Even I was shocked. Some things, once said, cannot be forgotten. Even if not written down, they live on in the memory of those unfortunate enough to have heard them. They’re permanent. Words, once they leap over your lips and escape past your teeth, can never be caught. To hear my own voice speaking the unspeakable was an existential jolt to the system from which I may never recover. I began to question everything. How did it come to this? What kind of monster have I become? Is it too late to change my order? Because never in my wildest dreams would I have thought I’d ever utter the following words: I’ll have a skinny decaf flat white, thanks.
Even I was shocked. Some things, once said, cannot be forgotten. Even if not written down, they live on in the memory of those unfortunate enough to have heard them. They’re permanent. Words, once they leap over your lips and escape past your teeth, can never be caught. To hear my own voice speaking the unspeakable was an existential jolt to the system from which I may never recover. I began to question everything. How did it come to this? What kind of monster have I become? Is it too late to change my order? Because never in my wildest dreams would I have thought I’d ever utter the following words: I’ll have a skinny decaf flat white, thanks.
I’m not sure how it came to this. One day, you’re completely normal. The next you’re ordering a coffee that has more names than an Oxford-educated scrum half. It’s a simply diabolical state of affairs, no matter how you slice it. At least I didn’t ask for almond milk. That would have been a bridge too far over troubled water. Granted, that very same troubled water would soon be water under the bridge, unless of course I elect to cross that bridge when I come to it; an act that is, of itself, delayed because I’ve decided to stop for coffee. You can see why I’m worried.
On the one hand, the heart wants what it wants. If that’s a warm beverage that takes longer to say than it does to drink, so be it. On the other hand, there are some things that are rightly the subject of ridicule because they crash through the boundaries of decency. Even I knew I’d gone too far. This was made clear to me when the waitress reacted to my order by looking incredibly disappointed. Discouraged even. In fact, now that I think about it, there may well have been a tear in the corner of her eye. It wasn’t always this way.
There are many things that make my family what it is. We share common values, a sense of humour and an almost uncanny ability to park crookedly. So much so that my brother and I have taken to texting each other whenever we manage to get the car even remotely within the lines. Some mornings, I’ll pick up my phone to find a text message from my brother that consists only of a photo of his car parked neatly in a parking bay. I always compliment him on his skills and never point out that, technically speaking, he ought to parked front to back and not side on as he has inevitably elected to do.
The other thing we have in common is coffee. The standard McCullough order is simple: white with one. That’s been the standing order for decades. Despite this, whenever my father puts the kettle on, he still asks how I take my coffee. As though I might have changed my mind. Or, worse still, that even though it’s the same way that he takes his coffee, my father hasn’t yet committed my order to memory.
For many years, our coffee of choice was International Roast. Even the name was cosmopolitan. We were devotees of the standard edition beverage rather than the more upscale (and supersized) caterer’s blend. This was unkindly referred to as ‘instant coffee’ notwithstanding that it might permanently damage to your taste buds and that the aftertaste lingered like graffiti on your metaphorical gustatory walls. Little wonder we decided to upgrade.
From International Roast, we moved on to Blend 43. I’ve no idea what happened to the other forty-two blends. Best not to think about it. It even looked fundamentally different to International Roast. Instead of a fine powder that both looked and tasted like something developed in a cold-war laboratory, Blend 43 was a far more granular affair. Which made it seem more genuine. This was fine until Moccona blew our minds. Suddenly, Blend 43 was the acid wash denim of the beverage world. But through it all, my order remained the same: white with one.
Then coffee became something you bought when you were out, rather than something made around the kitchen bench. And, quite frankly, once I experienced coffee as made by a trained professional rather than, say, my father, it was pretty hard to go back. Like lots of people, coffee became part of my daily routine. And, frankly, I’m spoiled for choice. So much so, that simply saying ‘white with one’ is no longer an option. I can’t imagine the reaction that’d get from my barista. Doubtless, he’d have to do all he could to not unravel his man-bun and try to throttle me.
But it’s not just a case of ‘how did I get here’? It’s also a matter of ‘where am I going?’ If my coffee journey started at International Roast and has arrived at a decaf skinny flat white, goodness knows where I’ll end up. Before I know it, I’ll be demanding cold-filtered organic coffee that’s been slow-dripped into a beaker over eighteen agonizing days by a Nobel-prize winning organic-certified barista with soy milk, a dash of cold water and topped off with truffle shavings and a caramel drizzle. At that point, my transformation will be complete. And as I sit down with coffee and gaze off into the middle distance, I’ll be sure to stop and think for a moment: who on earth am I?