from that of highly pressurized machines. It is not better, it is not worse, but I do prefer it. The milk I could not steam so I heated in a pan and partially whisked into frothy heaven. This is the best bit – I think all children try to steal cappuccino froth. A delicate finger swish here and there and the poor unsuspecting adult victim is left with something resembling a disproportionate latte. By now, all three components, the espresso, milk and froth, are in place and with a shake of chocolate powder, the mug is complete. In that moment, I think I earned coffee’s respect for it seems to have unlocked for me, a taste capable of accompanying the scent I value so much. 

Florence, Love and Vitis Vinifera.

‘Oh, must we go?’ I squeeled in absolute agony.

‘yes, I’ve already paid for it!’ came the response

‘But I honestly cannot move. Look!’ I made a walrus impression, hoping to put an end to this debate.

It was St Valentines day in Florence. Earlier that morning, we had got dressed early, deciding not to carry on wasting our time trying to sleep inside the dark, grotty, vertically disproportionate cave that was our hotel bedroom. The damp smell invading my nostrils was motivation enough, I knew I had to do something about this situation! The frighteningly grumpy receptionist was clearly not someone to be messed with so I wiped away the fear, took a deep breath and sent Hayley off to the front desk to complain. Phew!

With hotel matters out of the way and a new room reluctantly promised upon our return, we set out to explore the chilly February streets of Florence. We climbed the eternal steps of the Duomo, strolled around the Uffizi and lost ourselves in the narrow, derelict side streets. The first real treat of the day appeared in the form of a much-needed gastronomic feast at the famous Frescobaldi family’s restaurant. Sat in its mock-rusticated warm environment, we shamelessly phoned relatives in England, describing the food appearing before us on large white plates. We took particular pleasure in detailing the melting sensation of the fillet steak upon our delighted tongues. Meanwhile, our enthusiastic waiter excitedly poured and poured again, fountains of wine, insisting we try something new several times a course. I sat, utterly gobsmacked, the power that good food and wine can have in overturning what was a disastrous night and early morning. At that moment, all of our troubles were at bay.

Tuscan vines nr. San Gimignano

Things only turned again as we attempted to raise ourselves out of our chairs. It is a familiar feeling, one that perhaps, lunch should have ended a little before the end of the main course. But self-control, in regards to food is something we had not mastered then, not that much has changed now. With the pain slightly numbed by the last glass of ruby Sangiovese, we somehow Elephant-footed our way back through the decrepit Tuscan streets, hotel bound. We climbed the steps of our crumbling hotel, eager to spread our full-stomached selves onto a freshly made bed in our new room. I swung the door open and stared straight ahead at the glorious window, radiating the filtered sunshine through its glass panes. I moved forward to take a look at the view, which though unimpressive, was to my relief south facing. I didn’t ever reach the window, instead I tripped and fell head first onto a child size mattress. I looked up and around looking for the double bed. There was no double bed, just a much higher single next to this one. Too tired to care, I instantly curled up and passed out onto my standard issue, foreign legion inspired bed.

 Alarm bells rang! “Merde, qu’est ce qui se passe!” I shrieked.

I must have been dreaming in French which led to me cursing in my native tongue. Hayley’s mobile phone alarm drowned out the voices of my dream and I sat up, one eye open, assessing this most uncomfortable situation.

“Time for wine tasting” she declared

Reluctantly I rolled off the bed and looked into the mirror. I had bed hair like in the hair styling television adverts, perfect for strolling around the fashion conscious Italian streets. With the Hotel doors closing behind us, we were suddenly confronted by a late afternoon chill, motivating us to walk quickly to the other end of Florence until we reached a small wine cellar. Our host for the evening was a tall dark haired Italian in his early thirties, sporting a smooth looking black velvet jacket. He guided us and our fellow tasters, along and past the long stone-topped bar with its eclectic supply neatly stacked floor to ceiling all around the room, and down the steep stairs to the narrow cellar. Here, there were two long tables stretching their way along the room, just large enough to fit the fifteen or so guests. Though I could tell the basic sensory differences between good and bad wine at the time, my knowledge on grapes and winemaking was minimal. While our host chatted away, we chomped our way through sheets of Parma ham, threw olives into our mouths and nibbled on the finely cut slices of Parmesan cheese, as we sampled various expressions of Sangiovese, Vernaccia and Trebbiano. This was one of my earliest opportunities to assess wine glass to glass and side by side, to express out loud why it was that I preferred one to another. This was very liberating indeed and I suddenly felt I understood the true reason for wine’s existence; the thrill of the hunt, the never-ending search for the perfect bottle and the beautiful rituals associated with it. The recurring sounds of extracting tight fitting corks from their narrow necks, pouring, smelling, decanting then pouring again. In addition, I was instantly seduced by the concept of wine as a living thing, which, while it is nurtured, can evolve, improve or bitterly disappoint.

The tasting came to end, and upstairs, as the others filtered their way out the door into the bitter cold, we remained. We pulled out some chairs and settled into the cosy atmosphere. More meat and cheese was brought over to our table and we ordered further wine for evaluation. We eventually settled on 2005’s vintage of Cesani Luenzo, to take home with us. While handing over some Euro’s, I realised it was the most I had ever spent on grape juice. When I returned home, I excitedly made my way down to the cellar and cleared myself a corner, proudly staring at my lone import. I cut out a piece of card, tying it to the neck of the bottle onto which I wrote ‘drink 2011’. I knew at that moment that I would dedicate much time and fun to filling out the empty spaces around my Tuscan find. As my collection grew, I separated everyday drinking wines, ageing wines and valuable wines. Up until now, Cesani Luenzo has neighboured Bordeaux classified growths, Grand cru Burgundy and Super-Tuscans, reminding me of the birth of this small collection which shrinks and increases like the tide. I say up until now because 2011 is finally upon us and I had specifically timed it’s opening with the end of my WSET advanced certificate.

With excitement, I decanted the wine, cleaned out two tasting glasses and waited for Hayley to arrive home. I gently manoeuvred the decanters’ contents and held it up to my nose, then directed it towards the glass. My first sensory explorations of the wine showed balance; it is punchy, yet subtle. Tipping the glass to it’s side, it appears not the deepest of red but of a fine ruby with an almost invisible orange nail. To the nose, the classic Italian red cherry is present and is complemented by notes of raspberry and blackcurrant. The French oak barriques used in it’s ageing adds hints of overlaying vanilla and chocolate followed by pepper and a cloud of smokiness which finds its way, settling pleasantly to the back of my throat. Age has contributed raisins and provided a sweet jammy-ness. But its finest characteristic for me is the one that I mostly associated with the fabulous wines of Puglia: the scent of freshly trodden grass leading to a soothing medicinal menthol. The palate followed the nose fairly closely with the added pleasure of a smooth and refreshing mouth-watering acidity. A reassuring momentary detection of spice and cloves compliment the warmth of the alcohol, which feels comforting against the darkening clouds outside. Tannin is most definitely present, and plenty of it yet its silky form almost renders it undetectable, much like it’s full body, which is far from suffocating.

Worth the wait!

As my last tasting notes appear on the sheet of paper before me, I sit back and enjoy a glass with Hayley. I am proud of our choice all those years ago. Even with our basic knowledge, we had picked out something really rather special and had the patience to allow for its year-by-year improvement underground. Though the bottle is now empty, I plan to return it to the cellar where it will take pride of place, becoming an everyday memento of the events leading up to my infatuation with Vitis Vinifera.

Fine Wine in Crude Conditions

“Aaah, how nice it will be to uncork a bottle of our own finding after a long day on the road!” Said I, excited at the prospect of drinking the fine wine amassed during our trip. The idea being that after putting up the tent, setting up the gas powered kitchen and the tedious unpacking of our bags, one might be able to drink a glass or two, perhaps even an entire bottle of that smoky Barolo we sourced in Piedmont, maybe the refined beauty of a Chianti Classico from Tuscany, the teeth shatteringly sweet Malvasia from Lipari or the mouth watering herbaceous-ness of our Puglian Nero di Troia.

These are the organic Nebbiolo vines used in the making of our Barolo
nr. La Morra, Piedmont.

In reality, drinking from our car-cellar proved to be a tasking experience. Despite the salivating excitement preceding it, the event was often a disappointment. Why, I hear you ask? For me, the consumption of wine is a perfect process, a ritual. It begins by slowly and carefully pouring the entire contents of the bottle into the decanter, patiently and lovingly observing the beautiful sea-like ripples on the surface as I gently manoeuvre the liquid, giving it its first breath of oxidised life outside of the bottle. Occasionally lifting off the top permits me to take in a deep breath of the separate, yet magically intertwined aromas. Having spent an hour outside of its tall, green glass womb, it is usually ready to pour. After two years of wine education, I am still in the habit of drinking from tasting glasses, in small amounts at a time. These concentrate the bouquet of flavour, which after a whirlpool-inducing flick of the wrist, only abandon the glass upon heady nasal persuasion. My intoxicated Bacchus like self instantly recoils in deep pleasure as I throw myself back into my chair, satisfied but lasting only a short while, for I have yet to taste it. The moment it hits my lips is instantly followed by a bodily warmth, un-describable even to those who experience the sun for the very first time. It’s texture, soft and velvety cushions the sides of my mouth, preparing me for the sharpness of its fruit. Any acidity finds its way, mouth-wateringly towards the back of my throat, tingling, forming soft tears, which proceed to roll down my cheeks; each sip different in character, yet consistently pleasant.

It is precisely this chain of events, which is impossible to re-create on the road; no decanters, no crystal glasses and certainly no temperature control in our ‘deux chevaux’ drawn cellar. The very best we could manage on the few occasions we dared, was pouring our precious sanguine coloured fluids into plastic cups. This sadly led to the death of our delicious organic Barolo. Despite permitting the wine to oxidate, it in fact allowed more time for the plastic flavours to mingle, eventually snaking their way onto my repulsed taste buds.

Our 'Deux Chevaux' drawn cellar overlooking Tuscan vines
and San Gimignano.

Luckily for us, help is never far at hand. As usual, we dramatically appeared in our over-laden little car, at a pleasant little campsite near Marsala in Sicily. As was now routine upon arriving at campsites, we exchanged stories with those working there over a few San Pellegrino lemonades. After pitching our tent, one of the restaurant waiters came by and told us we should book a table.

“The food…very very good here” He said.

Like we hadn’t heard that one before…However at this stage, we were tired. Very tired in fact, so rather than filling up on pollenta and CO2, we decided to risk the unpredictability of campsite food and accepted his offer. We turned up early, hungry after a day in the baking sun. Upon entering, we stopped in our tracks and I rubbed my eyes hard.

“It actually looks nice!” I exclaimed, not too loudly.

That evening, we hoovered up some of the best pizza’s we had ever had the chance to eat in all of our time in Italy and Sicily. You must be wondering what relevance this has to our earlier vinous sacrifice, if any. Well, word at this stage had got around that I was currently studying wine – at least I think that’s what they understood – and the campsite manager who also happened to be a local wine grower had sent over glasses of both his own Nero d’Avola and Grillo. I don’t recall the mental tasting notes, however they were both fabulously fresh and fruity examples of good value Sicilian wine. On our way out, the kind manager caught up with us and offered a tasting of some of the local Marsala wine. Hayley, in her dehydrated, yet merry state declined, leaving me alone at the bar. I remember being there for a very short period of time but Hayley honestly believes I only returned an hour and a half later. Either way I did not come back alone, I had my arm around two generously donated bottles and two large wine glasses. Hooray Hoorah! Content, I fell asleep straight away, basking in the kindness of the locals. Happy ending? Before we had got a chance to use them, one glass smashed in the back of the car, sending shards into all of our clothes. Less than a week later and unable to guarantee the wellbeing of the second glass, we handed it over to a dear Croatian man who had let us camp in his garden.

This was sad for me, but surely there are benefits to travelling with wine? After all, when home in England, I struggle to get my red’s to a decent temperature of around 18ºC. Luckily for us, we were enjoying a Mediterranean climate. With the sun ready for bed, the evening was gently settling it’s way in and around our campsite, this was the moment we had been waiting for. I may even be able to ignore the taste of plastic. Unfortunately, wine loses most of its refined character when it reaches 35 degrees, our Barolo had effectively been half-boiled by the august sun. That evening put an end to unnecessary, self inflicted wine related torture for the remainder of the trip, which is why our surplus of nomadic bottles is now resting happily in a cool cellar, awaiting decanter and crystal tasting glasses. They are the lucky ones, and unlike the fate of our Barolo, these will reach their beautiful, colourful destinies.

Not my cellar at home, but the one at Castello di Verrazzano,
containing it's finest vintages from 1924 onwards.

Music to My Ears... Not Anyone Else's.

I just happen to be one of the hippest youths in my village. This may sound a grand statement but I say it with absolute confidence…and I have proof. That’s right ladies and gentlemen, I played a song so loudly on my car stereo, that I blew a speaker. Just picture the scene. The sun is reflecting off of my delicious olive green bonnet, my open windows allow the cool breeze to enter, shaping my hair like John Travolta out of Grease while sound waves being excreted from my speakers, swallow the rolling hills of Hampshire.

The car - the poor victim in all of this

Ok so I may have left out a few minor details. I was in a torrential rain shower, my window had fallen into the door and my hair was less Grease the movie, than it was soggy. I was wearing a wet dog on my head. Furthermore this particular car, had built up somewhat of a following in the over 60’s age category, although the factory aerodynamic jet fighter precision spoiler and half-leather seats may have appealed to the sporty minded 50 plus age group, back in 1996. Also at the time, I happened to have a boot full of what was initially presumed to be compost, yet upon closer inspection it looked (and smelt) like horse shit (there is a reason the windows were initially down) and my back seat was taken up by a neat row of yukka plants and peace lilies. I was in fact driving what can only be described as an 18^th century, jungle themed horse drawn carriage. To top it all off, the tune I happened to be belching out was Jerusalem. Which, in its defence (and mine), happens to be, one of the best all-rounder hymns of the last two thousand years. Relatively modern in that sense, its beautiful lyrics can still be heard through the stained glass windows of your local church and various other miscellaneous events including karaoke night in my car.

The passion is all in the eyes, not really in the sound...

Before this begins to sound like the Yeo-Valley rap advert, I would like to move on to the point of this ramble. My secular love of this hymn does not prevent it from filling me up with a deep sense of joy and powerful emotion. I enjoy a good sing-song, and although pitch-perfect-Hayley is one of many to inform me that I am positively tone-deaf, singing in the car when alone, is an extremely liberating exercise for me, when for a little while I can become Frank Sinatra or sound like Micheal Bubbles. I believe it is essential to have these ecstatic moments of lunacy at least once a day, providing oneself with enormous release. It is a form of meditation, if you will, though in my case it has an ASBO attached to it.

There are of course many other ways to attain this state of release. One I tried was laughing yoga, where I presume the aim is to forcefully induce the sort of laughter that in a public place, would have you locked up, therefore I find that the car is the best place for this type of activity. I first tried this on a short ten-mile trip, goodness knows what, those driving in the opposite direction thought of this. The first mile began slowly and then it happened:
HAAHAHAHAAAAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHA…

‘This is crazy!’

HAHAHAHAAAAHAHAAHAHAAHAHA…

‘Wow!’, I began to think, ‘I’m doing laughing yoga, this is brilliant!’

HAHAHAAAAHAHAHAAAHAHAAHAHA.

At this stage I am really getting into it. Then all of a sudden and out of nowhere, a bird came crashing into my windscreen. My ecstatic laughter transmogrified into sheer terrified wailing, until I skidded to a halt. On a positive note, the bird was stuck to my windscreen, which was handy, in terms of retrieving it for my lunch the next day. Needless to say, the rest of the short journey was spent in an eerie silence and I have since never repeated this murderous activity.

Hayley - managing to sing in tune.

Having only recently recovered from this, the last time I sang outside of my private space was around two weeks before Christmas. My lecture finished late and after two delayed trains, I walked down the escalator to the sound of angels singing. Mystified, I followed this beautiful sound like a dog to a full-bodied smell and there they were, in front of me. Doth this not sound like heaven? Not quite, my train was an hour late and I was in fact standing in the middle of Waterloo station facing the London Philharmonic Orchestra. This beautiful sound covered the voices of dismayed commuters and travel announcements, filtering its way through every nook and cranny of this enormous Victorian structure. I sang loudly, alongside two hundred or more people doing the same. The old man next to me didn’t have to say a thing, his face was confirmation enough that I was indeed incapable of singing in tune. No matter, for I continued to sing, forgetting my delayed trains, how tired I really was, and the disgruntled commuters surrounding me. This detached dream like state, just before the Christmas of 2010, is something that I will never forget. I will try laughing yoga again sometime, and perhaps I will tell you about it when I do. For now though, I continue to sing in my car, ‘till all of my remaining speakers blow.

 

Life in the Slow Lane

Life on the open road

Living slowly is only difficult when one is forever trying to catch up with others. Which is why in February 2010, I temporarily discarded some of my sheep-like attributes and convinced my dear and in this case, understanding other half Hayley, to buy what was (and you’ll be glad to hear, still is!), my childhood dream. We scanned internet pages like perverts, for weeks on end, but then, amongst several lemons, it suddenly appeared. With an enthusiastic rocket-fuelled lunge for the telephone, I dialed the numbers into the handset and nervously waited for a reply. ‘Do you still have her?’ I asked, shaking.

He confirmed that he did indeed still have her, and we arranged to meet the next day.

Now, you may be disappointed to hear that it wasn’t a cute puppy, or an extraordinary five-legged lama, which got my juices flowing. No. It was in fact a 24 year old, blue and white Citroen ‘Deux Chevaux’. The journey to Berkshire felt painfully slow but it became worth it as the little French icon came into view. It was taller than I had imagined. I’m pretty sure I had seen one in the flesh before, but it somehow looked different. It looked far better! The owner switched on the engine catching me by surprise. ‘BLOODY HELL THAT’S LOUD!!’ I shouted proudly to Hayley. She didn’t look impressed.

‘I hope it has soundproofing.’ She replied, while checking for the first signs of tinnitus. Utterly seduced by its deafeningly romantic roar, we handed over our cash and named her Beatrice.

The thing I love most about this car, is that it sounds like a racing car and whether one is driving it or sitting in the passenger seat, it feels like it too. However the chance of ever being able to break the speed limit is remote. It will do 0-60mph in around…well it will do 55mph and lets leave it at that. But driving it is a magical experience, full of illusion. This is where my point comes in. Driving began as a means for exploration, taking time out to see places previously un-accessible to those on foot, to enjoy the beauty and winding country lanes with the wind rushing through one’s hair; a pleasant, joyful experience. Today the automobile is shrouded in negativity. Gone are the fabulously simple, gleaming coachworks and their happy drivers. The commute, amongst others ‘useful’ reasons for driving has destroyed the original concept of motoring, reducing it to a carbon monoxide cloud of traffic jams, speed camera’s and irate drivers ‘acting the goat’.

Greve[nces] in Chianti - See the story on Hayley's Blog

I don’t want to appear as though I am blindly attempting to re-create an ideal in my lonely little head. Hayley and I put our money where our mouths are, and left on a loosely planned goliath trip over two months. Driving 8,000 miles through France, Italy all the way down to Sicily, then across to the Balkans, driving north from Montenegro, through Croatia, Bosnia and Slovenia and back up to England via Venice, Verona, the French Alps and Paris. Roof down most of the way, we revved the engine hard through mountain tunnels, drove on and off ferries onto various islands, sounded our horn in the passionate traffic jams of Palermo and Naples, flew down from the top of mount Etna with failed brakes, pushed her through border crossings all the while laughing, crying and rejoicing. 

View Larger Map

Fellow travelers and locals generally loved the car, welcoming us with open arms, into their towns, villages, homes, restaurants and vineyards, eager to hear our story as it was so far. Some mechanics even tinkered with the car for hours on end completely free of charge, in exchange for a little drive. The few pessimists we encountered stated that we were bloody lucky to have got as far as we did but we drove on confidently, ignoring these grumpy brutes. The car and its drivers, at this stage had merged into one. We could predict when the engine would overheat and cut out and when the brakes would altogether stop working for the odd hour or two. So intimate was our time with Beatrice that by the end of the trip, and thanks to the numerous strangers who stopped to help us on our way, we could confidently fix electrical faults, change fuses, alternators, batteries, adjust the carburetor and generally screw and unscrew things under the bonnet (bearing in mind, neither of us had any understanding of cars beforehand).

Al Capero Agrotourismo - Part of the Slow Food Movement

Driving slowly meant that we didn’t shoot past anyone worth speaking to or miss anything worth seeing. This year, it is my intention to acquire a pair of leather driving gloves and some driving goggles (despite the fact I have a windscreen, deeming them totally unnecessary) for they are items, which express the freedom associated with motoring. Roof down, though the wind rushing through one’s scalp inevitably messes up one’s hair-do, and the noise of the engine far outdoes the damage to one’s ears than a day of shooting with a 12 bore shotgun, I thoroughly recommend it. For every moment in that car, on your way to no-where, is a reminder that driving is fun and that life outside the daily grind is (certainly at times) optional, and by jove, is it beautiful.

The view from Mt. Etna