Black as the devil, Hot as hell, Pure as an angel, Sweet as love.
Surrendering to coffee is one of my life's pleasures, and sharing a cup of coffee with a friend is happiness tasted and time well spent. Sometimes a cup of coffee is more than just a cup of coffee. Its familiar taste and aroma can take one back to childhood, to a place of comfort where a mother, an aunt or a grandparent served up kindness along with a rich, steaming mug of barako.
I always believe that as a baby, I was bottle-fed not with milk but with coffee. Coffee molecules stir up my blood, stimulate my mind, and warm my heart.
Mornings would be unbearable without a cup of joe. It is the lifeblood of nerds and book-lovers, my own antidote for a hangover. What's overtime without endless cups of coffee being refilled hour after hour after hour? Office and showbiz gossips are humdrum without the brew being shared at the pantry. This beverage keeps the workforce complacent on their journey to work despite the traffic and bad roads.
I remember the air of quiet anticipation in my grandmother's kitchen when I was a kid. Native coffee or barako smelled like freshly ground heaven and was brewing 24/7...aunts and uncles and their friends were having coffee at all times. Passionate debates took place at my grandmother's dining table over mugs of hot, black coffee. Plans were concocted, ideas expounded, tempers cooled and fears were calmed. I loved the fever of it all---voices rose and dissolved into sounds of hot steaming liquid being drank, all punctuated by hums of conversations.
Lola served us kids with a lighter brew and always with a warning that strong coffee would stunt our growth. My brothers and younger cousins would add steamed rice into their coffee while my sister and I would dip pandesal into our mugs. The warmth and essence of my Lola's espresso was one of my childhood's flavorful indulgences.
my favorite coffee shop at Bonifacio High Street
