I grew up not liking coffee, even though I'm from Brazil. Then I realized when I moved to San Francisco that it's not that I don't like coffee, I just didn't like the coffee I'd had before. I fell in love with my morning cup of coffee, and my second one at 11 A.M., and so on and so forth.
The big part of coffee production in many rural areas is in the hands of women. It's women who work in the fields. They harvest the coffee. They wash the coffee. They take the coffee to the market. But when the coffee gets to the market, it's the man who cashes in the money for the crop.
You know I'm a coffee-lover. Having coffee it's a kind of daily ritual that is done with my friends, my family and more often - with myself, when I'm alone at home with books and music. Coffee it is a way to celebrate my friendships, to show feelings. When somebody comes into my house, the first question is: "Do you want to drink coffee with me?
Alena Shubina Lis
A man walks into a coffee shop. As the man talks across the counter, the coffee guy makes his coffee and sets the cup and saucer between them. But the man doesn't drink it; he keeps talking, so the coffee gets cold, useless. The coffee guy pours it out and pulls another, sets it up. The man still can't stop talking and the next one goes bad too. So the coffee guy throws that one out, makes another. And this goes on, see? You may think you're the coffee guy in the parable, but you're not -you're the espresso. (It's like that in parables.) You're not for you. You're someone else's beverage. And God, the coffee guy, he's going to keep remaking you again and again, as many times as it takes until you're drinkable. God's pulling the shots and he's got standards.
Coffee, she'd discovered, was tied to all sorts of memories, different for each person. Sunday mornings, friendly get-togethers, a favorite grandfather long since gone, the AA meeting that saved their life. Coffee meant something to people. Most found their lives were miserable without it. Coffee was a lot like love that way. And because Rachel believed in love, she believed in coffee, too.
Sarah Addison Allen
Her name was Rebecca. Or at least that's what her nametag said. She was making my coffee at Starbucks as I admired how her green Starbucks apron matched her bright green eyes. She had hair the color of coffee with a hint of cream in it. I was trying to act casual and not make it seem like I came in here only to see her. The truth is, I hate coffee. That's not entirely true. I do like a hint of coffee in my cup of sugar.
So somebody told me that if I wasn't a coffee drinker yet, by the end of college I'd have to be, because a math major is so tough I would have to stay up very late. I was going to need coffee to do that. Well, merely because they said that, I never drank coffee in college, never got addicted to it, never needed it.
In movies, you have a production assistant carrying your chair around and getting you coffee. In theater, no one carries your chair, no one gets you your coffee, there's no craft service, there's no per diem. The only thing that is provided for you is coffee, tea, sugar and milk. It doesn't matter how big a star you are or whatever.
On Saturday mornings I would walk to the Flavor Cup or Puerto Rico Importing coffee store to get my coffee. Often it was freshly roasted and the beans were still warm. Coffee was my nectar and my ambrosia: I was very careful about it. I decanted my beans into glass...and I ground them in little batches in my grinder.
Along the way I stopped into a coffee shop. All around me normal, everyday city types were going about their normal, everyday affairs. Lovers were whispering to each other, businessmen were poring over spread sheets, college kids were planning their next ski trip and discussing the new Police album. We could have been in any city in Japan. Transplant this coffee shop scene to Yokohama or Fukuoka and nothing would seem out of place. In spite of which - or, rather, all the more because - here I was, sitting in this coffee shop, drinking my coffee, feeling a desperate loneliness. I alone was the outsider. I had no place here. Of course, by the same token, I couldn't really say I belonged to Tokyo and its coffee shops. But I had never felt this loneliness there. I could drink my coffee, read my book, pass the time of day without any special thought, all because I was part of the regular scenery. Here I had no ties to anyone. Fact is, I'd come to reclaim myself.
During the war one accepted indifferent after-dinner coffee as a necessity, but when, after the war, one sought to find the coffee remembered of days gone by, one found disappointment. I was looking for the rich after-dinner coffee that literally curdled cream if anyone was foolish enough to spoil it with cream.
It is disgusting to notice the increase in the quantity of coffee used by my subjects, and the amount of money that goes out of the country as a consequence. Everybody is using coffee; this must be prevented. His Majesty was brought up on beer, and so were both his ancestors and officers. Many battles have been fought and won by soldiers nourished on beer, and the King does not believe that coffee-drinking soldiers can be relied upon to endure hardships in case of another war.
Frederick The Great
[Joffe], during a visit to Russia, complained to his KGB handler about the awful coffee. The KGB dude replied that it was really the Kremlin's answer to America's neutron bomb - both killed people but left the building intact. "I was then that I first saw this vision, "said Joffe. Bad coffee equals expansionism, imperialism, and war; good coffee drips with civility and pacifism and lassitude...
Stewart Lee Allen