CAFÉ

I started drinking coffee in the army, in Basic Training at Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri, in December, 1958, in the field, cold enough you could see your breath. Rolled and folded around our field packs was a shelter half, one half of a two man, canvas pup tent. In inclement weather we paired off with someone to make one complete tent from the two halves. That together with canvas sleeping bags and a thin, wool liner made the day's work more desirable than sleeping on the cold ground. 

Any time of day, on the firing range, on long marches, building or disassembling pontoon bridges, a coffee break was appreciated. We would march around a bend in the road or through some trees and a mess truck would materialize. Gasoline heaters hung on the side of metal trash cans like outboard motors. With 40 gallons of hot coffee in each can, we lined up with our canteen cups, grateful for anything hot. At first all I did was warm my hands and hold the cup close to my face. Before long you sip a little sip and then you sip some more. The closer to the bottom of the barrel, the more grounds in your cup. Some guys spit out the grounds and complained but most of us were happy to drink it all down.  

My mother drank coffee so hot you couldn’t hold the cup in your hand, she pinched the little handle between her thumb and finger for good reason. I liked the smell but never got the habit. Something to do with stunting my growth or maybe she just didn’t want to share. It wouldn’t come back around until I was off to see thee world. Now, a lifetime later, I’m not a coffee freak but I do like coffee; strong and black, the way I learned to like it. In recent years I add a shot of honey, not for the coffee sake but as a way to work honey into my diet and for the sweet surprise in the last swallow. At the coffee shop I don’t wait for a barista to fabricate a frothy concoction; capuchino is for wusses and expresso for masochists, I just take my cup to the Dark Roast tap and fill it up. In Mexico last month, for three weeks I enjoyed strong, black, local coffee. Café Baja Sur is the brand I bought at the local mercado. The word ‘Café’ can mean either a coffee shop, the coffee itself or the color brown; español has almost as many complications as English. Baja Sur comes by the half pound in a plastic bag, folded closed and sealed with a piece of tape. The aroma is so pungent that’s all you could smell in that end of the store and it was good. 

I’m speaking English again but yesterday I found an authentic, Mexican cocina/mercado on Sherwood Forest Blvd. in Baton Rouge. I was surprised at the check out when the cashier had trouble with my English. I shifted to my weak, broken español and we got along fine. They had paletas; creamy, fruity popsicles. I like both the coconut and the pineapple; tough decision. I didn’t think of it at the time but I’ll go back to for more paletas and check on their coffee selection. I could only squeeze 5 bags of Baja Sur into my suitcase so I’ll be going cold turkey long before I make it south of the border again.