Saturday Kate and I went to the Rafal Spice Co., one of the many permanent stores that surround the farmers-market space at Detroit’s Eastern Market. They specialize in, duh, guess what, but they also have a sideline in coffee. Lots of coffee. The clerk asked me what I was looking for.
“You know that Folgers commercial where the smell of coffee permeates the house, and everyone upstairs yawns and stretches and smiles and sort of lolls out of bed and heads for the kitchen to get a cup? I don’t want that. I want coffee that’s like a drill sergeant. I want coffee that doesn’t coax me out of bed, it kicks my ass with a caffeine boot. I want the strong stuff, the methamphetamine of beans, reveille in arabica form.”
(Note: The above quote may be improved a bit to make me sound cleverer than I actually am. I may have actually said, “What’s the strongest blend you have?”)
She pointed to the Turkish stuff. “I’ll take a pound, whole bean. Now what’s the second-strongest?” She pointed to the Cuban. “Same thing again.”
That lady knew her stuff. I may write a novel today. Thank you, Turkey! But now I have to take a shower. I may actually be sweating a bit.