I have seen my mother obsess over it and have heard of how she grew up listening to my grandmother’s roast-and-grind tales. Getting the concoction, rather the decoction, right is not just a craft, it’s about imbibing a culture; and believe it or not, it's also about finding the love of your life. My grandmother would take great pride in the fact that grandfather was hooked to her coffee and would refuse to have it when some other woman in the family made it. “I think he fell for my coffee-making charms,” she would laugh. “When he came to see me for the first time, and was served coffee and kesari, he enquired who had made the coffee. After our wedding, he told me that he had decided I was the girl for him when he came to know I had prepared it.”
The flavour and froth of filter coffee, served in a squeaky-clean davara and tumbler, makes mornings brighter, reinvigorates your routine, strengthens bonds and fuels creativity. Several odes have been penned to this characteristic Tamil beverage’s power and influence. The famous RK Narayan, in My Dateless Diary, describing his coffee-fanatic mother, writes, “I could not help mentioning my mother who has maintained our house-reputation for coffee undimmed for half a century. She selects the right quality of seeds almost subjecting every bean to a severe scrutiny, roasts them slowly over charcoal fire, and knows by the texture and fragrance of the golden smoke emanating from the chinks in the roaster whether the seeds within have turned the right shade and then grinds them into perfect grains; everything has to be right in this business.”
Hospitality in this part of India, at homes, restaurants or weddings, is defined by the quality of coffee served to guests. Your reputation is almost tarnished if the brew is pronounced ‘awful’.
A reason why, most often, the initiation into making a cup of perfect filter coffee starts at a young age in Madrasi homes. My otherwise understanding parents turned taskmasters when it came to following this tradition. Besides the school timetable, there was one set up for coffee by them. And there was no way we could break away from either.
The stock of beans was replenished fortnightly by my father, who was very particular about the quality. Once, when the variety of beans that he regularly bought was unavailable, he asked his brother in Thanjavur to send it. He preferred to mix in some amount of chicory to the powder for a richer brew.
Aromatic fumes, from freshly roasted beans, took over every corner of our house on Sunday afternoons. After allowing them to cool, my mother would store them in a clean, dry container. Every morning, one of us would grind the requirement for the day in a small machine, with a handle that was fixed to the wall.
We had filters of various sizes, and in stainless steel and brass. The big, heavy one in brass was pulled out only during religious functions, when relatives and friends visited us. It was very dear to my mother, since it was her wedding gift from her grandmother. She would clean it meticulously with tamarind, and after drying it, would clear the minute holes of the filter with a broom stick or a pin.
Call it ‘heritage in a tumbler’ — since the skill has percolated down generations. I have perfected the art by just watching my mother doing it for years. During my growing up days, though, I hated her fussing over it and holding lengthy discussions on it with neighbours. But without my realising, like her, I too have become a stickler for taste, and make sure not to buy anything other than my favourite plantation A and B blend (bean variety), in the 60:40 ratio. Today, when we are constantly racing against time, many would find the method tedious, but for me, it’s de-stressing. I enjoy the whole process of getting up early in the morning, heating water in a kettle, fixing the filter with the portion with holes on top, putting into it the required amount of finely ground powder, pouring the hot water into it, fixing the lid and waiting for the decoction to drop slowly into the lower container of the filter. Add it to a cup of freshly boiled milk, stir in some sugar and sit down with the divine brew to watch the sun rise. Good morning, Madras.
