‘Bean There, Done That.’

Modern audiences are fascinated by an origin story.

 Be it the reason for Darth Vader’s overall sulkiness with the universe twined with his apparent bronchial issues, or Peter Parker being bitten by a radioactive spider and rather than reaching for the Benadryl, going to bed & seeing how he feels in the morning…

People love to know how it all began.

I will now regale you with a real-life origin story of a cultural icon.

Centuries ago, located in the forests of the Ethiopian plateau, a loan goat herder named Kaldi eyed over his collection of bearded chums. He noticed them munching down on some berries growing on a tree but thought nothing of it, fully educated in the fact that goats will eat anything. He had extended the height of his washing line twice because they kept snacking on his damp socks and poncho.

As night approached it was time to tuck his long-horned dependents in. However, they weren’t having any of it. They were back flipping off rocks, springing over each other, bleating constantly through the usually peaceful darkness and, most worrying of all, they appeared to have stopped blinking.

A baggy-eyed Kaldi went to report his sleepless night to a local monk. After a short investigation, it was concluded that the source of the herd’s newly acquired exuberance was the berries they had consumed the day before.

This gave the monk an idea. He and his fellow monks had been having a terrible time of it nodding off during their late-night prayers. A cup of goat-berry juice later, they could pray right through till morning without so much as a yawn. This may seem a trifle excessive to the less prayerfully inclined but hey, whatever floats your goat!

As for Kaldi, he shuffled back to his herd, moved the berries to the same height as his washing line and went to bed.

Fast forward a century or six, and cue one of the most common social invitations that is likely to be extended your way,

“Let’s meet up for a coffee.”

Never have I received said invitation so frequently than in the bean-brew obsessed country of Australia.

The tradition is to choose an establishment within a close equivocal distance between those attending, ideally with an alfresco seating option, and slurp down your caffeine infused beverage in one of its multiple guises whilst wearing tight fitting gym gear. (This goes for women AND men. Aussie guys appear to have a penchant for tiny shorts.)

Then, as mental alertness increases, discussions are had on all manner of subjects including but not limited to – the outrageous cost of petrol, the unfortunate lip procedure that has rendered your mutual friend looking like a human plunger, and a hushed debate about what can be done about your chihuahua’s chronic diarrhea, (as said chihuahua sits cross legged under the table with a knowing goggle-eyed look of shame, a lactose-linked diagnosis denying them their regular puppuccino.)

Along with the temporary sharpness of brain, apparently caffeine also increases your physical energy. Hence the necessity of the workout clothing I suppose, though I’ve yet to see an individual down the last remnants of their skinny late’ and break into a set of burpees besides the muffin display.

This social interaction known as ‘coffee culture’ isn’t new. It’s documented that the first coffee shops were established some 600 years ago in Damascus, Syria during the Ottoman Empire. Though a million miles in style and décor from the wood panel explosion of your local Starbucks, the primary function of those institutions was vey much as it is today; a place to interact whilst getting buzzed on bean juice and it wasn’t long till they started popping up across Europe. The first London coffee house was established in 1652 offering a reheated bitter liquid to the upper-class men to drink, (no women allowed!) as they discussed the issues of the day. Thankfully, the improved quality of the beverage runs (almost) parallel with a diminishment of the chauvinism.

I, as with most things, arrived late to the party. British culture as it is, I was raised on tea for as long as I could remember and the option to defect to coffee never appealed. It may have been due to being a child of the freeze dried 80’s when everything from powdered custard to ‘cup a soups’ were marketed to the fast-paced yuppies of the time, coffee being promoted solely in its instant form.

Not to say it wasn’t glamourized of course. I have vivid memories of the Gold Blend adverts, a serialised story of a classy, sexy pair of highflyers falling in love over a jar of Nescafe’s best. All smoldering looks and shoulder pads without a percolator or bean grinder in sight.

“The Gold Blend adverts were a serialised story of a classy, sexy pair of highflyers falling in love over a jar of Nescafe’s best.”

As compelling as their ‘will they/won’t they’ story was, I was never tempted to ask my mother to purchase some at the supermarket. Surprising really because I was always quite susceptible to TV adverts. I once requested mum pick me up some Tampax tampons as the woman in the ad being pulled along by dogs while wearing roller skates looked like she was having a whale of a time. A brief explanation as to why a thirteen-year-old boy would find no use in said product led to my order being converted to a box of Coco Pops.

It wasn’t until I became a working man that I started to partake regularly of the nerve-jangling nectar. I was a spotty, slow-witted apprentice to an old, world weary Jewish appliance engineer called Tony Brooker. We drove around London repairing commercial kitchen equipment (Well, he did. I stood behind him yawning and picking my nose.)

Despite his constant moaning about anything & everything, Tony was kind and patient. He taught me a great deal.

Anytime we were offered a drink in one of the hotels or restaurants, he would request a black coffee with no sugar.

Lacking confidence & social skills, I would just nod and say, “Same.”

The first few times, every sip felt like a lightning bolt to my brain as I winced my way to the bottom of the cup. After a while, I got used to it and grew to enjoy both the drink along with the nod of impressed approval of those receiving my mature request.

My first visit to Italy at 17 years old was the true inception of my relationship with coffee. Observing beautiful, immaculately dressed people stood in ornate bars, one hand delicately pinching the handle of a tiny espresso cup while the other gestures dramatically, synchronised to every word that passes their lips. I adored everything about Italy, and it was there that I fell in love with coffee culture. Let’s be honest, the Italians were the ones to make it what it is, developing the basic drink into most of the forms we partake in today. Espresso, Latte, Cappuccino, Macchiato…  Those Ottomans may have built the coffee rocket, but the Italians blasted it into space!

Britain being Britain, countless members of the nation chose to frequent Lyons teashops for a brew and a chat, and these iconic tea & cake shops could be found up and down the country up until the last one closed in 1981.  The late 90’s saw a rise in coffee shops popping up in London and the rest of the UK, but it’s never been quite the same. Chains of Starbucks, Café Nero and Costa could be found on every high street, but rather than being a hub of social chitter-chatter, they tend to be full of people tapping at laptops and wearing headphones, poncing off the free Wi-Fi. Conversation is mostly limited to a mumbled “thanks” from a distracted customer as they snatch away their takeaway order.

To get the full Anglo-Italian cultural experience, independent establishments are the way to go. Places with their own unique style and a devotion to providing great tasting coffee and a buzzing atmosphere. A personal favorite of mine is the legendary Bar Italia located on Frith Street in Soho, London. A local institution that is open 22 hours a day, meaning that following a night out at Ronnie Scott’s Jazz Club, I could stride across the street and pick up a delicious double shot espresso at 3am, before I headed home to bed for a self-inflicted bout of caffeine induced insomnia.

Living in Sydney, it’s clear that the locals also lean toward the independent. Chains are a rarity and the so called ‘big boy’ franchises hardly get a look in. Australasia can also take credit for progress in coffee options, having invented the Flat White, (Though on that subject, there is some contention regarding whether its birthplace was Australia or New Zealand. I’m saying nothing. No way I’m getting in the middle of a Trans-Tasman ding-dong.)

With the Australian sense of innovation, its advocacy for small business and its pavement table friendly climate, the country has an irresistible blend (see what I did there?) that not only embraced the coffee culture but has also allowed it to evolve. All this with its own unique identity of both the shops and their patrons.

In keeping with my easily persuaded nature, I’ve embraced the whole shebang. In fact, writing this has given me a hankering for a cappuccino.

‘When in Rome…’ and all that.

Now, where did I put my little shorts…?