Carmen, love, there's a reason your kitchen smells of coffee at midnight. It's us. Before you start checking the sockets, we should mention that we've never paid a bloody electricity bill in our lives. We make coffee with a fire, a washbasin and a stick. The stick doesn't have an app. We've checked.
Colombian Arabica, Because We Have Standards
We grow our own coffee in a corner of the woods we call Little Colombia. Not everyone gets through the gate. Braulio tried planting decaf and Nicanor escorted him out by his waistcoat. No violence. Just crushing disappointment.
We only like sweet Colombian arabica, the sort that smells heavenly when we roast it. Some cousins from Colombia brought us our first beans. We fuss over those plants more than you fuss over your hallway geranium. Fermín sings to them every morning. They grow away from him, but they do grow.
When we run out, we nick some from cafés. What can we say, Carmen? Given the choice between going without coffee and protecting a reputation that was hardly spotless anyway, we'll take breakfast.
“This one says blend,” Braulio whispered behind a café counter one night.
“Leave it, for fuck's sake. We've come to steal coffee, not abandon our standards.”
We took a little bag of the good stuff and left three hazelnuts beside the till. Fermín added a fourth because he liked the waiter. Then we headed home, hugging our haul, taking turns to sniff it and arguing about who'd done the heavy lifting. It weighed less than a slice of toast.
Stir It, Mate. You're Not Rowing Home.
We roast the beans, grind them in a hand mill and heat the water in an enormous metal washbasin over the kitchen's stone hearth. Once we've lifted the basin off the fire, we add the coffee and stir it with a clean stick. A long one. Whoever's stirring needs a firm grip on the stool.
Braulio puts so much effort into it that he once swept away two cups and Nicanor's breakfast. Nicanor saw him coming and saved his toast before saving himself. He knew how long that butter had taken to spread.
“Easy, you maniac! The coffee's already dead!”
We let it sit for a bit. Then we filter it. Coffee snobs might want to take a seat for this part.
We use Fermín's best white Sunday underpants. Freshly washed, thoroughly rinsed and kept just for this job. We're shameless little bastards, but we do have limits. We peg them over a jug and ladle the coffee through. The cloth catches the grounds. The elastic gives everyone confidence.
“Not Monday's pair, mate. Those have enough body already.”
A Little Splash and a Longer Chat
Every now and then we add a splash of homemade whisky to our cups. A splash, Fermín. The other day you used coffee to colour your whisky, you absolute menace. We sit together, share something to eat and put the world to rights until someone gets hungry again.
And yes, some nights we bring the jug into your kitchen. It's warm, and we like keeping you company while you sleep. After that business with the corkscrew, we tidy up before we leave.
Well. Almost everything.
If you find a tiny pair of underpants drying on the dish rack tomorrow, don't look so horrified.
“Carmen, don't put those in a drawer. We'll need breakfast.”
