By Charles Bankhead
My assignment at the European Society of Gynecological Oncology meeting in Milan reacquainted me with one of the peculiarities of
international travel. Each morning at breakfast, I came face to face with the
choice of “Caffé americano” or something else. They might as well have labeled
the pots “Real Coffee” and “Coffee for Wimps.”
I must say from the outset that I am not a coffee snob.
In fact, I’m not very picky at all about my coffee. If it’s free, I’ll drink
it. If it’s not free, I’ll drink whatever costs the least. I
don’t drink coffee in the middle of the day or after dinner. I don’t drink
decaffeinated coffee. In short, a couple of shots of caffeine first thing in
the morning, and I’m good to go.
Consequently, I’ve found the distinction between American
coffee and everything else kind of perplexing.
America doesn’t even grow the vast majority of the coffee it consumes.
Why is it called “American”? I realize that a lot of our coffee comes from
Latin America and South America, but when I see the sign that says “Caffé americano,” I know who they’re talking about, and it’s not Juan Valdez.
I have no idea what’s so special about non-americano coffee.
Last year I attended the European Breast Cancer Conference in Barcelona. I
awoke early one morning and was in need of my morning hit of caffeine. The
hotel restaurant wasn’t open, and a coffee shop or kiosk was nowhere to be
found.
I left the hotel on foot, on a mission to find some coffee. As
I was walking, I was reminded of another thing that distinguishes America from
most other countries. Outside the U.S., I rarely see any kind of store that is
open 24 hours a day. Businesses also don’t
open as early as businesses do in the U.S. Maybe they’re on to something that
we should consider adopting.
Anyway, I don’t know how long I walked, but it was for quite
awhile. Finally, I came upon a small coffee shop that was open for business.
Just a small, open-air bar with a few stools. I settled onto one of the stools
and asked the woman behind the bar for “Caffé americano.” The shop became eerily
quiet. I sensed that everyone was looking at me, especially the woman behind
the bar, who made no attempt to hide her disapproval. She simply said, “No.”
I nodded and pointed at the coffee machine and said “café,
por favor.” She nodded and went about making a cup of coffee for me. Soon, she
brought me a cup that looked it came from a Barbie Doll tea set. I looked down at the cup and saw that it was filled with a liquid that resembled used
motor oil.
Again, I felt all eyes on me as I lifted the cup and took a
small sip. I had to amend my original assessment. It was the color and
consistency of used motor oil with about a pound of sugar in it. As the viscous
liquid passed through my lips, I could feel it staining my teeth. I didn’t want
to think about what it might do to my stomach.
In the time that it normally takes me to eat an entire meal, I finally finished the
coffee and began the walk back to my hotel, vowing not to wake up until the
hotel restaurant opened for the rest of my trip.
One other “coffee encounter” stands out. I was in Paris,
where the people don’t seem to like Americans very much, but they do like our
money, so they put up with us. I was having breakfast at my hotel, when the
waiter cast his shadow on my table. He uttered two words: “Café americain?" The words were slathered with contempt (or
maybe it was just my insecurities playing games with me).
I thought for a moment. Then I looked up and returned his
gaze with one of my own. Summoning up the entire reserve from four semesters of
college French, I replied, "Naturellement. Il y a aucun autre type?" (Of course. Is there any other kind?)
We continued our little game of "who blinks first" for a moment. Then he looked down at his notepad and said, "Oui monsieur."
Coffee for wimps, indeed!