Right, readers, if you never hear from me again, you know, I’ve been locked away somewhere, a disgrace to her nation for admitting the following. Although, I feel somehow that it’s almost safe to say it to in public now, to publish it even. Yikes. Here goes nothing.
I hate instant coffee.
There I got it off my chest. I mean, there was a time, I liked it, enough. You know, when I was sixteen and trying to be rebellious in a house full of tea drinkers. In other words, in a typical Irish household. I would force myself to drink watered down Nescafe in hiding. I can still see the hard lumps of dusty powder stuck to the teaspoon, shudder.
I mean it’s safe enough surely now to say it what with the nation’s need; craze for good coffee. In every country garage now, you can be assured of a filtered Americano or a Skinny Latte.
But has anyone ever admitted it? No, I don’t think so. Nobody has ever actually said it for fear of offending the aunt who doesn’t actually have a jar of coffee or even worse the mother who might go to the cupboard and produce a three year old sachet that she got in a hotel once out for you to try (I love you Mam). Herself likes the coffee.
It’s not our thing coffee you see. But tea, now, that we do well. But tea in Ireland is political, my friends, and a whole other post.
My love of the cup of Joe blossomed when I went on to study languages in college. More notions. Thanks to the very generous European Union (do you hear that Britain?), Irish students studied and continue to study in universities across Europe. Yes, Europe-wide, there is an exhange of students in many disciplines spending a year of university abroad, drinking coffee, in groups, discussing life and mostly avoiding lectures. The Erasmus program as it is called allowed this girl to flourish in Italian in the beautiful medieval city of Siena, Tuscany. Yes, I can speak Italian with a Tuscan accent, like Dante, ahem. Pure Italian don’t you know. More importantly, I know good coffee and look down on coffee served in the rest of Europe. It’s an Italian thing. Non capirete. You see, Ireland, it’s not my fault, they brainwashed me, one of those coffee cults I’d say.
This also meant that when I left university I was most wanted in call-centres all over the country. My first job after college was giving technical advise to Italians on how to work a mobile phone. I couldn’t personally but they loved a trier! I could speak Italian and take my turn at making the espresso for my Italian teammates who wouldn’t pick up a phone until they had three cups. To my lovely Italian friends, it was bad enough that they were in Ireland where it always rains, but they drew the line at having to drink instant. No, no, no, they would say rightly wagging the finger. No, assolutamente, no! I would agree, the people pleaser I am although it was far from the sites I was reared. Well, about a kilometre actually.
So there you have it. I hate it. And haven’t said it until now for fear of offending someone or not being invited for tea. But mine’s a double espresso Americano, if you’re asking. Sur’ go on, I’ll put the kettle on.