It takes a firm twist to make the top of the pot come free. Once it starts to move, it turns smoothly in its groove until it comes away in the hand and is placed upon the counter. A lift of the tray filled with grains hardened by pressure from the last time. It gets turned over, grains facing down into the sink below.
Gently, warm water trickles from above and slowly saturates the used paste until it falls — splat — to the stainless steel surface. Rivulets continue down and through the dark debris flaking it away and down the drain.
Cold, pure water is poured into the base, an alembic waiting for what it will transmute.
The beans are an earthy, dusty brown, not oily or over roasted. The grinder runs until the sound is smooth.
Grind by ear, not by eye.
Three scoops, ladled with a gift of blue and gold, each is added in turn.
Do not pack it tightly. The world (online) is wrong. In truth, no one who knows would ever force fill it to the top. My grandfather would not have packed it, ever.
When he was young, in the days before this wondrous vessel, he would have boiled the grounds openly in a narrow necked pot, as his mother had, and those before her had as well.
Back to the job, stay focused. Replace the pot, turning it all the way back, until once again it would take a firm hand to make it come free.
Sits it on the stove above a flame that is a bit more than half grown. The longer it takes to gurgle, the better the brew becomes.
Coffee is my ritual. Daily, I invoke those who came before with the sound, the smell, and the taste. I sit here silently and we share, them and I, that first cup together. From me back to Bucharest with my grandfather and back with him through to Sana’a and beyond.
I have so few of their stories. I have so few of their words.
But together, we have coffee, we have cafea, we have qahua, we have kávé. We brew and savor. Together, within the arome, we know one another.