ca phé

Here's a question that's bound to spark some disagreement: who, in your opinion, makes 'the best coffee in the world'?

Had I been asked that question, say, three months ago, I probably would've said "The Italians" – but only because this somehow seems like the logical answer, until you start giving it some thought. I mean, I've definitely been served some great coffee by Italians ... but then, if I think about it, I've been served some great coffee by New Zealanders, too. And Brazilians. And Egyptians. And Americans, Swiss, Australians, Slovaks ... and even, if you can believe it, by Ukrainians. (Never by Russians, though ;-) So I really wouldn't have had a well-considered answer to the question posed.

I do now, though. Can I tell you?

Great :-)

The best coffee in the world is made by ...


*ahem*

... are you ready for this? 

You're sure?

Ok.

You're sure you're sure?

Alrighty then. Scroll down.





















the best coffee in the world is made by ...
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
ummmmmm ...
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
ridiculous though it may seem ...



















The Vietnamese.

Now, if at this point you're thinking "Right ... well, clearly Anthony has finally flipped his lid"*, I'll understand completely. But give me a few minutes to explain before you consign me to the Casa de Batas Blancas. I mean, I know coffee is a subject close to many people's hearts, and almost anything I say about it is gonna be highly subjective and hotly disputed ... but fortunately, I'm not averse to the occasional bout of hot disputation with the subjectively high :-) So let me tell you how to make coffee VN-style ...

First, the obvious thing: you need the coffee. It's coarsely ground, it looks a bit like tea leaves when they're wet, and it's evil. (I mean evil in a good way – strong coffee being, of course, the only known substance apart from vodka which can resolve the age-old struggle between Good and Evil by making them one and the same thing).

Second, take a Vietnamese coffee filter. Spoon in about 30ml of the coffee, and push down the inside lid to pack the grounds. (The inner lid has tiny holes, like a tea strainer.)

Next, pour a little condensed milk into a coffee cup or a whisky glass. It should cover the bottom of the cup/glass, but not much more.

Put the filter on top of the cup or glass, and pour in a tiny amount of water – just enough to soak the coffee grounds.

After a few seconds, add as much boiling water to the filter as you think you'll need in the final brew, and put the top on.

For the next 10 minutes or so, find something else to do while the water slowly filters through the coffee and into the cup/glass below. (I find that writing ridiculous blog entries on scraps of paper is a good way to fill in this time – though you have to be careful that your words aren't obscured by coffee stains, 'cause most tables at Vietnamese cafes aren't fabulously clean.)

When gravity has done its divine work and all your water has drained into the cup or glass, remove the filter. You'll see a thick, viscous** black liquid – about as thick as Turkish coffee, but without the sediment. Stir it a little, scraping your teaspoon firmly across the bottom to mix in the condensed milk.

And here's the point where you do the unexpected thing which will surprise your house guest/customer/mortal enemy if he or she hasn't experienced a VN coffee hit before.

Take a tall glass filled with three large ice cubes (it's always three for some reason), and tip it upside down to strain off the excess water, using a long-handled teaspoon to stop the ice from falling out of the glass. Then pick up your coffee cup or whisky glass, empty its contents into the tall glass, and put it aside. You won't be needing it anymore.

Btw, one thing I love about this process is that, by the time you've reached the drinking stage, your little cafe table has become cluttered with apparatus. You've got your coffee cup, your filter, your glass of weak tea or water (which always comes with coffee), your teaspoons and your tall glass, plus one or two other optional things. It's almost reminiscent of a traditional absinthe-drinking session***.

Anyway, now you're ready to sample the exotic eastern brew. Use your long-handled teaspoon to stir the coffee, condensed milk and ice together, then pick up the tall glass and take a sip.

Say to yourself:
"Ohmigod ... that's incredibly strong and incredibly good!".

Repeat at regular intervals until the glass is empty.

If you're in a cafe, at this point you'll float effortlessly to the counter, open your wallet, and take out approximately 15,000 Vietnamese Dong (about 75 cents). Make sure to hold your arm at a downward angle when you do this – you'll be pretty close to the ceiling by now, and it's impolite to make the counter staff climb up a step-ladder just so that they can reach your money.

Finally, go about your day with renewed energy, as the caffeine gradually infiltrates your blood stream and alters your body chemistry more than you thought possible from a single cup of coffee. And be sure to return the next day for your follow-up hit ... 'cause life is just too damn short to be worried about the health risks of such a wonderful substance ;-)

I swear it's the most fabulous caffeine-hit I've ever had. Almost worth a visit to this less-than-fabulous city ...

Bye!



* "to flip your lid" = to go crazy (for those readers who speak English as a second language, and haven't seen this expression before :-)

**I had to use that adjective in The Manor at some point ... if only for the amusement of Mr. Spannagle, whom I know is as fond of the word "viscous" as I am.

*** I'm no expert on this, but I remember there are a lot of stages, each involving some form of equipment ... like there's one stage where you pour the absinthe into an unusual metal strainer with a sugar cube inside it, letting the alcohol drain through the sugar. It's a slow, ritualistic process which, for me, suggests that you're somehow re-creating the mood of an earlier period in history, when absinthe was enjoyed by poets and artists in European coffee houses. So I'm a fan of that kind of 'ritual preparation'.