Espresso

When I was little, my Great-Grandmother used to make espresso in a stovetop espresso maker. She would then heat milk in a separate pot. When the coffee was done and the milk was hot she would pour the espresso into the pot of milk, stir, and that she would have with breakfast. I remember her having a chunk of Italian bread and a piece of imported cheese.  A little after that was an orange, which she usually split with me. If there were no oranges we would split a pear or an apple.

She sometimes would switch the typical stovetop maker with a Napoletana pot. It would flip over. I remember her showing me how it worked; like it was a trick or something. I was amazed. When the water boiled, you would flip the pot over and the hot water would then fall past the coffee grinds. You have to see it; Amazing.  Good times.

Espresso has always been such a big part of who we are. The smell is one of those smells that bring back dozens of memories. One of them is dunking cookies. It was either breakfast cookies, you know, the plain ones, or cookies from the Brooklyn bakery. There was always such an assortment. And they all tasted good dunked in espresso.

After dinner, the smell of coffee mixed with anisette liqueur; is there anything better? It’s so tasty.

Black espresso, 2 sugar cubes, in demitasse cups, with those little decorative spoons.  The demitasse cups were always fine china. No everyday cups. No, we always used something that was worth something. Don’t get me wrong, there were several sets, but they were all good. Some were just better than others! The Holiday set was only used on Holidays. (Just had a memory of the women getting up after dinner to make the coffee.)  And you always had the saucer with the cup. There was never a demitasse cup alone without a saucer. It’s matching saucer. What else!?

With espresso and the giant coffee epidemic that we have here in the U.S. now, I doubt most are experiencing it the same way us Italians did or do. It’s an experience. No take out, drive up, paper cup mess. Definitely loses something. Loses a lot!

We had Espresso with cake. It was always some Sicilian cake.

Even when I was little I was allowed to have espresso. Albeit small amount, it was allowed. It was normal. Just like the little glass of wine I was allowed. Normal. It was part of our culture.

 

I still have my Great-Grandmothers espresso pots. My mother gave them to me. I cherish them. Whenever I make espresso I think of my Great-Grandma. I see her. She’s with me.  I still make coffee the same way. Granted, I did the American coffee way for a while, but I came back. There’s nothing like the old way. Again, it’s the experience. Think of the smell that fills the house, the sound of it boiling up, the look of the thick black steaming liquid, and the taste. There’s nothing like it. I drink it that way because I like it. I drink it that way because it reminds me. It reminds me of loving days, of Great-Grandma, of family.