We are a coffee granule free zone. But I do have half a kilo of some stuff that passed out of a Weasel’s backside. At least in Vietnam they call it weasel. It is a civet and the beans are poohed out, it having eaten the coffee berries. Some poor bugger collects the droppings and (hopefully) washes them before roasting. It makes a very, very dark coloured bean and a very strong dark coffee. J says it even tastes of poo.
I don’t know why we should become all uptight at drinking weasel poo coffee. After all there isn’t actually any poo in the grind (again hopefully).
Chef Fergus Henderson (who’ll be bringing his schtick to Melbourne soon for a winter food festival) made his name feeding us tripe. Yep, he’s the man who made pigs’ arse holes posh. So poo should not be something we are shy in dealing with.
I can still remember my first coffee in Hanoi, made with one of those tiny drip filters. It was very dark and strong and chocolately. The weasel is stronger, better toned with the addition of condensed milk. J reckons it’s horrible but my coffee obsessed neighbour still raves about it.
That I don’t buy coffee granules will be no surprise to anyone familiar with my views on tea bags. It does, however, surprises tradesmen (aside from my fleur de lis monogrammed velvet slippers) who also have to put up with home made vanilla-flavoured sugar in their coffee.
I never thought myself as a coffee fascist and I can live without the drop. But when I drink it I want it to have flavour and bite. Being a late morning person coffee is the drug I choose as a morning kick-start.
In my early days as a journalist we had strong drip coffee, usually from a pre-ground vacuum-packed container. By late afternoon the coffee was approaching the consistency of treacle and only a filter less Galois bummed from a colleague could cut through the taste.
It was around that time I discovered the concept of cappuccino and espresso on Wardour and Old Compton Streets and around. These Italian variations of coffee sufficed for nearly ten years (alongside the occasional shot of Greek – or Turkish, depending on your politics).
At the last count I had seven coffee makers at home. There’s the very old octagonal espresso machine, you know the ones. There’s the cheap home espresso machine that makes a perfectly decent drop, the plunger, two Greek coffee and stainless steel drippers picked up in Vietnam.
I bought the last two in Saigon at the Ben Thahn Market because I became obsessed with Vietnamese coffee. The first cup I drank(in Hanoi) was very dark and chocolately and soon, with condensed milk added too, I was hooked.
I know I have said this about the food but the cheaper the joint in Vietnam, the better the coffee. Visit a European style hotel and they will try and palm off European style coffee, which is a great shame. (although it is better than Africa where anything other than Nescafé is impossible to find).
Using a Viet-style dripper is fairly similar to an espresso machine. The important thing is that the coffee should be tamped to give it a smooth surface. Any break will mean water will leach through without grabbing enough of the flavours.
On special days I add sickly sweet condensed milk. Home brand seem to do well although it does come in a tin rather than a tube. While the tube seems convenient it is difficult to squeeze from straight out the fridge.
The tin, however, one opened jizzed (actually this spill is what I understand some of my comment spammers refer to as bukkake) all over the worktop. The sticky stuff is really, um, sticky and somehow I did get some in my hair.
I keep my condensed milk in a jam jar in the fridge. Each morning I go through the jizz ritual before relaxing into that deep poo aroma. I’m that relaxed that I may even invite a medium-sized dog up to lick up the mess. That’s the condensed milk, if you’d forgotten.
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